No More Learning

The messages of great poets to each man and woman are,--Come to us on equal
terms, only then can you understand us. We are no better than you; what we
enclose you enclose, what we enjoy you may enjoy. Did you suppose there
could be only one Supreme? We affirm there can be unnumbered Supremes, and
that one does not countervail another any more than one eyesight
countervails another--and that men can be good or grand only of the
consciousness of their supremacy within them. What do you think is the
grandeur of storms and dismemberments, and the deadliest battles and
wrecks, and the wildest fury of the elements, and the power of the sea, and
the motion of nature, and of the throes of human desires, and dignity and
hate and love? It is that something in the soul which says,--Rage on, whirl
on, I tread master here and everywhere; master of the spasms of the sky and
of the shatter of the sea, master of nature and passion and death, and of
all terror and all pain.

The American bards shall be marked for generosity and affection and for
encouraging competitors: they shall be kosmos--without monopoly or
secrecy--glad to pass anything to any one--hungry for equals night and day.
They shall not be careful of riches and privilege,--they shall be riches
and privilege: they shall perceive who the most affluent man is. The most
affluent man is he that confronts all the shows he sees by equivalents out
of the stronger wealth of himself. The American bard shall delineate no
class of persons, nor one or two out of the strata of interests, nor love
most nor truth most, nor the soul most nor the body most; and not be for
the eastern states more than the western, or the northern states more than
the southern.

Exact science and its practical movements are no checks on the greatest
poet, but always his encouragement and support. The outset and remembrance
are there--there the arms that lifted him first and brace him best--there
he returns after all his goings and comings. The sailor and traveller, the
anatomist, chemist, astronomer, geologist, phrenologist, spiritualist,
mathematician, historian, and lexicographer, are not poets; but they are
the lawgivers of poets, and their construction underlies the structure of
every perfect poem. No matter what rises or is uttered, they send the seed
of the conception of it: of them and by them stand the visible proofs of
souls. If there shall be love and content between the father and the son,
and if the greatness of the son is the exuding of the greatness of the
father, there shall be love between the poet and the man of demonstrable
science.
In the beauty of poems are the tuft and final applause of science.

Great is the faith of the flush of knowledge, and of the investigation of
the depths of qualities and things. Cleaving and circling here swells the
soul of the poet: yet is president of itself always. The depths are
fathomless, and therefore calm. The innocence and nakedness are resumed--
they are neither modest nor immodest. The whole theory of the special and
supernatural, and all that was twined with it or educed out of it, departs
as a dream. What has ever happened, what happens, and whatever may or shall
happen, the vital laws enclose all: they are sufficient for any case and
for all cases--none to be hurried or retarded--any miracle of affairs or
persons inadmissible in the vast clear scheme where every motion, and every
spear of grass, and the frames and spirits of men and women, and all that
concerns them, are unspeakably perfect miracles, all referring to all, and
each distinct and in its place. It is also not consistent with the reality
of the soul to admit that there is anything in the known universe more
divine than men and women.

Men and women, and the earth and all upon it, are simply to be taken as
they are, and the investigation of their past and present and future shall
be unintermitted, and shall be done with perfect candour. Upon this basis
philosophy speculates, ever looking toward the poet, ever regarding the
eternal tendencies of all toward happiness, never inconsistent with what is
clear to the senses and to the soul. For the eternal tendencies of all
toward happiness make the only point of sane philosophy. Whatever
comprehends less than that--whatever is less than the laws of light and of
astronomical motion--or less than the laws that follow the thief, the liar,
the glutton, and the drunkard, through this life, and doubtless afterward--
or less than vast stretches of time, or the slow formation of density, or
the patient upheaving of strata--is of no account. Whatever would put God
in a poem or system of philosophy as contending against some being or
influence is also of no account. Sanity and ensemble characterise the great
master:--spoilt in one principle, all is spoilt. The great master has
nothing to do with miracles. He sees health for himself in being one of the
mass--he sees the hiatus in singular eminence.