CONCORD, May 20, 1860.
MR. BLAKE,--I must endeavor to pay some of my debts to you. To begin
where we left off, then.
The presumption is that _we_ are always the same; our opportunities,
and Nature herself, fluctuating. Look at mankind. No great difference
between two, apparently; perhaps the same height, and breadth, and
weight; and yet, to the man who sits most east, this life is a
weariness, routine, dust and ashes, and he drowns his imaginary
_cares_ (!) (a sort of friction among his vital organs) in a bowl. But
to the man who sits most west, his _contemporary_ (!), it is a field
for all noble endeavors, an elysium, the dwelling-place of heroes and
demigods. The former complains that he has a thousand affairs to
attend to; but he does not realize that his affairs (though they may
be a thousand) and he are one.
Men and boys are learning all kinds of trades but how to make _men_ of
themselves. They learn to make houses; but they are not so well
housed, they are not so contented in their houses, as the woodchucks
in their holes. What is the use of a house if you haven't got a
tolerable planet to put it on?--if you cannot tolerate the planet it
is on? Grade the ground first. If a man believes and expects great
things of himself, it makes no odds where you put him, or what you
show him (of course _you_ cannot put him anywhere, nor show him
anything), he will be surrounded by grandeur. He is in the condition
of a healthy and hungry man, who says to himself,--How sweet this
crust is! If he despairs of himself, then Tophet is his
dwelling-place, and he is in the condition of a sick man who is
disgusted with the fruits of finest flavor.
Whether he sleeps or wakes,--whether he runs or walks,--whether he
uses a microscope or a telescope, or his naked eye,--a man never
discovers anything, never overtakes anything, or leaves anything
behind, but himself. Whatever he says or does, he merely reports
himself. If he is in love, he _loves_; if he is in heaven, he
_enjoys_; if he is in hell, he _suffers_. It is his condition that
determines his locality.
The principal, the only, thing a man makes, is his condition of fate.
Though commonly he does not know it, nor put up a sign to this effect,
"My own destiny made and mended here." (Not _yours_.) He is a master
workman in the business. He works twenty-four hours a day at it, and
gets it done. Whatever else he neglects or botches, no man was ever
known to neglect this work. A great many pretend to make _shoes_
chiefly, and would scout the idea that they make the hard times which
they experience.
Each reaching and aspiration is an instinct with which all nature
consists and coöperates, and therefore it is not in vain. But alas!
each relaxing and desperation is an instinct too. To be active, well,
happy, implies rare courage. To be ready to fight in a duel or a
battle implies desperation, or that you hold your life cheap.
If you take this life to be simply what old religious folks pretend (I
mean the effete, gone to seed in a drought, mere human galls stung by
the devil once), then all your joy and serenity is reduced to grinning
and bearing it. The fact is, you have got to take the world on your
shoulders like Atlas, and "put along" with it. You will do this for an
idea's sake, and your success will be in proportion to your devotion
to ideas. It may make your back ache occasionally, but you will have
the satisfaction of hanging it or twirling it to suit yourself.
Cowards suffer, heroes enjoy. After a long day's walk with it, pitch
it into a hollow place, sit down and eat your luncheon. Unexpectedly,
by some immortal thoughts, you will be compensated. The bank whereon
you sit will be a fragrant and flowery one, and your world in the
hollow a sleek and light gazelle.
Where is the "unexplored land" but in our own untried enterprises? To
an adventurous spirit any place--London, New York, Worcester, or his
own yard--is "unexplored land," to seek which Frémont and Kane travel
so far. To a sluggish and defeated spirit even the Great Basin and the
Polaris are trivial places. If they can get there (and, indeed, they
are there now), they will want to sleep, and give it up, just as they
always do. These are the regions of the Known and of the Unknown. What
is the use of going right over the old track again? There is an adder
in the path which your own feet have worn. You must make tracks into
the Unknown. That is what you have your board and clothes for. Why do
you ever mend your clothes, unless that, wearing them, you may mend
your ways? Let us sing.