The great lead
us to nature, and, in our age, to metaphysical nature, to the
invisible awful facts, to moral abstractions, which are not less
nature than is a river or a coal mine; nay, they are far more nature,
but its essence and soul.
But the weak and evil, led also to analyze, saw nothing in
thought but luxury. Thought for the selfish became selfish. They
invited us to contemplate nature, and showed us an abominable self.
Would you know the genius of the writer? Do not enumerate his
talents or his feats, but ask thyself, What spirit is he of? Do
gladness and hope and fortitude flow from his page into thy heart?
Has he led thee to nature because his own soul was too happy in
beholding her power and love; or is his passion for the wilderness
only the sensibility of the sick, the exhibition of a talent, which
only shines whilst you praise it; which has no root in the character,
and can thus minister to the vanity but not to the happiness of the
possessor; and which derives all its eclat from our conventional
education, but would not make itself intelligible to the wise man of
another age or country? The water we wash with never speaks of
itself, nor does fire, or wind, or tree.
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