 SA's Second Series by Ralph Waldo Emerson. SA-1 The Poet Read by Bob Neufeld. A moody child and wildly wise pursued the game with joyful eyes, which chose like meteors their way, and rived the dark with private ray. They overleapt the horizon's edge, searched with Apollo's privilege. Through man and woman and sea and star saw the dance of nature forward far. Through words and races and terms and times saw musical order and pairing rhymes. Olympian bards who sung divine ideas below, which always find us young, and always keep us so. Those who are esteemed umpires of taste are often persons who have acquired some knowledge of admired pictures or sculptures, and have an inclination for whatever is elegant. But if you inquire whether they are beautiful souls, and whether their own acts are like fair pictures, you learn that they are selfish and sensual. Their cultivation is local, as if you should rub a log of dry wood in one spot to produce fire, all the rest remaining cold. Their knowledge of the fine arts is some study of rules in particulars, or some limited judgment of color or form which is exercised for amusement or for show. It is a proof of the shallowness of the doctrine of beauty as it lies in the minds of our amateurs, that men seem to have lost the perception of the instant dependence of form upon soul. There is no doctrine of forms in our philosophy. We were put into our bodies, as fire is put into a pan to be carried about, that there is no accurate adjustment between the spirit and the organ, much less is the latter the germination of the former. So in regard to other forms, the intellectual men do not believe in any essential dependence of the material world on thought and volition. Theologians think it a pretty air castle to talk of the spiritual meaning of a ship or a cloud, of a city or a contract, but they prefer to come again to the solid ground of historical evidence, and even the poets are contented with a civil and conformed manner of living, and to write poems from the fancy, at a safe distance from their own experience. But the highest minds of the world have never ceased to explore the double meaning, or shall I say the quadruple or the centupal or much more manifold meaning of every sensuous fact — Orpheus, Empedocles, Heraclitus, Plato, Plutarch, Dante, Swedenborg, and the masters of sculpture, picture, and poetry. For we are not pans and barrows, nor even porters of the fire and touch-bearers, but children of the fire, made of it, and only the same divinity transmuted and at two or three removes, when we know least about it. And this sudden truth, that the fountains whence all this river of time and its creatures floweth are intrinsically ideal and beautiful, draws us to the consideration of the nature and functions of the poet, or the man of beauty, to the means and materials he uses, into the general aspect of the art in the present time. The breadth of the problem is great, for the poet is representative. He stands among partial men for the complete man, and apprises us not of his wealth, but of the common wealth. The young man reveres men of genius, because, to speak truly, they are more himself than he is. They receive of the soul as he also receives, but they more. Nature enhances her beauty to the eye of loving men, from their belief that the poet is beholding her shows at the same time. He is isolated among his contemporaries by truth and by his art, but with this consolation in his pursuits, that they will draw all men sooner or later, for all men live by truth and stand in need of expression. In love, in arts, in avarice, in politics, in labor, in games, we study to utter our painful secret. The man is only half himself. The other half is his expression. Notwithstanding this necessity to be published, adequate expression is rare. I know not how it is that we need an interpreter, but the great majority of men seem to be miners who have yet come into possession of their own, or mutes who cannot report the conversation they have had with nature. There is no man who does not anticipate a super sensual utility in the sun and stars, earth and water. These stand and wait to render him a peculiar service, but there is some obstruction or some excess of phlegm in our constitution, which does not suffer them to yield the due effect. Two feeble fall the impressions of nature on us to make us artists. Every touch should thrill. Every man should be so much an artist that he could report in conversation what had befallen him. Yet in our experience the rays or impulses have sufficient force to arrive at the senses, but not enough to reach the quick and compel the reproduction of themselves in speech. The poet is the person in whom these powers are in balance, the man without impediment, who sees and handles that which others dream of, traverses the whole scale of experience and is representative of man, in virtue of being the largest power to receive and to impart. For the universe has three children, born at one time, which appear under different names in every system of thought, whether they be called cause, operation, and effect, or more poetically, Jove, Pluto, Neptune, or theologically, the Father, the Spirit, and the Son, but which we will call here the knower, the doer, and the sayer. These stand respectively for the love of truth, for the love of good, and for the love of beauty. These three are equal. Each is that which he is essentially, so that he cannot be surmounted or analyzed, and each of these three has the power of the others latent in him and his own patent. The poet is the sayer, the namer, and represents beauty. He is a sovereign and stands on the center. For the world is not painted or adorned but is from the beginning beautiful, and God has made some beautiful things, but beauty is the creator of the universe. Therefore the poet is not any permissive potentate, but is emperor in his own right. Criticism is infested with a cant of materialism, which assumes that manual skill and activity is the first merit of all men and disparages such as say and do not, overlooking the fact that some men, namely poets, are natural sayers, sent into the world to the end of expression and confounds them with those whose province is action but who quit it to imitate the sayers. But Homer's words are as costly and admirable to Homer as Agamemnon's victories are to Agamemnon. The poet does not wait for the hero or the sage, but as they act and think primarily, he writes primarily what will and must be spoken, reckoning the others, though primaries also, yet in respect to him secondaries and servants, as sitters or models in the studio of a painter, or as assistants who bring building materials to an architect. For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings and attempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word or a verse and substitute something of our own and thus miswrite the poem. The men of more delicate ear write down these cadences more faithfully, and these transcripts, though imperfect, become the songs of the nations. For nature is as truly beautiful as it is good, or as it is reasonable, and must as much appear as it must be done or be known. Words and deeds are quite indifferent modes of the divine energy. Words are also actions, and actions are a kind of words. The sign and credentials of the poet are that he announces that which no man foretold. He is the true and only doctor. He knows and tells. He is the only teller of news, for he was present and privy to the appearance which he describes. He is a beholder of ideas and an utterer of the necessary and causal, for we do not speak now of men of poetical talents or of industry and skill in meter, but of the true poet. I took part in a conversation the other day concerning a recent writer of lyrics, a man of subtle mind whose head appeared to be a music box of delicate tunes and rhythms, and whose skill and command of language we could not sufficiently praise. But when the question arose whether he was not only a lyricist but a poet, we were obliged to confess that he is plainly a contemporary, not an eternal man. He does not stand out of our low limitations like a chimborazo under the line, running up from the torrid base through all the climates of the globe, with bells of the herbage of every latitude on its high and mottled sides. But this genius is the landscape garden of a modern house, adorned with fountains and statues, with well-bred men and women standing and sitting in the walks and terraces. We hear, through all the varied music, the ground-tone of conventional life. Our poets are men of talents who sing, and not the children of music. The argument is secondary. The finish of the verses is primary. For it is not meters, but a meter-making argument that makes the poem. A thought so passionate and alive, that like the spirit of a plant or an animal, it has an architecture of its own, and adorns nature with a new thing. The thought and the form are equal in the order of time, but in the order of Genesis the thought is prior to the form. The poet has a new thought. He has a whole new experience to unfold. He will tell us how it was with him, and all men will be the richer in his fortune. For the experience of each new age requires a new confession, and the world seems always waiting for its poet. I remember when I was young how much I was moved one morning by tidings that genius had appeared in a youth who sat near me at table. He had left his work and gone rambling, none knew wither, and had written hundreds of lines, but could not tell whether that which was in him was there in told. He could tell nothing but that all was changed, man, beast, heaven, earth, and sea. How gladly we listened! How credulous! Society seemed to be compromised. We sat in the aurora of a sunrise which was to put out all the stars. Boston seemed to be at twice the distance it had the night before, or was much farther than that. Rome? What was Rome? Plutarch and Shakespeare were in the yellow leaf, and Homer no more should be heard of. It is much to know that poetry has been written this very day, under this very roof, by your side. What! That wonderful spirit has not expired! These stony moments are still sparkling and animated. I had fancied that the oracles were all silent, and nature had spent her fires, and behold, all night from every pore, these fine auroras have been streaming. Everyone has some interest in the advent of the poet, and no one knows how much it may concern him. We know that the secret of the world is profound, but who or what shall be our interpreter? We know not. A mountain ramble, a new style of face, a new person may put the key into our hands. Of course, the value of genius to us is in the veracity of its report. Talent may frolic and juggle, genius realizes and adds. Mankind in good earnest have availed so far in understanding themselves and their work that the foremost watchman on the peak announces his news. It is the truest word ever spoken, and the phrase will be the fittest, most musical, and the unearing voice of the world for that time. All that we call sacred history attests that the birth of a poet is the principal event in chronology. Man, never so often deceived, still watches for the arrival of a brother who can hold him steady to a truth until he has made it his own. With what joy I begin to read a poem, which I confide in as an inspiration. And now my chains are to be broken. I shall mount above those clouds and opaque airs in which I live, opaque though they seem transparent. And from the heaven of truth I shall see and comprehend my relations, that will reconcile me to life and renovate nature, to see trifles animated by a tendency, and to know what I am doing. Life will no more be a noise. Now I shall see men and women, and know the signs by which they may be discerned from fools and satans. This day shall be better than my birthday. Then I became an animal. Now I am invited into the science of the real. Such is the hope, but the fruition is postponed. Oftener it falls that this winged man who will carry me into the heaven whirls me into mists, then leaps and frisks about with me as if it were from cloud to cloud, still affirming that he is bound heavenward, that I, being myself a novice, am slow in perceiving that he does not know the way into the heavens, and is merely bent that I should admire his skill to rise like a fowl or a flying fish a little away from the ground or the water. But the all-piercing, all-feeding and ocular air of heaven that man shall never inhabit. I tumble down again soon into my old nooks, and lead the life of exaggerations as before, and have lost my faith in the possibility of any guide who can lead me thither where I would be. But, leaving these victims of vanity, let us, with new hope, observe how nature, by worthier impulses, has ensured the poet's fidelity to his office of announcement and affirming, namely by the beauty of things which becomes a new and a higher beauty when expressed. Nature offers all her creatures to him as a picture language. Being used as a type, a second wonderful value appears in the object, far better than its old value, as the carpenter's stretched cord, if you hold your ear close enough, is musical in the breeze. Things more excellent than every image, says Yom Blikus, are expressed through images. Things admit of being used as symbols, because nature is a symbol in the whole and in every part. Every line we can draw in the sand has expression, and there is nobody without its spirit or genius. All form is an effect of character, all condition of the quality of the life, all harmony of health, and for this reason a perception of beauty should be sympathetic or proper only to the good. The beautiful rests on the foundations of the necessary. The soul makes the body as the wise Spencer teaches, so every spirit, as it is most pure, and hath in it the more of heavenly light, so it the fairer body doth procure to inhabit it, and it more fairly dite, with cheerful grace and amiable sight, for of the soul the body form doth take, for soul is form, and doth the body make. Here we find ourselves suddenly not in a critical speculation, but in a holy place, and should go very warily and reverently. We stand before the secret of the world, there where being passes into appearance and unity into variety. The universe is the externation of the soul. Whatever the life is, that bursts into appearance around it. Our science is sensual, and therefore superficial. The earth and the heavenly bodies, physics and chemistry we sensually treat, as if they were self-existent, but these are the retinue of that being we have. The mighty heaven, said Proclus, exhibits in its transfigurations clear images of the splendor of intellectual perceptions being moved in conjunction with the unapparent periods of intellectual natures. Therefore science always goes abreast with the just elevation of the man, heaping sapped with religion and metaphysics, for the state of science is an index of our self-knowledge. Since everything in nature answers to a moral power, if any phenomenon remains brute and dark, it is that the corresponding faculty in the observer is not yet active. No wonder, then, if these waters be so deep, that we hover over them with a religious regard. The beauty of the fable proves the importance of the sense, to the poets and to all other. Or, if you please, every man is so far a poet as to be susceptible of these enchantments of nature, for all men have the thoughts whereof the universe is the celebration. I find that the fascination resides in the symbol, who loves nature, who does not. Is it only poets and men of leisure and cultivation who live with her? No, but also hunters, farmers, grooms and butchers, though they express their affection in their choice of life and not in their choice of words. The writer wonders what the coachman or the hunter values in riding, in horses and dogs. It is not superficial quality. When you talk with him, he holds these at as slight a rate as you. His worship is sympathetic. He has no definitions, but he is commanded in nature by the living power which he feels to be there present. No imitation or playing of these things would content him. He loves the earnest of the north wind, of rain, of stone, and wood and iron. A beauty not explicable is dearer than a beauty which we can see to the end of. It is nature the symbol, nature certifying the supernatural body overflowed by life, which he worships with course but sincere rites. The inwardness and mystery of this attachment drives men of every class to the use of emblems. The schools of poets and philosophers are not more intoxicated with their symbols than the populace with their. In our political parties, compute the power of badges and emblems. See the great ball which they roll from Baltimore to Bunker Hill. In the political processions, Lowell goes in a loom and Lynn in a shoe and Salem in a ship. Witness the cider barrel, the log cabin, the hickory stick, the palm meadow, and all the cognizances of party. See the power of national emblems. Some stars, lilies, leopards, a crescent, a lion, an eagle, or other figure which come into credit, God knows how, on an old rag of bunting, blowing in the wind on a fort at the ends of the earth, shall make the blood tingled under the rudest or the most conventional exterior. The people fancy they hate poetry, and they are all poets and mystics. Beyond this universality of the symbolic language, we are apprised of the divineness of the superior use of things. Whereby the world is a temple, whose walls are covered with emblems, pictures, and commandments of the deity. In this, there is no fact in nature which does not carry the whole sense of nature, and the distinctions which we make in the events and in affairs of low and high, honest and base disappear when nature is used as a symbol. Thought makes everything fit for use. The vocabulary of an omniscient man would embrace words and images excluded from polite conversation. What would be base or even obscene to the obscene becomes illustrious, spoken in a new connection of thought. The piety of the Hebrew prophets purges their grossness. The circumcision is an example of the power of poetry to raise the low and offensive. Small and mean things serve as well as great symbols. The meaner the type by which a law is expressed, the more punctioned it is, and the more lasting in the memories of man. Just as we choose the smallest box or case in which any needful utensful can be carried. Bare lists of words are found suggestive to an imaginative and excited mind, as it is related of Lord Chatham that he was accustomed to read in Bailey's dictionary when he was preparing to speak in Parliament. The poorest experience is rich enough for all the purposes of expressing thought. Why cover the knowledge of new facts? Day and night, house and garden, a few books, a few actions serve us as well as would all trades and all spectacles. We are far from having exhausted the significance of the few symbols we use. We can come to use them yet with a terrible simplicity. It does not need that a poem should be long. Every word was once a poem. Every new relation is a new word. Also, we use defects and deformities to a sacred purpose, so expressing our sense that the evils of the world are such only to the evil eye. In the old mythology, mythologists observe, defects were ascribed to divine natures as lameness to Vulcan, blindness to Cupid, and the like to signify exuberance. For as it is dislocation and detachment from the life of God that makes things ugly, the poet, who reattaches things to nature and the whole, reattaching even artificial things and violations of nature to nature by a deeper insight, disposes very easily of the most disagreeable facts. Readers of poetry see the factory village and the railway, and fancy that the poetry of the landscape is broken up by these, for these works of art are not yet consecrated in their reading. But the poet sees them fall within the great order, not less than the beehive, or the spider's geometrical web. Nature adopts them very fast into her vital circles, and the gliding train of cars she loves like her own. Besides, in a centred mind, it signifies nothing how many mechanical inventions you exhibit. Though you add millions, and never so surprising, the fact of mechanics has not gained a grain's weight. The spiritual fact remains unalterable, by many or by few particulars, as no mountain is of any appreciable height to break the curve of the sphere. A shrewd country boy goes to the city for the first time, and the complacent citizen is not satisfied with his little wonder. It is not that he does not see all the fine houses and know that he never saw such before, but he disposes of them as easily as the poet finds place for the railway. The chief value of the new fact is to enhance the great and constant fact of life, which can dwarf any and every circumstance, and to which the bells of Wampum and the commerce of America are alike. The world being thus put under the mind for verb and noun, the poet is he who can articulate it. For though life is great and fascinates and absorbs, and though all men are intelligent of the symbols through which it is named, yet they cannot originally use them. We are symbols and inhabit symbols, workmen, work and tools, words and things, birth and death, all are emblems. But we sympathize with the symbols, and being infatuated with the economical uses of things, we do not know that they are thoughts. The poet, by an ulterior intellectual perception, gives them a power which makes their old use forgotten, and puts eyes and a tongue into every dumb and inanimate object. He perceives the independence of the thought on the symbol, the stability of the thought, the accident and fugacity of the symbol. As the eyes of Lincaeus were said to see through the earth, so the poet turns the world to glass and shows us all things in their right series and procession. For through that better perception he stands one step nearer to things, and sees the flowing or metamorphosis, perceives that thought is multi-form, that within the form of every creature is a force impelling it to ascend into a higher form, and following with his eyes the life uses the forms which express that life, and so his speech flows with the flowing of nature. All the facts of the animal economy, sex, nutriment, gestation, birth, growth, are symbols of the passage of the world into the soul of man, and to suffer there a change and reappear anew and higher fact. He uses forms according to the life, and not according to the form. This is true science. The poet alone knows astronomy, chemistry, vegetation, and animation, for he does not stop at these facts, but employs them as signs. He knows why the plane or meadow or space was strewn with these flowers we call suns and moons and stars, why the great deep is adorned with animals, with men and gods, for in every word he speaks he rides on them as the horses of thought. By virtue of this science the poet is the namer or language maker, naming things sometimes after their appearance, sometimes after their essence, and giving to everyone its own name and not another's, thereby rejoicing the intellect which delights in detachment or boundary. The poets made all the words, and therefore language is the archives of history, and, if we must say it, a sort of tomb of the muses. For though the origin of most of our words is forgotten, each word was at first a stroke of genius and obtained currency because for the moment it symbolized the world to the first speaker and to the hearer. The etymologist finds the deadest word to have been once a brilliant picture. Language is fossil poetry. As the limestone of the continent consists of infinite masses of the shells of animalcules, so language is made up of images or tropes, which now in their secondary use have long ceased to remind us of their poetic origin. But the poet names the thing before he sees it and comes one step nearer to it than any other. This expression or naming is not art, but a second nature grown out of the first as a leaf out of a tree. What we call nature is a certain self-regulated motion or change. A nature does all things by her own hands and does not leave another to baptize her, but baptizes herself, and this through the metamorphosis again. I remember that a certain poet described it to me thus. Genius is the activity which repairs the decays of things, whether wholly or partly of a material and finite kind. Nature, through all her kingdoms, ensures herself. Nobody cares for planting the poor fungus. So she shakes down from the gills of one agaric countless spores, any one of which, being preserved, transmits new billions of spores tomorrow or next day. The new agaric of this hour has a chance which the old one had not. This atom of seen is thrown into a new place, not subject to the accidents which destroyed its parents two rods off. She makes a man, and having brought him to ripe age, she will no longer run the risk of losing this wonder at a blow, but she detaches from him a new self, that the kind may be safe from accidents to which the individual is exposed. So when the soul of the poet has come to ripeness of thought, she detaches and sends away from it its poems or songs. A fearless, sleepless, deathless progeny, which is not exposed to the accidents of the weary kingdom of time. A fearless, vivacious offspring, clad with wings, such was the virtue of the soul out of which they came, which carry them fast and far, and infix them irrevocably into the hearts of men. These wings are the beauty of the poet's soul. The songs, those flying immortal from their mortal parent, are pursued by clamorous flights of censures, which swarm in far greater numbers and threaten to devour them. But these last are not winged. At the end of a very short leap they fall plump down and wrought, having received from the souls out of which they came no beautiful wings. At the melodies of the poet ascend and leap and pierce into the depths of infinite time. So far the bard taught me, using his freer speech. But nature has a higher end in the production of new individuals than security, namely ascension, or the passage of the soul into higher forms. I knew in my younger days the sculptor who made the statue of the youth which stands in the public garden. He was, as I remember, unable to tell directly what made him happy or unhappy, but by wonderful indirections he could tell. He rose one day according to his habit before the dawn and saw the morning break, grand as the eternity out of which it came, and for many days after he strove to express this tranquility. And lo, his chisel had fashioned out of marble the form of a beautiful youth, phosphorus, whose aspect is such that it is said all persons who look on it become silent. The poet also resigns himself to this mood, and that which agitated him is expressed but altered him in a manner totally new. The expression is organic, or the new type which things themselves take when liberated. As in the sun, objects paint their images on the retina of the eye, so they, sharing the aspiration of the whole universe, tend to paint a far more delicate copy of their essence in his mind. Like the metamorphosis of things into higher organic forms is their change into melodies. Over everything stands its demon or soul, and as the form of the thing is reflected by the eye, so the soul of the thing is reflected by a melody. The sea, the mountain ridge, Niagara, and every flower bed pre-exist or super-exist in pre-cantations, which sail like odors in the air, and when any man goes by with an ear sufficiently fine, he overhears them and endeavors to write down the notes without deluding or depraving them. And herein is the legitimation of criticism. In the mind's faith that the poems are a corrupt version of some text in nature with which they ought to be made to tally. A rhyme in one of our sonnets should not be less pleasing than the iterated notes of a seashell, or the resembling difference of a group of flowers. The pairing of the birds is an idol, not tedious as our idols are. A tempest is a rough ode without falsehood or rant. A summer with its harvest sown, reaped, and stored is an epic song subordinating how many admirably executed parts. Why should not the symmetry and truth that modulate these, and we participate in the invention of nature? This insight, which expresses itself by what is called imagination, is a very high sort of seeing, which does not come by study, but by the intellect being where and what it sees, by sharing the path or circuit of things through forms, and so making them translucent to others. The path of things is silent. Will they suffer a speaker to go with them? A spy they will not suffer. A lover, a poet, is the transcendency of their own nature. Him they will suffer. The condition of true naming, on the poet's part, is his resigning himself to the divine aura which breathes through forms, and accompanying that. It is a secret which every intellectual man quickly learns, that beyond the energy of his possessed and conscious intellect he is capable of a new energy, as of an intellect doubled on itself, by abandonments to the nature of things, that beside his privacy of power as an individual man, there is a great public power on which he can draw, by unlocking at all risks his human doors, and suffering the ethereal tides to roll and circulate through him. Then he is caught up into the life of the universe. His speech is thunder, his thought is law, and his words are universally intelligible as the plants and animals. The poet knows that he speaks adequately then only when he speaks somewhat wildly, or with the flower of the mind, not with the intellect used as an organ, but with the intellect released from all service and suffered to take its direction from its celestial life, or as the ancients were wont to express themselves, not with intellect alone, but with the intellect inebriated by nectar. As the traveller who has lost his way throws his reins on his horse's neck, and trusts to the instinct of the animal to find his road, so must we do with the divine animal who carries us through this world. For if in any manner we can stimulate this instinct, new passages are open for us into nature, the mind flows into and through things hardest and highest, and the metamorphosis possible. This is the reason why bards love wine, mead, narcotics, coffee, tea, opium, the fumes of sandalwood and tobacco, or whatever other procurers of animal exhilaration. All men avail themselves of such means as they can to add this extraordinary power to their normal powers, and to this end they prize conversation, music, pictures, sculpture, dancing, theatres, travelling, war, mobs, fires, gaming, politics, or love, or science, or animal intoxication, which are several coarser or finer quasi-mechanical substitutes for the true nectar, which is the ravishment of the intellect by coming nearer to the fact. These are auxiliaries to the centrifugal tendency of a man, to his passage out into free space, and they help him to escape the custody of that body in which he is pent up, and of that jail-yard of individual relations in which he is enclosed. Hence a great number of such, as were professionally expressors of beauty, as painters, poets, musicians, and actors, have been more than others want to lead a life of pleasure and indulgence. All but the few who received the true nectar, and as it was a spurious mode of attaining freedom, as it was an emancipation not into the heavens, but into the freedom of baser places, they were punished for that advantage they won by a dissipation and deterioration. But never can any advantage be taken of nature by a trick. The spirit of the world, a great, calm presence of the Creator, comes not forth to the sorceries of opium or of wine. The sublime vision comes to the pure and simple soul in a clean and chaste body. That is not an inspiration which we owe to narcotics, but some counterfeit excitement and fury. Milton says that the lyric poet may drink wine and live generously, but the epic poet, he who shall sing of the gods and their descent unto men, must drink water out of a wooden bowl. For poetry is not devil's wine, but God's wine. It is with this as it is with toys. We fill the hands and nurseries of our children with all manner of dolls, drums, and horses, withdrawing their eyes from the plain face and sufficing objects of nature, the sun and moon, the animals, the water, and stones, which should be their toy. So the poet's habit of living should be set on a key so low that the common influences should delight him. His cheerfulness should be the gift of the sunlight. The air should suffice for his inspiration, and he should be tipsy with water. That spirit which suffices quiet hearts, which seems to come forth to such from every dry knoll of seragrass, from every pine stump and half-embedded stone on which the dull mart's sun shines, comes forth to the poor and hungry, and such as are of simple taste. If thou fill thy brain with Boston and New York, with fashion and covetousness, and wilt stimulate thy jaded senses with wine and French coffee, thou shalt find no radiance of wisdom in the lonely waste of the pine wood. If the imagination intoxicates the poet, it is not interactive in other men. The metamorphosis excites in the beholder an emotion of joy. The use of souls has a certain power of emancipation and exhilaration for all men. We seem to be touched by a wand which makes us dance and run about happily like children. We are like persons who come out of a cave or cellar into the open air. This is the effect on us of tropes, fables, oracles, and all poetic forms. Poets are thus liberating gods. Men have really got a new sense and found within their world another world, or Nesta worlds, for the metamorphosis once seen, we divine that it does not stop. I will not now consider how much this makes the charm of algebra and the mathematics, which also have their tropes, but it is felt in every definition, as when Aristotle defines space to be an immovable vessel in which things are contained, and when Plato defines a line to be a flowing point, or figure to be a bound of solid, and many the like. What a joyful sense of freedom we have when Vitruvius announces the old opinion of artists that no architect can build any house well who does not know something of anatomy. When Socrates in comedies tells us that the soul is cured of its maladies by certain incantations, and that these incantations are beautiful reasons from which temperance is generated in souls, when Plato calls the world an animal, when Timaeus affirms that the plants are also animals, or affirms a man to be a heavenly tree growing with his root, which is his head, upward, and as George Chapman following him writes, So in our tree of man whose nervy root springs in his top, when Orpheus speaks of horiness as that white flower which marks extreme old age, when Proclus calls the universe the statue of the intellect, when Chaucer in his praise of gentleness compares good blood in mean condition to fire, which though carried to the darkest house betwixt this and the amount of Caucasus will yet hold its natural office and burn as bright as if twenty thousand men did it behold, when John saw in the Apocalypse the ruin of the world through evil, and the stars far from heaven as the fig tree casteth her untimely fruit. When Esop reports the whole catalog of common daily relations through the masquerade of birds and beasts, we take the cheerful hint of the immortality of our essence and its versatile habit and escapes as when the Gypsies say, it is vain to hang them, they cannot die. The poets are thus liberating gods. The ancient British bards had for the title of their order those who are free throughout the world. They are free and they make free. An imaginative book renders us much more surface at first by stimulating us through its tropes than afterward when we arrive at the precise sense of the author. I think nothing is of any value in books accepting the transcendental and extraordinary. If a man is inflamed and carried away by his thought, to that degree that he forgets the authors and the public, and heeds only this one dream which holds him like an insanity, let me read his paper and you may have all the arguments and histories and criticism. All the value which attaches to Pythagoras, Paracelsus, Cornelius, Agrippa, Cardan, Kepler, Swedenborg, Schelling, Okon, or any other who introduces questionable facts into his cosmogony as angels, devils, magic, astrology, palmistry, mesmerism, and so on is the certificate we have of departure from routine and that here is a new witness. That also is the best success in conversation, the magic of liberty, which puts the world like a ball in our hands. How cheap even the liberty then seems! How mean to study, when an emotion communicates to the intellect the power to sap and upheave nature. How great the perspective! Nations, times, systems enter and disappear like threads in tapestry of large figure and many colors. Dream delivers us to dream, and while the drunkenness lasts, we will sell our bed, our philosophy, our religion in our opulent. There is good reason why we should prize this liberation. The fate of the poor shepherd, who blinded and lost in the snowstorm, perishes in a drift within a few feet of his cottage door, is an emblem of the state of man. On the brink of the waters of life and truth we are miserably dying. The inaccessibleness of every thought but that we are in is wonderful. What if you come near to it? You are as remote when you are nearest as when you are farthest. Every thought is also a prison. Every heaven is also a prison. Therefore we love the poet, the inventor, who in any form, whether in an ode or in an action or in looks and behavior has yielded us a new thought. He unlocks our chains and admits us to a new scene. This emancipation is dear to all men, and the power to impart it, as it must come from greater depth and scope of thought, is a measure of intellect. Therefore all books of the imagination endure, all which ascend to that truth that the writer sees nature beneath him and uses it as his exponent. Every verse or sentence possessing this virtue will take care of its own immortality. The religions of the world are the ejaculations of a few imaginative men. But the quality of the imagination is to flow and not to freeze. The poet did not stop at the color or the form, but read their meaning. Neither may he rest in this meaning, but he makes the same objects' exponents of his new thought. Here is a difference betwixt the poets and the mystic, that the last nails a symbol to one sense, which was a true sense for a moment, but soon becomes old and false. For all symbols are fluxional, all language is vehicular and transitive, and is good, as fairies and horses are, for conveyance, not as farms and houses are, for homestead. Mysticism consists in the mistake of an accidental and individual symbol for an universal one. The morning redness happens to be the favorite meteor to the eyes of Jacob Bayman and comes to stand to him for truth and faith, and he believes should stand for the same realities to every reader. But the first reader prefers as naturally the symbol of a mother and child, or a gardener and his bulb, or a jeweler polishing a gem. Either of these, or of a myriad more, are equally good to the person to whom they are significant. Only they must be held lightly, and be very willingly translated into the equivalent terms which others use. And the mystic must be steadily told, all that you say is just as true without the tedious use of that symbol as with it. Let us have a little algebra instead of this trite rhetoric. Universal signs instead of these village symbols, and we shall both be gainers. The history of hierarchies seems to show that all religious error consisted in making the symbol too stark and solid, and was at last nothing but an excess of the organ of language. Swedenborg, of all men in the recent ages, stands imminently for the translator of nature into thought. I do not know the man in history to whom things stood so uniformly for words. Before him the metamorphosis continually plays. Everything on which his eye rests obeys the impulses of moral nature. The figs become grapes while he eats them. When some of his angels affirm the truth, the laurel twig which they held blossomed in their hands, the noise which at a distance appeared like gnashing and thumping, oncoming nearer was found to be the voice of disputant. The men in one of his visions, seen in heavenly light, appeared like dragons, and seemed in darkness. But to each other they appeared as men, and when the light from heaven shone into their cabin, they complained of the darkness, and were compelled to shut the window that they might see. There was this perception in him which makes the poet or seer an object of all and terror, namely that the same man or society of men may wear an aspect to themselves and their companions, and a different aspect to higher intelligences. Certain priests whom he describes as conversing very learnedly together, appeared to the children who were at some distance like dead horses, and many the like misappearances. And instantly the mind inquires whether these fishes under the bridge, yonder oxen in the pasture, those dogs in the yard are immutable fishes, oxen and dogs, or only so appear to me, and perchance to themselves appear upright men, and whether I appear as a man to all eye. The Brahmins and Pythagoras propounded the same question, and if any poet has witnessed the transformation, he doubtless found it in harmony with various experiences. We have all seen changes as considerable in wheats and caterpillars. He is the poet, and shall draw us with love and terror, who sees through the flowing vests the firm nature and can declare it. I look in vain for the poet whom I describe. We do not with sufficient plainness or sufficient profoundness address ourselves to life, nor dare we chant our own times in social circumstance. If we filled the day with bravery we should not shrink from celebrating it. Time and nature yield us many gifts. But not yet the timely man, the new religion, the reconciler, whom all things await. Dante's praise is that he dared to write his autobiography in colossal cipher or into universality. We have yet had no genius in America, with tyrannous eye which knew the value of our incomparable materials, and saw in the barbarism and materialism of the times another carnival of the same gods whose picture he so much admires in Homer, then in the Middle Age, then in Calvinism. Banks and tariffs, the newspaper and caucus, Methodism and Unitarianism are flat and dull to dull people, but rest on the same foundations of wonder as the town of Troy and the temple of Delphi and are as swiftly passing away. Our log-rolling, our stumps and their politics, our fisheries, our Negroes and Indians, our boats and our repudiation, the wrath of rogues and the pure salinimity of honest men, the northern trade, the southern planting, the western clearing, Oregon and Texas are yet unsung. Yet America is a poem in our eyes. His ample geography dazzles the imagination, and it will not wait long for meters. If I have not found that excellent combination of gifts in my countrymen which I seek, neither could I aid myself to fix the idea of the poet by reading now and then in Chalmers' collection of five centuries of English poets. These are wits more than poets, though there have been poets among them. But when we adhere to the ideal of the poet, we have our difficulties even with Milton and Homer. Milton is too literary and Homer too literal and historical. But I am not wise enough for a national criticism and must use the old largeness a little longer to discharge my errand from the muse to the poet concerning his art. Art is the path of the creator to his work. The paths or methods are ideal and eternal, though few men ever see them, not the artist himself for years or for a lifetime unless he come into the conditions. The painter, the sculptor, the composer, the epic rhapsodists, the orator all partake one desire, namely to express themselves symmetrically and abundantly, not dwarfishly and fragmentarily. They found or put themselves in certain conditions as the painter and sculptor before some impressive human figures, the orator into the assembly of the people, and the others in such scenes as each has found exciting to his intellect, and each presently feels the new desire. He hears a voice, he sees a beckoning, then he is apprised with wonder what herds of demons hem him in. He can no more rest, he says with the old painter, by God it is in me and must go forth of me. He pursues a beauty, half seen, which flies before him. The poet pours out verses in every solitude. Most of the things he says are conventional, no doubt, but by and by he says something which is original and beautiful. That charms him. He would say nothing else but such things. In our way of talking we say, that is yours, this is mine. But the poet knows well that it is not his, that it is as strange and beautiful to him as to you. He would feign here the like eloquence at length. Once having tasted this immortal Icar, he cannot have enough of it, and as an admirable creative power exists in these intellectuals, it is of the last importance that these things get spoken. What little of all we know is said, what drops of all the sea of our science are bailed up, and by what accident it is that these are exposed when so many secrets sleep in nature. Hence the necessity of speech and song, hence these throbs and heart beatings in the orator at the door of the assembly, to the end namely that thought may be ejaculated as logos, or word. Doubt not, O poet, but persist. Say it is in me and shall out. Stand there, balked and dumb, stuttering and stammering, hissed and hooted, stand and strive, until at last rage draw out of thee that dream power which every night shows thee in thine own, a power transcending all limit and privacy, and by virtue of which a man is the conductor of the whole river of electricity. Nothing walks or creeps or grows or exists which must not in turn arise and walk before him as an exponent of his meaning. Come see to that power his genius is no longer exhaustible. All the creatures by pairs and by tribes pour into his mind as into a Noah's ark to come forth again to people a new world. This is like the stock of air for our respiration or for the combustion of our fireplace, not a measure of gallons, but the entire atmosphere if wanted, and therefore the rich poets as Homer, Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Raphael have obviously no limits to their works except the limits of their lifetime and resemble a mirror carry through the street ready to render an image of every created thing. O poet, a new nobility is conferred in groves and pastures and not in castles or by the sword blade any longer. The conditions are hard but equal. Thou shalt leave the world and know the muse only. Thou shalt not know any longer the times, customs, graces, politics, or opinions of men, but shalt take all from the muse. For the time of towns is told from the world by funerial chimes, but in nature the universal hours are counted by succeeding tribes of animals and plants, and by growth of joy on joy. God wills also that thou abdicate a manifold in duplex life, that thou be content that others speak for thee, others shall be thy gentleman, and shall represent all courtesy and worldly life for thee, others shall do the great and resounding actions also. Thou shalt lie close, hid with nature, and canst not be afforded to the capital or the exchange. The world is full of renunciations and apprenticeships, and this is thine. Thou must pass for a fool and a churl for a long season. This is the screen and sheath in which Pan has protected his well-beloved flower, and thou shalt be known only to thine own, and they shall console thee with tenderest love, and thou shalt not be able to rehearse the names of thy friends in thy verse for an old shame before the holy ideal. And this is the reward, that the ideal shall be real to thee, and the impressions of the actual world shall fall like summer rain, copious but not troublesome to thy invulnerable essence. Thou shalt have the whole land for thy park and manner, the sea for thy bath and navigation, without tax and without envy. The woods and the rivers thou shalt own, and thou shalt possess that wherein others are only tendons and borders. Thou true landlord, sea lord, air lord, wherever snow falls or water flows or birds fly, wherever day and night meet in twilight, wherever the blue heaven is hung by clouds or sown with stars, wherever are forms with transparent boundaries, wherever are outlets into celestial space, wherever is danger and awe and love. There is beauty, plenteous as rain, shed for thee, and though thou shouldest walk the world over, thou shalt not be able to find the condition inopportune or ignoble.