CONCORD, April 10, 1853.
MR. BLAKE,--Another singular kind of spiritual football,--really
nameless, handleless, homeless, like myself,--a mere arena for
thoughts and feelings; definite enough outwardly, indefinite more than
enough inwardly. But I do not know why we should be styled "misters"
or "masters:" we come so near to being anything or nothing, and seeing
that we are mastered, and not wholly sorry to be mastered, by the
least phenomenon. It seems to me that we are the mere creatures of
thought,--one of the lowest forms of intellectual life, we men,--as
the sunfish is of animal life. As yet our thoughts have acquired no
definiteness nor solidity; they are purely molluscous, not vertebrate;
and the height of our existence is to float upward in an ocean where
the sun shines,--appearing only like a vast soup or chowder to the
eyes of the immortal navigators. It is wonderful that I can be here,
and you there, and that we can correspond, and do many other things,
when, in fact, there is so little of us, either or both, anywhere. In
a few minutes, I expect, this slight film or dash of vapor that I am
will be what is called asleep,--resting! forsooth from what? Hard
work? and thought? The hard work of the dandelion down, which floats
over the meadow all day; the hard work of a pismire that labors to
raise a hillock all day, and even by moonlight. Suddenly I can come
forward into the utmost apparent distinctness, and speak with a sort
of emphasis to you; and the next moment I am so faint an entity, and
make so slight an impression, that nobody can find the traces of me. I
try to hunt myself up, and find the little of me that is discoverable
is falling asleep, and then I assist and tuck it up. It is getting
late. How can _I_ starve or feed? Can _I_ be said to sleep? There is
not enough of me even for that. If you hear a noise,--'t ain't I,--'t
ain't I,--as the dog says with a tin kettle tied to his tail. I read
of something happening to another the other day: how happens it that
nothing ever happens to me? A dandelion down that never
alights,--settles,--blown off by a boy to see if his mother wanted
him,--some divine boy in the upper pastures.
Well, if there really is another such a meteor sojourning in these
spaces, I would like to ask you if you know whose estate this is that
we are on? For my part I enjoy it well enough, what with the wild
apples and the scenery; but I should n't wonder if the owner set his
dog on me next. I could remember something not much to the purpose,
probably; but if I stick to what I do know, then--
It is worth the while to live respectably unto ourselves. We can
possibly _get along_ with a neighbor, even with a bedfellow, whom we
respect but very little; but as soon as it comes to this, that we do
not respect ourselves, then we do not get along at all, no matter how
much money we are paid for halting. There are old heads in the world
who cannot help me by their example or advice to live worthily and
satisfactorily to myself; but I believe that it is in my power to
elevate myself this very hour above the common level of my life. It is
better to have your head in the clouds, and know where you are, if
indeed you cannot get it above them, than to breathe the clearer
atmosphere below them, and think that you are in paradise.
Once you were in Milton[48] doubting what to do. To live a better
life,--this surely can be done. Dot and carry one. Wait not for a
clear sight, for that you are to get. What you see clearly you may
omit to do. Milton and Worcester? It is all Blake, Blake. Never mind
the rats in the wall; the cat will take care of them. All that men
have said or are is a very faint rumor, and it is not worth the while
to remember or refer to that. If you are to meet God, will you refer
to anybody out of that court? How shall men know how I succeed, unless
they are in at the life? I did not see the _Times_ reporter there.
Is it not delightful to provide one's self with the necessaries of
life,--to collect dry wood for the fire when the weather grows cool,
or fruits when we grow hungry?--not till then. And then we have all
the time left for thought!
Of what use were it, pray, to get a little wood to burn, to warm your
body this cold weather, if there were not a divine fire kindled at the
same time to warm your spirit?
"Unless above himself he can
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!"
I cuddle up by my stove, and there I get up another fire which warms
fire itself. Life is so short that it is not wise to take roundabout
ways, nor can we spend much time in waiting. Is it absolutely
necessary, then, that we should do as we are doing? Are we chiefly
under obligations to the devil, like Tom Walker? Though it is late to
leave off this wrong way, it will seem early the moment we begin in
the right way; instead of mid-afternoon, it will be early morning with
us. We have not got half-way to dawn yet.
As for the lectures, I feel that I have something to say, especially
on Traveling, Vagueness, and Poverty; but I cannot come now. I will
wait till I am fuller, and have fewer engagements. Your suggestions
will help me much to write them when I am ready. I am going to
Haverhill[49] to-morrow, surveying, for a week or more. You met me on
my last errand thither.
I trust that you realize what an exaggerator I am,--that I lay myself
out to exaggerate whenever I have an opportunity,--pile Pelion upon
Ossa, to reach heaven so. Expect no trivial truth from me, unless I am
on the witness-stand. I will come as near to lying as you can drive a
coach and four. If it is n't thus and so with me, it is with
something. I am not particular whether I get the shells or meat, in
view of the latter's worth.
I see that I have not at all answered your letter, but there is time
enough for that.