en him from abroad, from above. A spirit glows within him, a mind agitates him, which he feels is not his spirit, is not his mind, but the mind of his mind, the spirit of his spirit, the soul of his soul. In this he is right. The spontaneous reason, spontaneity, from which his song proceeds, is, as we have said, the divine in man, and it acts without being put into action by the human will. We may by effort, by discipline, place ourselves in relation with it, bring ourselves within the sphere of its action; but it is imper sonal and divine. . . . . . It follows from the view now taken, that there is always truth in poetry. Of all known modes of utterance, poetry is one of the truest; for it is the voice of the spontaneous reason, the word of God, which is in immediate relation with truth. It is truer than philosophy; for in poetry God speaks, whereas in philosophy it is only man that speaks. The reflective reason, which gives us philosophy, is personal, subject to all the infirmities of the flesh, short-sighted, and exclusive; but the spontaneous reason, of which poetry is one of the modes of utterance, is impersonal, broad, universal; embracing, as it were, the whole infinitude of truth. Hence the confidence mankind have universally reposed in their sacred prophets, in the inspired chants of their divine bards, and the distrust they have pretty uniformly manifested for the speculations of philosophers...... Poetry, if it be poetry, is always inspired. It is inspiration clothing itself in words. And inspiration is never referred to ourselves; we always refer it to God. 'In inspiration,' says Cousin,' we are simple spectators. We are not actors; or at best, our action consists merely in being conscious of what is taking place. This, doubtless, is activity, but not a premeditated, voluntary, personal activity. The characteristic of inspiration is enthusiasm; it is accompanied by that strong emotion which forces the soul out of its ordinary and subaltern state, and calls into action the sublime and divine part of its nature. Est Deus in nobis, agitante calescimus illo.' - Boston Quarterly Review, April, 1839, Vol. II., pp. 142-144.

There is no mistaking this. It is genuine Transcendentalism, and differs from it as set forth by others only in the fact, that they make the whole of human nature, minus the personality, the measure of truth and goodness; whereas we, in our exposition, take merely a part, the faculty of reason, minus its last complement. This, in reality, amounts to nothing, and constitutes no fundamental difference. The theory we bring out is, the more effectually a man abandons himself to spontaneity, to his impersonal nature, and the less he interferes in its opera

* Introduction à l'Histoire de la Philosophie. Paris, 1828. Leçon vi. p. 11, et seq.

tions, that is, the less he exercises reason and volition, the more in accordance with truth are his views, and the more worthy of confidence are his words. This abandonment is, so to speak, a sort of voluntary or premeditated insanity; and the more complete it becomes, the more nearly do we approach the state of insanity. The only difference between a man voluntarily placing himself in the state required and the actually insane is, that the former has the power of resuming the reins, and recovering himself when he chooses, whereas the latter has not. But while in, and so far as in, this state, the resemblance, the identity, is complete. Hence, the nearer we approach to the state of insanity, the more divine do we become, the more open is the universe to our view, and the more trustworthy are our utterances. Mr. Parker, as we shall have occasion hereafter to show, adopts the same general doctrine, and makes the man who comes nearest to God, who stands in the most immediate relation with absolute truth, beauty, and goodness, a sort of maniac.

"There is a new soul in the man, which takes him, as it were, by the hair of his head, and sets him down where the idea he wishes for demands. . . . . . It takes the rose out of the cheek, and turns the man in on himself, and gives him more of truth. Then in a poetic fancy, the man sees visions; has wondrous revelations ; every mountain thunders; God burns in every bush; flames out in the crimson cloud; speaks in the wind; descends with every dove; is all in all. The soul deep-wrought, in its intense struggle, gives outness to its thought, and on the trees and stars, the fields, the floods, the corn ripe for the sickle, on man and woman, it sees its burden writ. The spirit within constrains the man. It is like wine that hath no vent. He is full of God. While he muses the fire burns; his bosom will scarce hold his heart. He must speak, or he dies, though the earth quake at his word. Timid flesh may resist, and Moses say, I am slow of speech. What avails that? The soul says, Go, and I will be with thy mouth, to quicken thy tardy tongue... Then are the man's lips touched with a coal from the altar of Truth, brought by a seraph's hand. He is baptized with the spirit of fire. His countenance is like lightning. Truth thunders from his tongue; his words eloquent as persuasion : no terror is terrible; no foe formidable. The peaceful is satisfied to be a man of strife and contention, his hand against every man, to root up, pluck down, and destroy." Discourse, pp. 223, 224.

-

This is a tolerable description of a madman, whose frenzy has taken the turn of religious reform. It is designed as the description of an inspired man, not supernaturally, but natural

ly inspired, by the "great Soul, wide as yesterday, to-day, and for ever," which seizes and overpowers the man; and is a very good proof that the Transcendentalists regard the insane as better measures of truth and goodness than the sane; which is what they ought to do in order to be consistent with themselves.

Something of this same doctrine seems to have spread far and wide. The prevailing notion in our community of the prophet seems to be borrowed from the insane or drunken Pythoness, and the man whom God chooses to communicate his word is looked upon as one possessed. The man is not himself, but beside himself. Thus Washington Allston, in his picture of Jeremiah, seeks to indicate the prophetic character by giving to the prophet the eyes of a maniac. The poet,

painter, sculptor, artists of all sorts, it seems to be believed, in order to have genius, to be what their names imply, should be a sort of madmen, doing what they know not, and do not will, mastered and carried away by a power they are not, and comprehend not; and attain to excellence, gain a right to immortal fame, only by abandoning themselves without resistance to its direction.

We are not disposed to undertake the refutation of this theory, which may be termed the demoniacal, or madman's theory, for none but a madman will attempt to reason a madman out of his crotchets. The characteristic of the madman is that he has lost the power to reason, and therefore, to be reasoned out of error or into truth. Nevertheless, though not entirely ignorant of the class of facts which are or may be appealed to in support of this theory, we believe every scholar or literary man is able from his own experience to refute it. The man is always greatest, sees the farthest, and produces the most effect on others, when he himself is most self-collected, self-possessed. The most eloquent passages of your most eloquent orators are produced when the orator is intensely active, indeed, but when he has the fullest command of himself, and is the most perfectly conscious and master of his thoughts and words. The orator who would command his audience must first command himself. If he allows them, or his own thought, passion, or imagination, to master him, he fails. So your poets, so far as genuine, write not with "eyes in a fine frenzy rolling," but with a calm, quiet selfpossession, perfectly master of what they are saying, and of the mode or manner in which they say it. We need but read

Shakspeare to be satisfied of this. Shakspeare inflames your passions, makes you rave, rant, weep, laugh, love, hate, sigh, muse, philosophize, at will; but he himself is in no passion, never loses the command of his verse, nor of his tears, laughter, loves, hates, or musings. You never dream of identifying him with any one of his characters. He is himself no more Macbeth, Hamlet, Othello, than he is Iago, King Lear, or Jack Falstaff. They are his creatures, not himself. And herein is the test of genius, which holds itself always distinct from and above its productions, sends them forth, yet conceals itself. Great power is always sedate and silent. The ancients represented their gods as asleep, and spread over their features an air of ineffable repose. Real majesty

"Rides on the whirlwind and directs the storm."

We feel this in Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, and even Goethe. They are all remarkable for their self-possession, their easy grandeur and simple majesty, and hence the command they have over men. When one loses his self-possession, loses, as it were, his personality, and suffers himself to be carried away by his thoughts, his passion, or his imagination,you feel that he is internally weak, that he is but a child, with whom indeed you may amuse yourself for a moment, if in playful mood, but to whom you can surrender neither your heart nor your judgment. Mr. Emerson himself, in his own character, is a striking proof of the falseness of his theory, and the contrast between him and Mr. Parker forcibly illustrates the comparative worth of that theory and its opposite. In the very tempest and whirlwind of his passion, in the very access of his madness, uttering the most incoherent ravings, the wildest extravagances, Mr. Emerson is eminently himself, perfectly cool and self-possessed, and proceeds as deliberately as a mathematician solving his problems, or a stone-cutter in squaring his block of granite. We dissent from his doctrines, we shrink from his impiety and his blasphemy, but we see and feel his intense personality, that he is master of his thought, that he knows what he says, and intends it. No man can listen to the silvery tones of his voice, mark his quiet composure, or read his exquisitely chiselled sentences, and not say,- Here is a man to whom Almighty God has given ability and genius of the first order, and of whom he will demand a large account. No man is more intensely personal, or practises more contrary to the rule he lays down; none can demand of all books, all

thoughts, words, deeds, that pass under his observation, a more rigid account of what they are, and of their right to be. And yet he is the first poet of his country, and has written passages unsurpassed for true poetic conception, sentiment, and expression, by any living poet, with whose productions we are acquainted, whether in England, France, or Germany. The man wants but faith, faith in the Son of God, to be the glory of his country, and a blessing to his race. But, alas! wanting this, he wants all. His splendid talents, his keen, penetrating insight, his deep and probing thought, his patient study, and his rich and creative genius avail him nothing. May we not take the wail that now and then escapes him as an indication that he himself is not altogether unconscious of this? O, would that he could bow lowly at the foot of the cross, and consecrate himself, his talents and genius, to the service of the Crucified! May the infinite God, whose goodness is over all, and unto all, bestow upon him the inestimable gift of faith, and enable him to worship the God who in the beginning created the heavens and the earth, instead of seeking to make to himself a god from the unconscious energies of Nature!

Mr. Parker is a very different man from Mr. Emerson. We see that he has read much, that he has a burning thirst for knowledge, that he has wit, fancy, imagination, passion, but that he is not their master. They, each by turns, overpower him, and carry him whithersoever they will. He mounts, indeed, the whirlwind, he rides on the tempest, but he does not direct it; it directs him, and whirls and tosses him as it pleases. He, to no inconsiderable extent, sinks himself, and abandons himself to his instinctive nature. But we feel, as we read him, that he is weak. He has no simple grandeur, no quiet strength, no sedate command. His brow is not imperial. He soars not with ease and grace, as one native to the higher regions, on wings fitted to sustain him, and we fear every moment that they will prove insufficient. His conclusions inspire no confidence, for we see he knows not whence he has obtained them, and has come to them simply as borne onward by the winds and clouds of passion. Never does the man stand above his thought and command his speech. He whirls and tosses with all the whirlings and tossings of his discourse, and we feel that he is not one of those great men whose lives serve to chronicle the ages."

We think it not difficult now to comprehend the essential