History.

     There is no great and no small
     To the Soul that maketh all: 
     And where it cometh, all things are
     And it cometh everywhere.

     I am owner of the sphere,
     Of the seven stars and the solar year,
     Of Caesars hand, and Platos brain,
     Of Lord Christs heart, and Shakspeares strain.

There is one mind common to all individual men.  Every man is an inlet to the same and to all of the same.  He that is once admitted to the right of reason is made a freeman of the whole estate.  What Plato has thought, he may think; what a saint has felt, he may feel; what at any time has befallen any man, he can understand.  Who hath access to this universal mind is a party to all that is or can be done, for this is the only and sovereign agent.

Of the works of this mind history is the record.  Its genius is illustrated by the entire series of days.  Man is explicable by nothing less than all his history.  Without hurry, without rest, the human spirit goes forth from the beginning to embody every faculty, every thought, every emotion, which belongs to it, in appropriate events.  But the thought is always prior to the fact; all the facts of history preexist in the mind as laws.  Each law in turn is made by circumstances predominant, and the limits of nature give power to but one at a time.  A man is the whole encyclopaedia of facts.  The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn, and Egypt, Greece, Rome, Gaul, Britain, America, lie folded already in the first man.  Epoch after epoch, camp, kingdom, empire, republic, democracy, are merely the application of his manifold spirit to the manifold world.

This human mind wrote history, and this must read it.  The Sphinx must solve her own riddle.  If the whole of history is in one man, it is all to be explained from individual experience.  There is a relation between the hours of our life and the centuries of time.  As the air I breathe is drawn from the great repositories of nature, as the light on my book is yielded by a star a hundred millions of miles distant, as the poise of my body depends on the equilibrium of centrifugal and centripetal forces, so the hours should be instructed by the ages and the ages explained by the hours.  Of the universal mind each individual man is one more incarnation.  All its properties consist in him.  Each new fact in his private experience flashes a light on what great bodies of men have done, and the crises of his life refer to national crises.  Every revolution was first a thought in one man’s mind, and when the same thought occurs to another man, it is the key to that era.  Every reform was once a private opinion, and when it shall be a private opinion again it will solve the problem of the age.  The fact narrated must correspond to something in me to be credible or intelligible.  We, as we read, must become Greeks, Romans, Turks, priest and king, martyr and executioner; must fasten these images to some reality in our secret experience, or we shall learn nothing rightly.  What befell Asdrubal or Cæsar Borgia is as much an illustration of the mind’s powers and depravations as what has befallen us.  Each new law and political movement has meaning for you.  Stand before each of its tablets and say, ’Under this mask did my Proteus nature hide itself.’  This remedies the defect of our too great nearness to ourselves.  This throws our actions into perspective; and as crabs, goats, scorpions, the balance and the waterpot lose their meanness when hung as signs in the zodiac, so I can see my own vices without heat in the distant persons of Solomon, Alcibiades, and Catiline.

It is the universal nature which gives worth to particular men and things.  Human life, as containing this, is mysterious and inviolable, and we hedge it round with penalties and laws.  All laws derive hence their ultimate reason; all express more or less distinctly some command of this supreme, illimitable essence.  Property also holds of the soul, covers great spiritual facts, and instinctively we at first hold to it with swords and laws and wide and complex combinations.  The obscure consciousness of this fact is the light of all our day, the claim of claims; the plea for education, for justice, for charity; the foundation of friendship and love and of the heroism and grandeur which belong to acts of self-reliance.  It is remarkable that involuntarily we always read as superior beings.  Universal history, the poets, the romancers, do not in their stateliest pictures, ­in the sacerdotal, the imperial palaces, in the triumphs of will or of genius, ­anywhere lose our ear, anywhere make us feel that we intrude, that this is for better men; but rather is it true that in their grandest strokes we feel most at home.  All that Shakspeare says of the king, yonder slip of a boy that reads in the corner feels to be true of himself.  We sympathize in the great moments of history, in the great discoveries, the great resistances, the great prosperities of men; ­because there law was enacted, the sea was searched, the land was found, or the blow was struck, for us, as we ourselves in that place would have done or applauded.

We have the same interest in condition and character.  We honor the rich because they have externally the freedom, power, and grace which we feel to be proper to man, proper to us.  So all that is said of the wise man by Stoic or Oriental or modern essayist, describes to each reader his own idea, describes his unattained but attainable self.  All literature writes the character of the wise man.  Books, monuments, pictures, conversation, are portraits in which he finds the linéaments he is forming.  The silent and the eloquent praise him and accost him, and he is stimulated wherever he moves, as by personal allusions.  A true aspirant therefore never needs look for allusions personal and laudatory in discourse.  He hears the commendation, not of himself, but, more sweet, of that character he seeks, in every word that is said concerning character, yea further in every fact and circumstance, ­in the running river and the rustling corn.  Praise is looked, homage tendered, love flows, from mute nature, from the mountains and the lights of the firmament.

These hints, dropped as it were from sleep and night, let us use in broad day.  The student is to read history actively and not passively; to esteem his own life the text, and books the commentary.  Thus compelled, the Muse of history will utter oracles, as never to those who do not respect themselves.  I have no expectation that any man will read history aright who thinks that what was done in a remote age, by men whose names have resounded far, has any deeper sense than what he is doing to-day.

The world exists for the education of each man.  There is no age or state of society or mode of action in history to which there is not somewhat corresponding in his life.  Every thing tends in a wonderful manner to abbreviate itself and yield its own virtue to him.  He should see that he can live all history in his own person.  He must sit solidly at home, and not suffer himself to be bullied by kings or empires, but know that he is greater than all the geography and all the government of the world; he must transfer the point of view from which history is commonly read, from Rome and Athens and London, to himself, and not deny his conviction that he is the court, and if England or Egypt have any thing to say to him he will try the case; if not, let them for ever be silent.  He must attain and maintain that lofty sight where facts yield their secret sense, and poetry and annals are alike.  The instinct of the mind, the purpose of nature, betrays itself in the use we make of the signal narrations of history.  Time dissipates to shining ether the solid angularity of facts.  No anchor, no cable, no fences avail to keep a fact a fact.  Babylon, Troy, Tyre, Palestine, and even early Rome are passing already into fiction.  The Garden of Eden, the sun standing still in Gibeon, is poetry thenceforward to all nations.  Who cares what the fact was, when we have made a constellation of it to hang in heaven an immortal sign?  London and Paris and New York must go the same way.  “What is history,” said Napoleon, “but a fable agreed upon?” This life of ours is stuck round with Egypt, Greece, Gaul, England, War, Colonization, Church, Court and Commerce, as with so many flowers and wild ornaments grave and gay.  I will not make more account of them.  I believe in Eternity.  I can find Greece, Asia, Italy, Spain and the Islands, ­the genius and creative principle of each and of all eras, in my own mind.

We are always coming up with the emphatic facts of history in our private experience and verifying them here.  All history becomes subjective; in other words there is properly no history, only biography.  Every mind must know the whole lesson for itself, ­must go over the whole ground.  What it does not see, what it does not live, it will not know.  What the former age has epitomized into a formula or rule for manipular convenience, it will lose all the good of verifying for itself, by means of the wall of that rule.  Somewhere, sometime, it will demand and find compensation for that loss, by doing the work itself.  Ferguson discovered many things in astronomy which had long been known.  The better for him.

History must be this or it is nothing.  Every law which the state enacts indicates a fact in human nature; that is all.  We must in ourselves see the necessary reason of every fact, ­see how it could and must be.  So stand before every public and private work; before an oration of Burke, before a victory of Napoleon, before a martyrdom of Sir Thomas More, of Sidney, of Marmaduke Robinson; before a French Reign of Terror, and a Salem hanging of witches; before a fanatic Revival and the Animal Magnetism in Paris, or in Providence.  We assume that we under like influence should be alike affected, and should achieve the like; and we aim to master intellectually the steps and reach the same height or the same degradation that our fellow, our proxy has done.

All inquiry into antiquity, all curiosity respecting the Pyramids, the excavated cities, Stonehenge, the Ohio Circles, Mexico, Memphis, ­is the desire to do away this wild, savage, and preposterous There or Then, and introduce in its place the Here and the Now.  Belzoni digs and measures in the mummy-pits and pyramids of Thebes, until he can see the end of the difference between the monstrous work and himself.  When he has satisfied himself, in general and in detail, that it was made by such a person as he, so armed and so motived, and to ends to which he himself should also have worked, the problem is solved; his thought lives along the whole line of temples and sphinxes and catacombs, passes through them all with satisfaction, and they live again to the mind, or are now.

A Gothic cathedral affirms that it was done by us and not done by us.  Surely it was by man, but we find it not in our man.  But we apply ourselves to the history of its production.  We put ourselves into the place and state of the builder.  We remember the forest-dwellers, the first temples, the adherence to the first type, and the decoration of it as the wealth of the nation increased; the value which is given to wood by carving led to the carving over the whole mountain of stone of a cathedral.  When we have gone through this process, and added thereto the Catholic Church, its cross, its music, its processions, its Saints’ days and image-worship, we have as it were been the man that made the minster; we have seen how it could and must be.  We have the sufficient reason.

The difference between men is in their principle of association.  Some men classify objects by color and size and other accidents of appearance; others by intrinsic likeness, or by the relation of cause and effect.  The progress of the intellect is to the clearer vision of causes, which neglects surface differences.  To the poet, to the philosopher, to the saint, all things are friendly and sacred, all events profitable, all days holy, all men divine.  For the eye is fastened on the life, and slights the circumstance.  Every chemical substance, every plant, every animal in its growth, teaches the unity of cause, the variety of appearance.

Upborne and surrounded as we are by this all-creating nature, soft and fluid as a cloud or the air, why should we be such hard pedants, and magnify a few forms?  Why should we make account of time, or of magnitude, or of figure?  The soul knows them not, and genius, obeying its law, knows how to play with them as a young child plays with graybeards and in churches.  Genius studies the causal thought, and far back in the womb of things sees the rays parting from one orb, that diverge, ere they fall, by infinite diameters.  Genius watches the monad through all his masks as he performs the metempsychosis of nature.  Genius detects through the fly, through the caterpillar, through the grub, through the egg, the constant individual; through countless individuals the fixed species; through many species the genus; through all genera the steadfast type; through all the kingdoms of organized life the eternal unity.  Nature is a mutable cloud which is always and never the same.  She casts the same thought into troops of forms, as a poet makes twenty fables with one moral.  Through the bruteness and toughness of matter, a subtle spirit bends all things to its own will.  The adamant streams into soft but precise form before it, and whilst I look at it its outline and texture are changed again.  Nothing is so fleeting as form; yet never does it quite deny itself.  In man we still trace the remains or hints of all that we esteem badges of servitude in the lower races; yet in him they enhance his nobleness and grace; as Io, in Aeschylus, transformed to a cow, offends the imagination; but how changed when as Isis in Egypt she meets Osiris-Jove, a beautiful woman with nothing of the metamorphosis left but the lunar horns as the splendid ornament of her brows!

The identity of history is equally intrinsic, the diversity equally obvious.  There is, at the surface, infinite variety of things; at the centre there is simplicity of cause.  How many are the acts of one man in which we recognize the same character!  Observe the sources of our information in respect to the Greek genius.  We have the civil history of that people, as Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, and Plutarch have given it; a very sufficient account of what manner of persons they were and what they did.  We have the same national mind expressed for us again in their literature, in epic and lyric poems, drama, and philosophy; a very complete form.  Then we have it once more in their architecture, a beauty as of temperance itself, limited to the straight line and the square, ­a builded geometry.  Then we have it once again in sculpture, the “tongue on the balance of expression,” a multitude of forms in the utmost freedom of action and never transgressing the ideal serenity; like votaries performing some religious dance before the gods, and, though in convulsive pain or mortal combat, never daring to break the figure and decorum of their dance.  Thus of the genius of one remarkable people we have a fourfold representation:  and to the senses what more unlike than an ode of Pindar, a marble centaur, the peristyle of the Parthenon, and the last actions of Phocion?

Every one must have observed faces and forms which, without any resembling feature, make a like impression on the beholder.  A particular picture or copy of verses, if it do not awaken the same train of images, will yet superinduce the same sentiment as some wild mountain walk, although the resemblance is nowise obvious to the senses, but is occult and out of the reach of the understanding.  Nature is an endless combination and repetition of a very few laws.  She hums the old well-known air through innumerable variations.

Nature is full of a sublime family likeness throughout her works, and delights in startling us with resemblances in the most unexpected quarters.  I have seen the head of an old sachem of the forest which at once reminded the eye of a bald mountain summit, and the furrows of the brow suggested the strata of the rock.  There are men whose manners have the same essential splendor as the simple and awful sculpture on the friezes of the Parthenon and the remains of the earliest Greek art.  And there are compositions of the same strain to be found in the books of all ages.  What is Guido’s Rospigliosi Aurora but a morning thought, as the horses in it are only a morning cloud?  If any one will but take pains to observe the variety of actions to which he is equally inclined in certain moods of mind, and those to which he is averse, he will see how deep is the chain of affinity.

A painter told me that nobody could draw a tree without in some sort becoming a tree; or draw a child by studying the outlines of its form merely, ­but, by watching for a time his motions and plays, the painter enters into his nature and can then draw him at will in every attitude.  So Roos “entered into the inmost nature of a sheep.”  I knew a draughtsman employed in a public survey who found that he could not sketch the rocks until their geological structure was first explained to him.  In a certain state of thought is the common origin of very diverse works.  It is the spirit and not the fact that is identical.  By a deeper apprehension, and not primarily by a painful acquisition of many manual skills, the artist attains the power of awakening other souls to a given activity.

It has been said that “common souls pay with what they do, nobler souls with that which they are.”  And why?  Because a profound nature awakens in us by its actions and words, by its very looks and manners, the same power and beauty that a gallery of sculpture or of pictures addresses.

Civil and natural history, the history of art and of literature, must be explained from individual history, or must remain words.  There is nothing but is related to us, nothing that does not interest us, ­kingdom, college, tree, horse, or iron shoe, ­the roots of all things are in man.  Santa Croce and the Dome of St. Peter’s are lame copies after a divine model.  Strasburg Cathedral is a material counterpart of the soul of Erwin of Steinbach.  The true poem is the poet’s mind; the true ship is the ship-builder.  In the man, could we lay him open, we should see the reason for the last flourish and tendril of his work; as every spine and tint in the sea-shell preexists in the secreting organs of the fish.  The whole of heraldry and of chivalry is in courtesy.  A man of fine manners shall pronounce your name with all the ornament that titles of nobility could ever add.

The trivial experience of every day is always verifying some old prediction to us and converting into things the words and signs which we had heard and seen without heed.  A lady with whom I was riding in the forest said to me that the woods always seemed to her to wait, as if the genii who inhabit them suspended their deeds until the wayfarer had passed onward; a thought which poetry has celebrated in the dance of the fairies, which breaks off on the approach of human feet.  The man who has seen the rising moon break out of the clouds at midnight, has been present like an archangel at the creation of light and of the world.  I remember one summer day in the fields my companion pointed out to me a broad cloud, which might extend a quarter of a mile parallel to the horizon, quite accurately in the form of a cherub as painted over churches, ­a round block in the centre, which it was easy to animate with eyes and mouth, supported on either side by wide-stretched symmetrical wings.  What appears once in the atmosphere may appear often, and it was undoubtedly the archetype of that familiar ornament.  I have seen in the sky a chain of summer lightning which at once showed to me that the Greeks drew from nature when they painted the thunderbolt in the hand of Jove.  I have seen a snow-drift along the sides of the stone wall which obviously gave the idea of the common architectural scroll to abut a tower.

By surrounding ourselves with the original circumstances we invent anew the orders and the ornaments of architecture, as we see how each people merely decorated its primitive abodes.  The Doric temple preserves the semblance of the wooden cabin in which the Dorian dwelt.  The Chinese pagoda is plainly a Tartar tent.  The Indian and Egyptian temples still betray the mounds and subterranean houses of their forefathers.  “The custom of making houses and tombs in the living rock,” says Heeren in his Researches on the Ethiopians, “determined very naturally the principal character of the Nubian Egyptian architecture to the colossal form which it assumed.  In these caverns, already prepared by nature, the eye was accustomed to dwell on huge shapes and masses, so that when art came to the assistance of nature it could not move on a small scale without degrading itself.  What would statues of the usual size, or neat porches and wings have been, associated with those gigantic halls before which only Colossi could sit as watchmen or lean on the pillars of the interior?”

The Gothic church plainly originated in a rude adaptation of the forest trees, with all their boughs, to a festal or solemn arcade; as the bands about the cleft pillars still indicate the green withes that tied them.  No one can walk in a road cut through pine woods, without being struck with the architectural appearance of the grove, especially in winter, when the barrenness of all other trees shows the low arch of the Saxons.  In the woods in a winter afternoon one will see as readily the origin of the stained glass window, with which the Gothic cathedrals are adorned, in the colors of the western sky seen through the bare and crossing branches of the forest.  Nor can any lover of nature enter the old piles of Oxford and the English cathedrals, without feeling that the forest overpowered the mind of the builder, and that his chisel, his saw and plane still reproduced its ferns, its spikes of flowers, its locust, elm, oak, pine, fir and spruce.

The Gothic cathedral is a blossoming in stone subdued by the insatiable demand of harmony in man.  The mountain of granite blooms into an eternal flower, with the lightness and delicate finish as well as the aerial proportions and perspective of vegetable beauty.

In like manner all public facts are to be individualized, all private facts are to be generalized.  Then at once History becomes fluid and true, and Biography deep and sublime.  As the Persian imitated in the slender shafts and capitals of his architecture the stem and flower of the lotus and palm, so the Persian court in its magnificent era never gave over the nomadism of its barbarous tribes, but travelled from Ecbatana, where the spring was spent, to Susa in summer and to Babylon for the winter.

In the early history of Asia and Africa, Nomadism and Agriculture are the two antagonist facts.  The geography of Asia and of Africa necessitated a nomadic life.  But the nomads were the terror of all those whom the soil or the advantages of a market had induced to build towns.  Agriculture therefore was a religious injunction, because of the perils of the state from nomadism.  And in these late and civil countries of England and America these propensities still fight out the old battle, in the nation and in the individual.  The nomads of Africa were constrained to wander, by the attacks of the gad-fly, which drives the cattle mad, and so compels the tribe to emigrate in the rainy season and to drive off the cattle to the higher sandy regions.  The nomads of Asia follow the pasturage from month to month.  In America and Europe the nomadism is of trade and curiosity; a progress, certainly, from the gad-fly of Astaboras to the Anglo and Italo-mania of Boston Bay.  Sacred cities, to which a periodical religious pilgrimage was enjoined, or stringent laws and customs, tending to invigorate the national bond, were the check on the old rovers; and the cumulative values of long residence are the restraints on the itineracy of the present day.  The antagonism of the two tendencies is not less active in individuals, as the love of adventure or the love of repose happens to predominate.  A man of rude health and flowing spirits has the faculty of rapid domestication, lives in his wagon and roams through all latitudes as easily as a Calmuc.  At sea, or in the forest, or in the snow, he sleeps as warm, dines with as good appetite, and associates as happily as beside his own chimneys.  Or perhaps his facility is deeper seated, in the increased range of his faculties of observation, which yield him points of interest wherever fresh objects meet his eyes.  The pastoral nations were needy and hungry to desperation; and this intellectual nomadism, in its excess, bankrupts the mind through the dissipation of power on a miscellany of objects.  The home-keeping wit, on the other hand, is that continence or content which finds all the elements of life in its own soil; and which has its own perils of monotony and deterioration, if not stimulated by foreign infusions.

Every thing the individual sees without him corresponds to his states of mind, and every thing is in turn intelligible to him, as his onward thinking leads him into the truth to which that fact or series belongs.

The primeval world, ­the Fore-World, as the Germans say, ­I can dive to it in myself as well as grope for it with researching fingers in catacombs, libraries, and the broken reliefs and torsos of ruined villas.

What is the foundation of that interest all men feel in Greek history, letters, art, and poetry, in all its periods from the Heroic or Homeric age down to the domestic life of the Athenians and Spartans, four or five centuries later?  What but this, that every man passes personally through a Grecian period.  The Grecian state is the era of the bodily nature, the perfection of the senses, ­of the spiritual nature unfolded in strict unity with the body.  In it existed those human forms which supplied the sculptor with his models of Hercules, Phoebus, and Jove; not like the forms abounding in the streets of modern cities, wherein the face is a confused blur of features, but composed of incorrupt, sharply defined and symmetrical features, whose eye-sockets are so formed that it would be impossible for such eyes to squint and take furtive glances on this side and on that, but they must turn the whole head.  The manners of that period are plain and fierce.  The reverence exhibited is for personal qualities; courage, address, self-command, justice, strength, swiftness, a loud voice, a broad chest.  Luxury and elegance are not known.  A sparse population and want make every man his own valet, cook, butcher and soldier, and the habit of supplying his own needs educates the body to wonderful performances.  Such are the Agamemnon and Diomed of Homer, and not far different is the picture Xenophon gives of himself and his compatriots in the Retreat of the Ten Thousand.  “After the army had crossed the river Teleboas in Armenia, there fell much snow, and the troops lay miserably on the ground covered with it.  But Xenophon arose naked, and taking an axe, began to split wood; whereupon others rose and did the like.”  Throughout his army exists a boundless liberty of speech.  They quarrel for plunder, they wrangle with the generals on each new order, and Xenophon is as sharp-tongued as any and sharper-tongued than most, and so gives as good as he gets.  Who does not see that this is a gang of great boys, with such a code of honor and such lax discipline as great boys have?

The costly charm of the ancient tragedy, and indeed of all the old literature, is that the persons speak simply, ­speak as persons who have great good sense without knowing it, before yet the reflective habit has become the predominant habit of the mind.  Our admiration of the antique is not admiration of the old, but of the natural.  The Greeks are not reflective, but perfect in their senses and in their health, with the finest physical organization in the world.  Adults acted with the simplicity and grace of children.  They made vases, tragedies, and statues, such as healthy senses should, ­that is, in good taste.  Such things have continued to be made in all ages, and are now, wherever a healthy physique exists; but, as a class, from their superior organization, they have surpassed all.  They combine the energy of manhood with the engaging unconsciousness of childhood.  The attraction of these manners is that they belong to man, and are known to every man in virtue of his being once a child; besides that there are always individuals who retain these characteristics.  A person of childlike genius and inborn energy is still a Greek, and revives our love of the Muse of Hellas.  I admire the love of nature in the Philoctetes.  In reading those fine apostrophes to sleep, to the stars, rocks, mountains and waves, I feel time passing away as an ebbing sea.  I feel the eternity of man, the identity of his thought.  The Greek had it seems the same fellow-beings as I. The sun and moon, water and fire, met his heart precisely as they meet mine.  Then the vaunted distinction between Greek and English, between Classic and Romantic schools, seems superficial and pedantic.  When a thought of Plato becomes a thought to me, ­when a truth that fired the soul of Pindar fires mine, time is no more.  When I feel that we two meet in a perception, that our two souls are tinged with the same hue, and do as it were run into one, why should I measure degrees of latitude, why should I count Egyptian years?

The student interprets the age of chivalry by his own age of chivalry, and the days of maritime adventure and circumnavigation by quite parallel miniature experiences of his own.  To the sacred history of the world he has the same key.  When the voice of a prophet out of the deeps of antiquity merely echoes to him a sentiment of his infancy, a prayer of his youth, he then pierces to the truth through all the confusion of tradition and the caricature of institutions.

Rare, extravagant spirits come by us at intervals, who disclose to us new facts in nature.  I see that men of God have from time to time walked among men and made their commission felt in the heart and soul of the commonest hearer.  Hence evidently the tripod, the priest, the priestess inspired by the divine afflatus.

Jesus astonishes and overpowers sensual people.  They cannot unite him to history, or reconcile him with themselves.  As they come to revere their intuitions and aspire to live holily, their own piety explains every fact, every word.

How easily these old worships of Moses, of Zoroaster, of Menu, of Socrates, domesticate themselves in the mind.  I cannot find any antiquity in them.  They are mine as much as theirs.

I have seen the first monks and anchorets, without crossing seas or centuries.  More than once some individual has appeared to me with such negligence of labor and such commanding contemplation, a haughty beneficiary begging in the name of God, as made good to the nineteenth century Simeon the Stylite, the Thebais, and the first Capuchins.

The priestcraft of the East and West, of the Magian, Brahmin, Druid, and Inca, is expounded in the individual’s private life.  The cramping influence of a hard formalist on a young child, in repressing his spirits and courage, paralyzing the understanding, and that without producing indignation, but only fear and obedience, and even much sympathy with the tyranny, ­is a familiar fact, explained to the child when he becomes a man, only by seeing that the oppressor of his youth is himself a child tyrannized over by those names and words and forms of whose influence he was merely the organ to the youth.  The fact teaches him how Belus was worshipped and how the Pyramids were built, better than the discovery by Champollion of the names of all the workmen and the cost of every tile.  He finds Assyria and the Mounds of Cholula at his door, and himself has laid the courses.

Again, in that protest which each considerate person makes against the superstition of his times, he repeats step for step the part of old reformers, and in the search after truth finds, like them, new perils to virtue.  He learns again what moral vigor is needed to supply the girdle of a superstition.  A great licentiousness treads on the heels of a reformation.  How many times in the history of the world has the Luther of the day had to lament the decay of piety in his own household!  “Doctor,” said his wife to Martin Luther, one day, “how is it that whilst subject to papacy we prayed so often and with such fervor, whilst now we pray with the utmost coldness and very seldom?”

The advancing man discovers how deep a property he has in literature, ­in all fable as well as in all history.  He finds that the poet was no odd fellow who described strange and impossible situations, but that universal man wrote by his pen a confession true for one and true for all.  His own secret biography he finds in lines wonderfully intelligible to him, dotted down before he was born.  One after another he comes up in his private adventures with every fable of Aesop, of Homer, of Hafiz, of Ariosto, of Chaucer, of Scott, and verifies them with his own head and hands.

The beautiful fables of the Greeks, being proper creations of the imagination and not of the fancy, are universal verities.  What a range of meanings and what perpetual pertinence has the story of Prometheus!  Beside its primary value as the first chapter of the history of Europe, (the mythology thinly veiling authentic facts, the invention of the mechanic arts and the migration of colonies,) it gives the history of religion, with some closeness to the faith of later ages.  Prometheus is the Jesus of the old mythology.  He is the friend of man; stands between the unjust “justice” of the Eternal Father and the race of mortals, and readily suffers all things on their account.  But where it departs from the Calvinistic Christianity and exhibits him as the defier of Jove, it represents a state of mind which readily appears wherever the doctrine of Theism is taught in a crude, objective form, and which seems the self-defence of man against this untruth, namely a discontent with the believed fact that a God exists, and a feeling that the obligation of reverence is onerous.  It would steal if it could the fire of the Creator, and live apart from him and independent of him.  The Prometheus Vinctus is the romance of skepticism.  Not less true to all time are the details of that stately apologue.  Apollo kept the flocks of Admetus, said the poets.  When the gods come among men, they are not known.  Jesus was not; Socrates and Shakspeare were not.  Antaeus was suffocated by the gripe of Hercules, but every time he touched his mother earth his strength was renewed.  Man is the broken giant, and in all his weakness both his body and his mind are invigorated by habits of conversation with nature.  The power of music, the power of poetry, to unfix and as it were clap wings to solid nature, interprets the riddle of Orpheus.  The philosophical perception of identity through endless mutations of form makes him know the Proteus.  What else am I who laughed or wept yesterday, who slept last night like a corpse, and this morning stood and ran?  And what see I on any side but the transmigrations of Proteus?  I can symbolize my thought by using the name of any creature, of any fact, because every creature is man agent or patient.  Tantalus is but a name for you and me.  Tantalus means the impossibility of drinking the waters of thought which are always gleaming and waving within sight of the soul.  The transmigration of souls is no fable.  I would it were; but men and women are only half human.  Every animal of the barn-yard, the field and the forest, of the earth and of the waters that are under the earth, has contrived to get a footing and to leave the print of its features and form in some one or other of these upright, heaven-facing speakers.  Ah! brother, stop the ebb of thy soul, ­ebbing downward into the forms into whose habits thou hast now for many years slid.  As near and proper to us is also that old fable of the Sphinx, who was said to sit in the road-side and put riddles to every passenger.  If the man could not answer, she swallowed him alive.  If he could solve the riddle, the Sphinx was slain.  What is our life but an endless flight of winged facts or events?  In splendid variety these changes come, all putting questions to the human spirit.  Those men who cannot answer by a superior wisdom these facts or questions of time, serve them.  Facts encumber them, tyrannize over them, and make the men of routine, the men of sense, in whom a literal obedience to facts has extinguished every spark of that light by which man is truly man.  But if the man is true to his better instincts or sentiments, and refuses the dominion of facts, as one that comes of a higher race; remains fast by the soul and sees the principle, then the facts fall aptly and supple into their places; they know their master, and the meanest of them glorifies him.

See in Goethe’s Helena the same desire that every word should be a thing.  These figures, he would say, these Chirons, Griffins, Phorkyas, Helen and Leda, are somewhat, and do exert a specific influence on the mind.  So far then are they eternal entities, as real to-day as in the first Olympiad.  Much revolving them he writes out freely his humor, and gives them body to his own imagination.  And although that poem be as vague and fantastic as a dream, yet is it much more attractive than the more regular dramatic pieces of the same author, for the reason that it operates a wonderful relief to the mind from the routine of customary images, ­awakens the reader’s invention and fancy by the wild freedom of the design, and by the unceasing succession of brisk shocks of surprise.

The universal nature, too strong for the petty nature of the bard, sits on his neck and writes through his hand; so that when he seems to vent a mere caprice and wild romance, the issue is an exact allegory.  Hence Plato said that “poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand.”  All the fictions of the Middle Age explain themselves as a masked or frolic expression of that which in grave earnest the mind of that period toiled to achieve.  Magic and all that is ascribed to it is a deep presentiment of the powers of science.  The shoes of swiftness, the sword of sharpness, the power of subduing the elements, of using the secret virtues of minerals, of understanding the voices of birds, are the obscure efforts of the mind in a right direction.  The preternatural prowess of the hero, the gift of perpetual youth, and the like, are alike the endeavour of the human spirit “to bend the shows of things to the desires of the mind.”

In Perceforest and Amadis de Gaul a garland and a rose bloom on the head of her who is faithful, and fade on the brow of the inconstant.  In the story of the Boy and the Mantle even a mature reader may be surprised with a glow of virtuous pleasure at the triumph of the gentle Venelas; and indeed all the postulates of elfin annals, ­that the fairies do not like to be named; that their gifts are capricious and not to be trusted; that who seeks a treasure must not speak; and the like, ­I find true in Concord, however they might be in Cornwall or Bretagne.

Is it otherwise in the newest romance?  I read the Bride of Lammermoor.  Sir William Ashton is a mask for a vulgar temptation, Ravenswood Castle a fine name for proud poverty, and the foreign mission of state only a Bunyan disguise for honest industry.  We may all shoot a wild bull that would toss the good and beautiful, by fighting down the unjust and sensual.  Lucy Ashton is another name for fidelity, which is always beautiful and always liable to calamity in this world.

But along with the civil and metaphysical history of man, another history goes daily forward, ­that of the external world, ­in which he is not less strictly implicated.  He is the compend of time; he is also the correlative of nature.  His power consists in the multitude of his affinities, in the fact that his life is intertwined with the whole chain of organic and inorganic being.  In old Rome the public roads beginning at the Forum proceeded north, south, east, west, to the centre of every province of the empire, making each market-town of Persia, Spain and Britain pervious to the soldiers of the capital:  so out of the human heart go as it were highways to the heart of every object in nature, to reduce it under the dominion of man.  A man is a bundle of relations, a knot of roots, whose flower and fruitage is the world.  His faculties refer to natures out of him and predict the world he is to inhabit, as the fins of the fish foreshow that water exists, or the wings of an eagle in the egg presuppose air.  He cannot live without a world.  Put Napoleon in an island prison, let his faculties find no men to act on, no Alps to climb, no stake to play for, and he would beat the air, and appear stupid.  Transport him to large countries, dense population, complex interests and antagonist power, and you shall see that the man Napoleon, bounded that is by such a profile and outline, is not the virtual Napoleon.  This is but Talbot’s shadow; ­

     “His substance is not here. 
     For what you see is but the smallest part
     And least proportion of humanity;
     But were the whole frame here,
     It is of such a spacious, lofty pitch,
     Your roof were not sufficient to contain it.” 
      ­Henry VI.

Columbus needs a planet to shape his course upon.  Newton and Laplace need myriads of age and thick-strewn celestial areas.  One may say a gravitating solar system is already prophesied in the nature of Newton’s mind.  Not less does the brain of Davy or of Gay-Lussac, from childhood exploring the affinities and repulsions of particles, anticipate the laws of organization.  Does not the eye of the human embryo predict the light? the ear of Handel predict the witchcraft of harmonic sound?  Do not the constructive fingers of Watt, Fulton, Whittemore, Arkwright, predict the fusible, hard, and temperable texture of metals, the properties of stone, water, and wood?  Do not the lovely attributes of the maiden child predict the refinements and decorations of civil society?  Here also we are reminded of the action of man on man.  A mind might ponder its thought for ages and not gain so much self-knowledge as the passion of love shall teach it in a day.  Who knows himself before he has been thrilled with indignation at an outrage, or has heard an eloquent tongue, or has shared the throb of thousands in a national exultation or alarm?  No man can antedate his experience, or guess what faculty or feeling a new object shall unlock, any more than he can draw to-day the face of a person whom he shall see to-morrow for the first time.

I will not now go behind the general statement to explore the reason of this correspondency.  Let it suffice that in the light of these two facts, namely, that the mind is One, and that nature is its correlative, history is to be read and written.

Thus in all ways does the soul concentrate and reproduce its treasures for each pupil.  He too shall pass through the whole cycle of experience.  He shall collect into a focus the rays of nature.  History no longer shall be a dull book.  It shall walk incarnate in every just and wise man.  You shall not tell me by languages and titles a catalogue of the volumes you have read.  You shall make me feel what periods you have lived.  A man shall be the Temple of Fame.  He shall walk, as the poets have described that goddess, in a robe painted all over with wonderful events and experiences; ­his own form and features by their exalted intelligence shall be that variegated vest.  I shall find in him the Foreworld; in his childhood the Age of Gold, the Apples of Knowledge, the Argonautic Expedition, the calling of Abraham, the building of the Temple, the Advent of Christ, Dark Ages, the Revival of Letters, the Reformation, the discovery of new lands, the opening of new sciences and new regions in man.  He shall be the priest of Pan, and bring with him into humble cottages the blessing of the morning stars, and all the recorded benefits of heaven and earth.

Is there somewhat overweening in this claim?  Then I reject all I have written, for what is the use of pretending to know what we know not?  But it is the fault of our rhetoric that we cannot strongly state one fact without seeming to belie some other.  I hold our actual knowledge very cheap.  Hear the rats in the wall, see the lizard on the fence, the fungus under foot, the lichen on the log.  What do I know sympathetically, morally, of either of these worlds of life?  As old as the Caucasian man, ­perhaps older, ­these creatures have kept their counsel beside him, and there is no record of any word or sign that has passed from one to the other.  What connection do the books show between the fifty or sixty chemical elements and the historical eras?  Nay, what does history yet record of the metaphysical annals of man?  What light does it shed on those mysteries which we hide under the names Death and Immortality?  Yet every history should be written in a wisdom which divined the range of our affinities and looked at facts as symbols.  I am ashamed to see what a shallow village tale our so-called History is.  How many times we must say Rome, and Paris, and Constantinople!  What does Rome know of rat and lizard?  What are Olympiads and Consulates to these neighboring systems of being?  Nay, what food or experience or succor have they for the Esquimaux seal-hunter, for the Kanaka in his canoe, for the fisherman, the stevedore, the porter?

Broader and deeper we must write our annals, ­from an ethical reformation, from an influx of the ever new, ever sanative conscience, ­if we would trulier express our central and wide-related nature, instead of this old chronology of selfishness and pride to which we have too long lent our eyes.  Already that day exists for us, shines in on us at unawares, but the path of science and of letters is not the way into nature.  The idiot, the Indian, the child and unschooled farmer’s boy stand nearer to the light by which nature is to be read, than the dissector or the antiquary.