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11 - Intellect - Essay by Ralph Waldo Emerson · Logic Library

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Intellect from essays first series by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Go speed the stars of
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thought onto their shining goals. The sower scatters broad his seed. The wheat
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thus strewest be souls. Every substance is negatively electric to that which stands above
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it in the chemical tables, positively to that which stands below it. Water
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dissolves wood, and iron and salt. Air dissolves water, electric fire dissolves
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air. But the intellect dissolves the fire. Gravity, laws, method,
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and the subtlest unnamed relations of nature in its restless menstruum. Intellect lies behind
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genius, which is intellect. Constructive intellect is the simple power anterior to all
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action or construction. Gladly would I unfold in calm degrees a natural history of
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the intellect. But what man has yet been able to mark the steps and
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boundaries of that transparent essence. The first questions are always to be asked,
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And the wisest doctor is graveled by the inquisitiveness of a child. How can
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we speak of the action of the mind under any divisions, as of its
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knowledge, of its ethics, of its works, and so forth, Since
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it melts will into perception, knowledge into act, each becomes the other itself
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alone is Its vision is not the vision of the eye, but is union
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with the things known. Intellect and intellection signified of the common ear, consideration
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of abstract truth, the considerations of time and place, of you and me,
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of prophets and hurts tyrannize over most men's souls. Intellect separates the fact
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considered from you from all local and personal reference, and discerns it as if
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it existed for its own sake. Heraclitus looked upon the affections as dense and
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colored mists. In the fog of good and evil affections, it is hard
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for men to walk forward in a straight line. Intellect is void of affection
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and sees an object as it stands in the light of science. Cool and
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disengaged. The intellect goes out of the individual, floats over its own personality,
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and regards it as a fact and not as I and mine. He
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who is immersed in what concerns person or place cannot see the problem of existence.
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This the intellect always ponders. Nature shows all things formed and bound.
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The intellect pierces the form, overleaps the wall, detects intrinsic likeness, between
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remote things, and reduces all things into a few principles. The making of
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fact the subject of thought raises it all that mass of mental lifth moral phenomena
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which we do not make objects of voluntary thoughts come within the power of fortune.
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They constitute the circumstance of daily life. They are subject to change,
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to fear and hope. Every man beholds his human condition with a degree of
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melancholy. As a ship aground is battered by the waves. So man imprisoned
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in mortal life lies open to the mercy of coming events. But a truth
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separated by the intellect is no longer the subject of destiny. We behold it
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as a God upraised above care and fear, And so any fact in our
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life, or any record of our fancies or reflections, disentangled from the web
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of our unconsciousness, becomes an object, impersonal and immortal. It is the
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past restored, but embound. A better art than that of Egypt has taken
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fair and corruption out of it. It is ifvicible, rated of care.
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It is offered for science. What is addressed to us for contemplation does not
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threaten us, but makes us intellectual beings. The growth of the intellect is
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spontaneous in every expansion. The mind that grows could not predict the times,
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the means the mode of that spontaneity God enters by a private door into every
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individual long prior to the age of reflection. Is the thinking of the mind
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out of darkness. It came insensibly into marvelous light of today in the period
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of infancy. It accepted and disposed of all impressions from the surrounding creation after
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its own way. Whatever any mind doth or saith is after a law,
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and this native law remains over it after it has come to reflection or conscious
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thought. In the most worn, pedantic, introverted self tormentor's life, the
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greatest part is inco gullable by him, unforeseen, unimaginable, and must be
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until he can take himself up by his own ears. What am I?
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What has my will done to make me that I am? Nothing? I
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have been floated into this thought, this hour, this connection of events by
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secret currents of might and mind, and my ingenuity and wilfulness have not thwarted,
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have not aided to any appreciable degree. Our spontaneous action is always the
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best You cannot with your best deliberation and heed come so close to any question
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as your spontaneous glance shall bring you whilst you rise from your bed or walk
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abroad in the morning after meditating the matter before sleep on the previous night.
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Our thinking is a pious reception. Our truth of thought is therefore visited as
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much by too violent direction given by our will as by too great noses negligence.
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We do not determine what we will think. We will open our senses
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clear away as we can all obstruction from the fact, and suffer the intellect
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to see. We have little control over our thoughts. We are the prisoners
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of ideas. They catch us up for moments into their heaven, and so
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fully engage us that we take no thought for the morrow, gaze like children
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without an effort to make them our own. By and by we fall out
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of that rapture. Bethink us where we have been, what we have seen,
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and repeat as truly as we can what we have beheld, as far
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as we can recall. These ecstasies we carry away in the ineffaceable memory.
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The result, and all men and all the ages confirm it. It is
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called truth. But the moment we cease to report and attempt to correct and
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contrive. It is not truth. If we consider what persons have stimulated or
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profited us, we shall receive the superiority of the spontaneous or intuitive principle over
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the arithmetical or logical. The first contains a second, but virtual and latent.
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We want in every man a long logic. We cannot pardon the absence
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of it, but it must not be spoken. Logic is the precession or
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proportionate unfolding of the intuition. But its virtue is as silent method. The
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moment it would appear as propositions and have a separate value. It is worthless
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in every man's mind. Some images, words, and facts remain without effort
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on his part to imprint them, which others forget, and afterwards these illustrate
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to him important laws. All our progress is an unfolding. Like the vegetable
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bud. You have first an instinct, then an opinion, then a knowledge,
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as the plant has root, bud, and fruit. Trust the instinct
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to the end, though you can render no reason, it is vain to
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hurry it. By trusting it to the end, it shall ripen into truth,
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and you shall know why you believe Each mind has its own method.
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A true man never acquires after college rules. What you have aggregated in a
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natural manner surprises and delights when it is produced, For we cannot oversee each
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other's secret, and hence the differences between men in natural endowment are insignificant in
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comparison with their commonwealth. Do you think the porter and the cook have no
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anecdotes, no experiences, no wonders for you, everybody knows as much as
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the savants. The walls of rude minds are scrolled all over with facts with
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thoughts. They shall one day bring a lantern and read the inscriptions. Every
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man, in the degree in which he has wits and culture, finds his
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curiosity inflame to concerning the modes of living and thinking of other men, and
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especially of those classes whose minds have not been subdued by the drill of school
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education. This instinctive action never ceases in a healthy mind, but becomes richer
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and more frequent in its informations through all states of culture. At last comes
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the error of reflection, when we not only observe, but take pains to
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observe. When we are of set purpose sit down to consider an abstract truth,
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when we keep the mind's eye open, whilst we converse, whilst we
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read, whilst we act, intend to learn the secret law of some class
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of facts. What is the hardest task in the world to think? I
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would put myself in the attitude to look in the eye of an abstract truth,
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And I cannot. I blench and withdraw on this side, and on
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that I seem to know what he meant who said, no man can see
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God face to face and live. For example, a man explores the basis
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of civil governments. Let him intend his mind without respite, without rest,
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in one direction his best. He long time avails him nothing. Yet thoughts
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are flitting before him. We all but apprehend we dimly forebode the truth.
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We say, I will walk abroad, and the truth will take form and
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clearness to me. We go forth, but cannot find it. It seems
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as if we needed only the stillness and composed attitude of the library to seize
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the thought. But we came in and are as far from it as at
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first. Then in a moment, and unannounced, the truth appears. A
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certain wandering light appears, and is the distinction the principle. We want it,
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But the oracle comes because we had previously laid siege to the shrine.
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It seems as if the law of the intellect resembled that law of nature by
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which we now inspire, and now expire. The breath by which the heart
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now draws in then hurls out the blood, the law of undulation. So
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now you must labor with your brains, and now you must forbear your activity,
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and see what the great soul showeth. The immortality of man is as
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legitimately preached from the intellections as from the moral volitions. Every intellection is mainly
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prospective. Its present value is its least inspect what delights you. In Plutarch,
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in Shakespeare and Savantes, each truth that a writer acquires is a lantern
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which he turns full on what facts and thoughts lay already in his mind.
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And behold, all the mats and rubbish which had littered his garrets become precious.
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Every trivial fact in his private biography becomes an illustration of This new principle
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revisits the day and delights all men by its piquancy and new charm. Men
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say where did he get this? And think there was something divine in his
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life? But no they have myriads of facts just as good. Would they
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only get a lamp to ransack their attics withal we are all wise. The
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difference between persons is not in wisdom, but in art. I knew in
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an academical club a person who always deferred to me, who, seeing my
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whim for riding, fancied that my experiences had somewhat superior, whilst I saw
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that his experiences were as good as mine. Give them to me, and
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I would make the same use of them. He held the old, he
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holds the new. I had the habit of tacking together the old and the
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new, which he did not use to exercise. This may hold in the
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great examples. Perhaps if we should meet Shakespeare, we should not be conscious
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of any steep inferiority, No, but a great equality, only that he
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possessed a strange skill of using, of classifying his facts, which we lacked,
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for notwithstanding our utter incapacity to produce anything like Hamlet and Othello, see
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the perfect reception this wit, and immense knowledge of life and liquid eloquence find
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in us all. If you gather apples in the sunshine, or make hay
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or whole corn, and then retire within doors, and shut your eyes and
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press them with your hand. You shall still see apples hanging in the bright
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light, with boughs and leaves there too, or the tasseled grass, or
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the corn flags, and this for five or six hours afterwards. There lie
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the impressions on the retentive organ, though you knew it not. So lies
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the whole series of natural images with which your life has made you acquainted in
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your memory, though you know it not. And a thrill of passion flashes
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light on their dark chamber, and the active power ceases instantly, the fit
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image as the word of its momentary thought. It is long ere we discover
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how rich we are. Our history, we are sure, is quite tame.
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We have nothing to write, nothing to infer. But our wiser years
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still run back to the despised recollections of childhood, and always we are fishing
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up some wonderful article out of that pond, until by and by we begin
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to suspect that the biography of the one foolish person we know is in reality
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nothing less than the miniature paraphrase of the hundred volumes of the universal history in
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the intellect constructive, which we popularly designate by the word genius, we observe
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the same balance of two elements as in intellect receptive. The constructive intellect produces
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thoughts, sentence, its poems, plans, designs, systems. It is
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the generation of the mind. The marriage of thought with nature to genius must
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always go two gifts, the thought and the publication. The first is revelation,
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always a miracle which no frequency of occurrence or incessant study can ever familiarize,
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but which must always leave the inquirer stupid with wonder, And is the
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advent of truth into the world. A form of thought, now for the
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first time, bursting into the universe, a child of the old eternal soul,
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a piece of genuine and immeasurable greatness. It seems for the time to
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inherit all that has yet exists, and to dictate to the unborn. It
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affects every thought of man, and goes to fashion every institution. But to
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make it available, it needs a vehicle or art by which it is conveyed
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to men. To be communicable, it must become picture or sensible object.
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We must learn the language of facts. The most wonderful inspirations die with the
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subject if he has no hand to paint them to the senses. The ray
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of light passes invisible through space, and only when it falls on an object
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is it seen. When the spiritual energy is directed on something outward, then
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it is a thought. The relation between it and you first makes you.
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The value of you apparent to me. The rich, inventive genius of the
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painter must be smothered and lost for want of the power of drawing. And
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in our happy hours we should be inexhaustible poets if once we could break through
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the silence into adequate rhyme. As all men have some access to primary truth,
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so all have some art or power of communication in their head, but
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only in the artist does it descend into the hand. There is an inequality
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whose laws we do not yet know between two men, and between two moments
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of the same man. In respect to this faculty, in common hours we
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have the same facts as in the uncommon or inspired, but they do not
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sit for their portraits. They are not detached, but lie in a web.
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The thought of genius is spontaneous, but the power of picture or expression
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in the most enriched and flowing nature implies the mixture of will, a certain
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control over the spontaneous states without which no production is possible. It is a
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conversion of all nature into the rhetoric of thought under the eye of judgment,
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with a strenuous exercise of choice. And yet the imaginative vocabulary seems to be
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spontaneous. Also, it does not flow from experience only or mainly, but
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from a richer source. Not by any conscious imitation of particular forms are the
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grand strokes of the painter executed, but by repairing to the fountain head of
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all forms in his mind. Who is the first drawing master? Without instruction,
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we know very well the ideal of the human form. A child knows
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if an arm or a leg be distorted in a picture, if the attitude
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be natural, or grand or mean, though he has never received any instruction
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in drawing, or heard any conversation on the subject, nor can himself draw
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with correctness. A single feature, a good form strikes all eyes presently,
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long before they have any science on the subject, and a beautiful face sets
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twenty hearts in palpitation. Prior to all consideration of the mechanical proportions of the
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features and head. We may owe to dreams some light on the fountain of
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this skill, for as soon as we let our will go, and let
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the unconscious states ensue see what cunning draftsmen we are. We entertain ourselves with
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wonderful forms of men, of women, of animals, of gardens, of
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woods, and of monsters. And the mystic pencil, wherewith we then draw,
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has no awkwardness or inexperience, no meagerness or poverty. It can design
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well and group well. Its composition is full of art, Its colors are
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well laid on, and the whole canvas it paints its life like and apt
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to touch us with terror, with tenderness, with desire, and with grief.
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Neither are the artist's copies from experience ever mere copies, but always touched
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and softened by tints from this ideal doom. The conditions essential to a constructive
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mind do not appear to be so often combined, but that a good sentence
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or verse remains fresh and memorable for a long time. Yet when we write
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with ease and come out into the free air of thought, we seem to
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be assured that nothing is easier than to continue this communication at pleasure, up
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down around the Kingdom of thought has no enclosures, but the muse makes us
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free of her city. Well, the world has a million writers. One
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would think then that good thought would be as familiar as air and water,
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and the gifts of each new hour would exclude the last. Yet we can
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count all our good books, nay, I remember any beautiful verse for twenty
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years. It is true that the discerning intellect of the world is always much
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in advance of the creative, so that there are many competentjudges of the best
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book, and few writers of the best books. But some of the conditions
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of intellectual construction are of rare occurrence. The intellect is a whole and demands
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integrity in every work. This is resisted equally by a man's devotion to a
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single thought and by his ambition to combine too many. Truth is our elements
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of life. Yet if a man fasten his attention on a single aspect of
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truth and apply himself to that alone for a long time, the truth becomes
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distorted, and not itself but falsehood, herein resembling the air, which is
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our natural elements, and the breath of our nostrils. But if a stream
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of the same be directed on the body for a time, it causes cold,
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fever and even death. How wearisome the grammarian, the phrenologist, the
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political or religious fanatic, or indeed any possessed mortal whose balance is lost the
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exaggeration of a single topic. It is incipient insanity. Every thought is a
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prison. Also, I cannot see what you see, because I am caught
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up by a strong wind and blown so far in one direction that I am
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out of the hoop of your horizon. Is it any better if the students,
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to avoid this offense, and to liberalize himself, aims to make a
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mechanical whole of history, or science or philosophy by a numerical edition of all
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the facts that fall within his vision. The world refuses to be analyzed by
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addition and subtraction. When we are young, we spend much time and pains
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in filling our notebooks with all definitions of religion, love, poetry, politics,
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art, in the hope that in the course of a few years we
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shall have condensed into our encyclopedia the net value of all the theories at which
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the world has yet arrived. But year after here our tables get no completeness,
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and at last we discover that our curve is a parabola whose arcs will
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never meet. Neither by detachment, neither by aggression. Is the integrity of
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the intellect transmitted to its works, but by a vigilance, which brings the
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intellect in its greatness and best states, to operate every moment. It must
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have the same wholeness which nature has. Although no diligence can rebuild the universe
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in a model by the best accumulation or disposition of details, yet does the
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world reappear in miniature in every event, so that all the laws of nature
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may be read in the smallest fact. The intellect must have the like perfection
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in its apprehension and in its works. For this reason, an index or
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mercury of intellectual proficiency is the perception of identity. We talk with the accomplished
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persons who appear to be strangers in nature. The cloud, the tree,
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the turf, the bird are not theirs, have nothing of them. The
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world is only their lodging and table. But the poet, whose verses are
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to be several and complete, is one whom nature cannot deceive, whatsoever face
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of strangeness she may put on. He feels a strict consanguinity and detects more
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likeness than variety in all her changes. We are stung by the desire for
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new thought. But when we receive a new thought, it is only the
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old thought with a new face. And though we make it our own,
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we instantly crave another. We are not really enriched. For the truth was
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in us before it was reflected to us from natural objects. And the profound
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genius will cast the likeness of all creatures into every product of his wit.
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But if the constructive powers are rare, and it is given to few men
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to be poets, yet every man is a receiver of this descending holy ghost,
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and may well study the laws of its influx. Exactly parallel is the
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whole rule of intellectual duty to the role of moral duty. A self denial,
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no less austeer than the saints, is demanded of the scholar. He
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must worship truth and forego all things for that, and choose defeat and pain,
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so that his treasure in thought is thereby augmented. God offers to every
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mind its choice between truth and repose. Take which you please. You can
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never have both between these. As a pendulum man oscillates. He in whom
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the love of repose predominates, will accept the first creed, the first philosophy.
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The first political party he meets, most likely his father's, he gets
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rest, commodity and reputation, but he shuts the door of truth. He
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in whom the love of truth predominates, will keep himself aloof from all moorings
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and afloat. He will abstain from dogmatism and recognize all the opposite negations between
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which, as walls his being is swung. He submits to the inconvenience of
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suspense and imperfect opinion. But he is a candidate for truth as the other
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is not, and respects the highest law of his being, the circle of
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the green earth. He must measure with his shoes to find the man who
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can yield him truth. He shall then know that there is somewhat more blessed
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and great in hearing than in speaking. Happy is the hearing man, unhappy
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the speaking man. As long as I hear truth, I am bathed by
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a beautiful element, and am not conscious of any limits to my nature.
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The suggestions are thousand fold, that I hear and see the waters of the
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great deep have ingress and egress to the soul. But if I speak,
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I define, I confine and am less. When Socrates speaks. Lysis and
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menixenus are afflicted by no shame that they do not speak. They also are
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good. He likewise defers to them, loves them whilst he speaks, because
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a true and natural man contains and is the same truth which an eloquent man
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articulates. But in the eloquent man, because he can articulate it, it
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seems something the less to reside, and he turns to these silent beautiful with
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the more inclination and respect. The ancient sentence said, let us be silent,
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for so are the gods. Silence is a solvent that destroys personality and
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gives us leave to be greats and universe. Every man's progress is through a
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succession of teachers, each of whom seems at the time to have a superlative
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influence. But it at last gives place to a new Frankly, let him
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accept it, Jesus says, leave father, mother, house, and lands,
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and follow me. Who leaves all receives more. This is as true
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intellectually as morally. Each new mind we approach seems to require an abdication of
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all our past and present possessions. A new doctrine seems at first subversive to
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all our opinions, tastes, and manner of living, such as Swedenborg,
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such as Kant, such as Coleridge, such as Hegel, or his interpreter
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Cousin, seem to make young men in this country take thankfully and heartily all
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they can give, Exhaust them, wrestle with them, let them not go,
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and tell their blessing be won, And after a short season the dismay
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will be overpassed, the excess of influence withdrawn, and they will be no
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longer an alarming meteor, but one more bright star, shining serenely in your
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heaven and blending its light with all your day. But whilst he gives himself
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up unreservedly to that which draws him, because that is his own, he
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is to refuse himself to that which draws him, not whatsoever fame and authority
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may attend it, because it is not his own. Entire self. Reliance
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belongs to the intellect. One soul is a counterpoise of all souls. As
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the capillary column of water is a balance for the sea. It must treat
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things and books and sovereign genius, as itself also a sovereign If Eschylus be
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that man he has taken, for he has not yet done his office.
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When he has educated the learned of Europe for a thousand years, he is
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now to approve himself a master of delight to me. Also, if he
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cannot do that, all his fame shall avail him nothing. With me,
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I were a fool not to sacrifice a thousand escaluses to my intellectual integrity.
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Especially, take the same ground in regard to abstract truth. The science of
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the mind. The Bacon, the Spinoza, the Hume, Shelling, Kant,
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or whosoever propounds to you a philosophy of the mind is only a more
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or less awkward translator of things in your consciousness which you have also your way
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of seeing, perhaps of dominating, say, then, instead of too timidly
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pouring into his obscure sense that he has not succeeded in rendering back to you
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your consciousness. He has not succeeded. Now let another try. If Plato
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cannot, perhaps Spinoza will. If Spinoza cannot, then perhaps Kant. Anyhow,
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when at least ast it is done, you will find it is no
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recondite, but a simple, natural, common state which the writer restores to
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you. But let us end these didactics. I will not, though the
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subject might provoke it, speak to the open question between truth and love.
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I shall not presume to interfere in the old politics of the skies. The
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Cherubim know most, the Seraphim love most. The gods shall settle their own
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quarrels. But I cannot recite even thus rudely laws of the intellect without remembering
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that lofty and sequestered class of men who have been its prophets and oracles,
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the high priesthood of the pure Reason, the trees majicti, the expounders of
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the principles of thought, from age to age. When at long intervals we
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turn over their abstruse pages, wonderful seems the calm and grand air of these
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few, these great spiritual lords who have walked in the world, these of
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the old religion, dwelling in a worship which makes the sanctities of Christianity look
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parvenus and popular. For persuasion is in soul, but necessity is in intellect.
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This band of grandees, Hermes, Heraclitus and Pedoicles, Plato, Platinus,
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Olympiodorus, Proclus, Sinius, and the rest have somewhat so vast in
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their logic, so primary in their thinking, that it seems antecedent to all
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the ordinary distinctions of rhetorican literature, and to be at once poetry and music
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and dancing, and astronomy and mathematics. I am present at the sowing of
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the seed of the world. With a geometry of sunbeams, the soul lays
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the foundations of nature. The truth and grandeur of their thought is proved by
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its scope and applicability, for it commands the entire scalele and inventory of things
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for its illustration. But what marks its elevation, and has even a comic
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look to us, is the innocent serenity with which these babe like Jupiters sit
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in their clouds, and from age to age prattle to each other and to
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no contemporary. Well assured that their speech is intelligible and the most natural thing
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in the world, they add thesis to thesis without a moment's heed of the
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universal astonishment of the human race below, who do not comprehend their plainest argument,
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nor do they ever relent so much as to insert a popular or explaining
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sentence, nor satisfy the least displeasure or petulance at the dullness of their amazed
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auditory. The angels are so enamored of the language that is spoken in heaven
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that they will not distort their lips with the hissing and unmusical dialects of men,
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but speak their own, whether there be any who understand it or not,
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And of intellect,