The American Scholar
美国学者
拉尔夫·沃尔多·爱默生 Ralph Waldo Emerson（1803–1882）
1837 年 8 月 31 日演讲

冷冻图书馆 · 开架书库 · S-005020 · https://coldlibrary.com/s/005020
权利：1837 年演讲，1837 年与 1838 年印行；爱默生卒于 1882 年。已按澳大利亚、欧盟、英国、中国大陆和美国的规则核对（截至 2026 年 10 月 11 日）。仅供参考，不是法律意见。
来源：Wikisource，https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_American_Scholar（取于 2026-10-11）
中文译文：Claude（AI），2026 · CC0 1.0
生成于 2026-10-14，来自 https://coldlibrary.com/open-stacks/the-american-scholar

----

Mr. President and Gentlemen,

I greet you on the re-commencement of our literary year. Our anniversary is one of hope, and, perhaps, not enough of labor. We do not meet for games of strength or skill, for the recitation of histories, tragedies, and odes, like the ancient Greeks; for parliaments of love and poesy, like the Troubadours; nor for the advancement of science, like our cotemporaries in the British and European capitals. Thus far, our holiday has been simply a friendly sign of the survival of the love of letters amongst a people too busy to give to letters any more. As such, it is precious as the sign of an indestructible instinct. Perhaps the time is already come, when it ought to be, and will be, something else; when the sluggard intellect of this continent will look from under its iron lids, and fill the postponed expectation of the world with something better than the exertions of mechanical skill. Our day of dependence, our long apprenticeship to the learning of other lands, draws to a close. The millions, that around us are rushing into life, cannot always be fed on the sere remains of foreign harvests. Events, actions arise, that must be sung, that will sing themselves. Who can doubt, that poetry will revive and lead in a new age, as the star in the constellation Harp, which now flames in our zenith, astronomers announce, shall one day be the pole-star for a thousand years?

In the light of this hope, I accept the topic which not only usage, but the nature of our association, seem to prescribe to this day,—the American Scholar. Year by year, we come up hither to read one more chapter of his biography. Let us inquire what new lights, new events and more days have thrown on his character, his duties, and his hopes.

It is one of those fables, which, out of an unknown antiquity, convey an unlooked-for wisdom, that the gods, in the beginning, divided Man into men, that he might be more helpful to himself; just as the hand was divided into fingers, the better to answer its end.

The old fable covers a doctrine ever new and sublime; that there is One Man,—present to all particular men only partially, or through one faculty; and that you must take the whole society to find the whole man. Man is not a farmer, or a professor, or an engineer, but he is all. Man is priest, and scholar, and statesman, and producer, and soldier. In the *divided* or social state, these functions are parcelled out to individuals, each of whom aims to do his stint of the joint work, whilst each other performs his. The fable implies, that the individual, to possess himself, must sometimes return from his own labor to embrace all the other laborers. But unfortunately, this original unit, this fountain of power, has been so distributed to multitudes, has been so minutely subdivided and peddled out, that it is spilled into drops, and cannot be gathered. The state of society is one in which the members have suffered amputation from the trunk, and strut about so many walking monsters,—a good finger, a neck, a stomach, an elbow, but never a man.

Man is thus metamorphosed into a thing, into many things. The planter, who is Man sent out into the field to gather food, is seldom cheered by any idea of the true dignity of his ministry. He sees his bushel and his cart, and nothing beyond, and sinks into the farmer, instead of Man on the farm. The tradesman scarcely ever gives an ideal worth to his work, but is ridden by the routine of his craft, and the soul is subject to dollars. The priest becomes a form; the attorney, a statute-book; the mechanic, a machine; the sailor, a rope of a ship.

In this distribution of functions, the scholar is the delegated intellect. In the right state, he is, *Man Thinking*. In the degenerate state, when the victim of society, he tends to become a mere thinker, or, still worse, the parrot of other men's thinking.

In this view of him, as Man Thinking, the whole theory of his office is contained. Him nature solicits with all her placid, all her monitory pictures. Him the past instructs. Him the future invites. Is not, indeed, every man a student, and do not all things exist for the student's behoof? And, finally, is not the true scholar the only true master? But, as the old oracle said, "All things have two handles. Beware of the wrong one." In life, too often, the scholar errs with mankind and forfeits his privilege. Let us see him in his school, and consider him in reference to the main influences he receives.

I. The first in time and the first in importance of the influences upon the mind is that of nature. Every day, the sun; and, after sunset, night and her stars. Ever the winds blow; ever the grass grows. Every day, men and women, conversing, beholding and beholden. The scholar must needs stand wistful and admiring before this great spectacle. He must settle its value in his mind. What is nature to him? There is never a beginning, there is never an end, to the inexplicable continuity of this web of God, but always circular power returning into itself. Therein it resembles his own spirit, whose beginning, whose ending, he never can find,—so entire, so boundless. Far, too, as her splendors shine, system on system shooting like rays, upward, downward, without centre, without circumference,—in the mass and in the particle, nature hastens to render account of herself to the mind. Classification begins. To the young mind, every thing is individual, stands by itself. By and by, it finds how to join two things, and see in them one nature; then three, then three thousand; and so, tyrannized over by its own unifying instinct, it goes on tying things together, diminishing anomalies, discovering roots running under ground, whereby contrary and remote things cohere, and flower out from one stem. It presently learns, that, since the dawn of history, there has been a constant accumulation and classifying of facts. But what is classification but the perceiving that these objects are not chaotic, and are not foreign, but have a law which is also a law of the human mind? The astronomer discovers that geometry, a pure abstraction of the human mind, is the measure of planetary motion. The chemist finds proportions and intelligible method throughout matter; and science is nothing but the finding of analogy, identity, in the most remote parts. The ambitious soul sits down before each refractory fact; one after another, reduces all strange constitutions, all new powers, to their class and their law, and goes on for ever to animate the last fibre of organization, the outskirts of nature, by insight.

Thus to him, to this school-boy under the bending dome of day, is suggested, that he and it proceed from one root; one is leaf and one is flower; relation, sympathy, stirring in every vein. And what is that Root? Is not that the soul of his soul?—A thought too bold,—a dream too wild. Yet when this spiritual light shall have revealed the law of more earthly natures,—when he has learned to worship the soul, and to see that the natural philosophy that now is, is only the first gropings of its gigantic hand, he shall look forward to an ever expanding knowledge as to a becoming creator. He shall see, that nature is the opposite of the soul, answering to it part for part. One is seal, and one is print. Its beauty is the beauty of his own mind. Its laws are the laws of his own mind. Nature then becomes to him the measure of his attainments. So much of nature as he is ignorant of, so much of his own mind does he not yet possess. And, in fine, the ancient precept, "Know thyself," and the modern precept, "Study nature," become at last one maxim.

II. The next great influence into the spirit of the scholar, is, the mind of the Past,—in whatever form, whether of literature, of art, of institutions, that mind is inscribed. Books are the best type of the influence of the past, and perhaps we shall get at the truth,—learn the amount of this influence more conveniently,—by considering their value alone.

The theory of books is noble. The scholar of the first age received into him the world around; brooded thereon; gave it the new arrangement of his own mind, and uttered it again. It came into him,—life; it went out from him,—truth. It came to him,—short-lived actions; it went out from him,—immortal thoughts. It came to him,—business; it went from him,—poetry. It was,—dead fact; now, it is quick thought. It can stand, and it can go. It now endures, it now flies, it now inspires. Precisely in proportion to the depth of mind from which it issued, so high does it soar, so long does it sing.

Or, I might say, it depends on how far the process had gone, of transmuting life into truth. In proportion to the completeness of the distillation, so will the purity and imperishableness of the product be. But none is quite perfect. As no air-pump can by any means make a perfect vacuum, so neither can any artist entirely exclude the conventional, the local, the perishable from his book, or write a book of pure thought, that shall be as efficient, in all respects, to a remote posterity, as to cotemporaries, or rather to the second age. Each age, it is found, must write its own books; or rather, each generation for the next succeeding. The books of an older period will not fit this.

Yet hence arises a grave mischief. The sacredness which attaches to the act of creation,—the act of thought,—is instantly transferred to the record. The poet chanting, was felt to be a divine man. Henceforth the chant is divine also. The writer was a just and wise spirit. Henceforward it is settled, the book is perfect; as love of the hero corrupts into worship of his statue. Instantly, the book becomes noxious. The guide is a tyrant. We sought a brother, and lo, a governor. The sluggish and perverted mind of the multitude, always slow to open to the incursions of Reason, having once so opened, having once received this book, stands upon it, and makes an outcry, if it is disparaged. Colleges are built on it. Books are written on it by thinkers, not by Man Thinking; by men of talent, that is, who start wrong, who set out from accepted dogmas, not from their own sight of principles. Meek young men grow up in libraries, believing it their duty to accept the views, which Cicero, which Locke, which Bacon, have given, forgetful that Cicero, Locke, and Bacon were only young men in libraries when they wrote these books.

Hence, instead of Man Thinking, we have the bookworm. Hence, the book-learned class, who value books, as such; not as related to nature and the human constitution, but as making a sort of Third Estate with the world and the soul. Hence, the restorers of readings, the emendators, the bibliomaniacs of all degrees.

This is bad; this is worse than it seems. Books are the best of things, well used; abused, among the worst. What is the right use? What is the one end, which all means go to effect? They are for nothing but to inspire. I had better never see a book than to be warped by its attraction clean out of my own orbit, and made a satellite instead of a system. The one thing in the world of value, is, the active soul,—the soul, free, sovereign, active. This every man is entitled to; this every man contains within him, although, in almost all men, obstructed, and as yet unborn. The soul active sees absolute truth; and utters truth, or creates. In this action, it is genius; not the privilege of here and there a favorite, but the sound estate of every man. In its essence, it is progressive. The book, the college, the school of art, the institution of any kind, stop with some past utterance of genius. This is good, say they,—let us hold by this. They pin me down. They look backward and not forward. But genius always looks forward. The eyes of man are set in his forehead, not in his hindhead. Man hopes. Genius creates. To create,—to create,—is the proof of a divine presence. Whatever talents may be, if the man create not, the pure efflux of the Deity is not his;—cinders and smoke there may be, but not yet flame. There are creative manners, there are creative actions, and creative words; manners, actions, words, that is, indicative of no custom or authority, but springing spontaneous from the mind's own sense of good and fair.

On the other part, instead of being its own seer, let it receive always from another mind its truth, though it were in torrents of light, without periods of solitude, inquest, and self-recovery, and a fatal disservice is done. Genius is always sufficiently the enemy of genius by over-influence. The literature of every nation bear me witness. The English dramatic poets have Shakspearized now for two hundred years.

Undoubtedly there is a right way of reading, so it be sternly subordinated. Man Thinking must not be subdued by his instruments. Books are for the scholar's idle times. When he can read God directly, the hour is too precious to be wasted in other men's transcripts of their readings. But when the intervals of darkness come, as come they must,—when the soul seeth not, when the sun is hid, and the stars withdraw their shining,—we repair to the lamps which were kindled by their ray, to guide our steps to the East again, where the dawn is. We hear, that we may speak. The Arabian proverb says, "A fig tree, looking on a fig tree, becometh fruitful."

It is remarkable, the character of the pleasure we derive from the best books. They impress us ever with the conviction, that one nature wrote and the same reads. We read the verses of one of the great English poets, of Chaucer, of Marvell, of Dryden, with the most modern joy,—with a pleasure, I mean, which is in great part caused by the abstraction of all *time* from their verses. There is some awe mixed with the joy of our surprise, when this poet, who lived in some past world, two or three hundred years ago, says that which lies close to my own soul, that which I also had wellnigh thought and said. But for the evidence thence afforded to the philosophical doctrine of the identity of all minds, we should suppose some preëstablished harmony, some foresight of souls that were to be, and some preparation of stores for their future wants, like the fact observed in insects, who lay up food before death for the young grub they shall never see.

I would not be hurried by any love of system, by any exaggeration of instincts, to underrate the Book. We all know, that, as the human body can be nourished on any food, though it were boiled grass and the broth of shoes, so the human mind can be fed by any knowledge. And great and heroic men have existed, who had almost no other information than by the printed page. I only would say, that it needs a strong head to bear that diet. One must be an inventor to read well. As the proverb says, "He that would bring home the wealth of the Indies, must carry out the wealth of the Indies." There is then creative reading as well as creative writing. When the mind is braced by labor and invention, the page of whatever book we read becomes luminous with manifold allusion. Every sentence is doubly significant, and the sense of our author is as broad as the world. We then see, what is always true, that, as the seer's hour of vision is short and rare among heavy days and months, so is its record, perchance, the least part of his volume. The discerning will read, in his Plato or Shakspeare, only that least part,—only the authentic utterances of the oracle,—and all the rest he rejects, were it never so many times Plato's and Shakspeare's.

Of course, there is a portion of reading quite indispensable to a wise man. History and exact science he must learn by laborious reading. Colleges, in like manner, have their indispensable office,—to teach elements. But they can only highly serve us, when they aim not to drill, but to create; when they gather from far every ray of various genius to their hospitable halls, and, by the concentrated fires, set the hearts of their youth on flame. Thought and knowledge are natures in which apparatus and pretension avail nothing. Gowns, and pecuniary foundations, though of towns of gold, can never countervail the least sentence or syllable of wit. Forget this, and our American colleges will recede in their public importance, whilst they grow richer every year.

III. There goes in the world a notion, that the scholar should be a recluse, a valetudinarian,—as unfit for any handiwork or public labor, as a penknife for an axe. The so-called 'practical men' sneer at speculative men, as if, because they speculate or *see*, they could do nothing. I have heard it said that the clergy,—who are always, more universally than any other class, the scholars of their day,—are addressed as women; that the rough, spontaneous conversation of men they do not hear, but only a mincing and diluted speech. They are often virtually disfranchised; and, indeed, there are advocates for their celibacy. As far as this is true of the studious classes, it is not just and wise. Action is with the scholar subordinate, but it is essential. Without it, he is not yet man. Without it, thought can never ripen into truth. Whilst the world hangs before the eye as a cloud of beauty, we cannot even see its beauty. Inaction is cowardice, but there can be no scholar without the heroic mind. The preamble of thought, the transition through which it passes from the unconscious to the conscious, is action. Only so much do I know, as I have lived. Instantly we know whose words are loaded with life, and whose not.

The world,—this shadow of the soul, or *other me*, lies wide around. Its attractions are the keys which unlock my thoughts and make me acquainted with myself. I launch eagerly into this resounding tumult. I grasp the hands of those next me, and take my place in the ring to suffer and to work, taught by an instinct, that so shall the dumb abyss be vocal with speech. I pierce its order; I dissipate its fear; I dispose of it within the circuit of my expanding life. So much only of life as I know by experience, so much of the wilderness have I vanquished and planted, or so far have I extended my being, my dominion. I do not see how any man can afford, for the sake of his nerves and his nap, to spare any action in which he can partake. It is pearls and rubies to his discourse. Drudgery, calamity, exasperation, want, are instructers in eloquence and wisdom. The true scholar grudges every opportunity of action past by, as a loss of power.

It is the raw material out of which the intellect moulds her splendid products. A strange process too, this, by which experience is converted into thought, as a mulberry leaf is converted into satin. The manufacture goes forward at all hours.

The actions and events of our childhood and youth, are now matters of calmest observation. They lie like fair pictures in the air. Not so with our recent actions,—with the business which we now have in hand. On this we are quite unable to speculate. Our affections as yet circulate through it. We no more feel or know it, than we feel the feet, or the hand, or the brain of our body. The new deed is yet a part of life,—remains for a time immersed in our unconscious life. In some contemplative hour, it detaches itself from the life like a ripe fruit, to become a thought of the mind. Instantly, it is raised, transfigured; the corruptible has put on incorruption. Always now it is an object of beauty, however base its origin and neighbourhood. Observe, too, the impossibility of antedating this act. In its grub state, it cannot fly, it cannot shine,—it is a dull grub. But suddenly, without observation, the selfsame thing unfurls beautiful wings, and is an angel of wisdom. So is there no fact, no event, in our private history, which shall not, sooner or later, lose its adhesive, inert form, and astonish us by soaring from our body into the empyrean. Cradle and infancy, school and playground, the fear of boys, and dogs, and ferules, the love of little maids and berries, and many another fact that once filled the whole sky, are gone already; friend and relative, profession and party, town and country, nation and world, must also soar and sing.

Of course, he who has put forth his total strength in fit actions, has the richest return of wisdom. I will not shut myself out of this globe of action and transplant an oak into a flower-pot, there to hunger and pine; nor trust the revenue of some single faculty, and exhaust one vein of thought, much like those Savoyards, who, getting their livelihood by carving shepherds, shepherdesses, and smoking Dutchmen, for all Europe, went out one day to the mountain to find stock, and discovered that they had whittled up the last of their pine trees. Authors we have, in numbers, who have written out their vein, and who, moved by a commendable prudence, sail for Greece or Palestine, follow the trapper into the prairie, or ramble round Algiers to replenish their merchantable stock.

If it were only for a vocabulary the scholar would be covetous of action. Life is our dictionary. Years are well spent in country labors; in town,—in the insight into trades and manufactures; in frank intercourse with many men and women; in science; in art; to the one end of mastering in all their facts a language by which to illustrate and embody our perceptions. I learn immediately from any speaker how much he has already lived, through the poverty or the splendor of his speech. Life lies behind us as the quarry from whence we get tiles and copestones for the masonry of to-day. This is the way to learn grammar. Colleges and books only copy the language which the field and the work-yard made.

But the final value of action, like that of books, and better than books, is, that it is a resource. That great principle of Undulation in nature, that shows itself in the inspiring and expiring of the breath; in desire and satiety; in the ebb and flow of the sea; in day and night; in heat and cold; and as yet more deeply ingrained in every atom and every fluid, is known to us under the name of Polarity,—these 'fits of easy transmission and reflection,' as Newton called them, are the law of nature because they are the law of spirit.

The mind now thinks; now acts; and each fit reproduces the other. When the artist has exhausted his materials, when the fancy no longer paints, when thoughts are no longer apprehended, and books are a weariness,—he has always the resource *to live*. Character is higher than intellect. Thinking is the function. Living is the functionary. The stream retreats to its source. A great soul will be strong to live, as well as strong to think. Does he lack organ or medium to impart his truths? He can still fall back on this elemental force of living them. This is a total act. Thinking is a partial act. Let the grandeur of justice shine in his affairs. Let the beauty of affection cheer his lowly roof. Those 'far from fame', who dwell and act with him, will feel the force of his constitution in the doings and passages of the day better than it can be measured by any public and designed display. Time shall teach him, that the scholar loses no hour which the man lives. Herein he unfolds the sacred germ of his instinct, screened from influence. What is lost in seemliness is gained in strength. Not out of those, on whom systems of education have exhausted their culture, comes the helpful giant to destroy the old or to build the new, but out of unhandselled savage nature, out of terrible Druids and Berserkirs, come at last Alfred and Shakspeare.

I hear therefore with joy whatever is beginning to be said of the dignity and necessity of labor to every citizen. There is virtue yet in the hoe and the spade, for learned as well as for unlearned hands. And labor is everywhere welcome; always we are invited to work; only be this limitation observed, that a man shall not for the sake of wider activity sacrifice any opinion to the popular judgments and modes of action.

I have now spoken of the education of the scholar by nature, by books, and by action. It remains to say somewhat of his duties.

They are such as become Man Thinking. They may all be comprised in self-trust. The office of the scholar is to cheer, to raise, and to guide men by showing them facts amidst appearances. He plies the slow, unhonored, and unpaid task of observation. Flamsteed and Herschel, in their glazed observatories, may catalogue the stars with the praise of all men, and, the results being splendid and useful, honor is sure. But he, in his private observatory, cataloguing obscure and nebulous stars of the human mind, which as yet no man has thought of as such,—watching days and months, sometimes, for a few facts; correcting still his old records;—must relinquish display and immediate fame. In the long period of his preparation, he must betray often an ignorance and shiftlessness in popular arts, incurring the disdain of the able who shoulder him aside. Long he must stammer in his speech; often forego the living for the dead. Worse yet, he must accept,—how often! poverty and solitude. For the ease and pleasure of treading the old road, accepting the fashions, the education, the religion of society, he takes the cross of making his own, and, of course, the self-accusation, the faint heart, the frequent uncertainty and loss of time, which are the nettles and tangling vines in the way of the self-relying and self-directed; and the state of virtual hostility in which he seems to stand to society, and especially to educated society. For all this loss and scorn, what offset? He is to find consolation in exercising the highest functions of human nature. He is one, who raises himself from private considerations, and breathes and lives on public and illustrious thoughts. He is the world's eye. He is the world's heart. He is to resist the vulgar prosperity that retrogrades ever to barbarism, by preserving and communicating heroic sentiments, noble biographies, melodious verse, and the conclusions of history. Whatsoever oracles the human heart in all emergencies, in all solemn hours, has uttered as its commentary on the world of actions,—these he shall receive and impart. And whatsoever new verdict Reason from her inviolable seat pronounces on the passing men and events of to-day,—this he shall hear and promulgate.

These being his functions, it becomes him to feel all confidence in himself, and to defer never to the popular cry. He and he only knows the world. The world of any moment is the merest appearance. Some great decorum, some fetish of a government, some ephemeral trade, or war, or man, is cried up by half mankind and cried down by the other half, as if all depended on this particular up or down. The odds are that the whole question is not worth the poorest thought which the scholar has lost in listening to the controversy. Let him not quit his belief that a popgun is a popgun, though the ancient and honorable of the earth affirm it to be the crack of doom. In silence, in steadiness, in severe abstraction, let him hold by himself; add observation to observation, patient of neglect, patient of reproach; and bide his own time,—happy enough, if he can satisfy himself alone, that this day he has seen something truly. Success treads on every right step. For the instinct is sure, that prompts him to tell his brother what he thinks. He then learns, that in going down into the secrets of his own mind, he has descended into the secrets of all minds. He learns that he who has mastered any law in his private thoughts, is master to that extent of all men whose language he speaks, and of all into whose language his own can be translated. The poet, in utter solitude remembering his spontaneous thoughts and recording them, is found to have recorded that, which men in 'cities vast' find true for them also. The orator distrusts at first the fitness of his frank confessions,—his want of knowledge of the persons he addresses,—until he finds that he is the complement of his hearers;—that they drink his words because he fulfils for them their own nature; the deeper he dives into his privatest, secretest presentiment, to his wonder he finds, this is the most acceptable, most public, and universally true. The people delight in it; the better part of every man feels, This is my music; this is myself.

In self-trust, all the virtues are comprehended. Free should the scholar be,—free and brave. Free even to the definition of freedom, "without any hindrance that does not arise out of his own constitution." Brave; for fear is a thing, which a scholar by his very function puts behind him. Fear always springs from ignorance. It is a shame to him if his tranquillity, amid dangerous times, arise from the presumption, that, like children and women, his is a protected class; or if he seek a temporary peace by the diversion of his thoughts from politics or vexed questions, hiding his head like an ostrich in the flowering bushes, peeping into microscopes, and turning rhymes, as a boy whistles to keep his courage up. So is the danger a danger still; so is the fear worse. Manlike let him turn and face it. Let him look into its eye and search its nature, inspect its origin,—see the whelping of this lion,—which lies no great way back; he will then find in himself a perfect comprehension of its nature and extent; he will have made his hands meet on the other side, and can henceforth defy it, and pass on superior. The world is his, who can see through its pretension. What deafness, what stone-blind custom, what overgrown error you behold, is there only by sufferance,—by your sufferance. See it to be a lie, and you have already dealt it its mortal blow.

Yes, we are the cowed,—we the trustless. It is a mischievous notion that we are come late into nature; that the world was finished a long time ago. As the world was plastic and fluid in the hands of God, so it is ever to so much of his attributes as we bring to it. To ignorance and sin, it is flint. They adapt themselves to it as they may; but in proportion as a man has any thing in him divine, the firmament flows before him and takes his signet and form. Not he is great who can alter matter, but he who can alter my state of mind. They are the kings of the world who give the color of their present thought to all nature and all art, and persuade men by the cheerful serenity of their carrying the matter, that this thing which they do, is the apple which the ages have desired to pluck, now at last ripe, and inviting nations to the harvest. The great man makes the great thing. Wherever Macdonald sits, there is the head of the table. Linnaeus makes botany the most alluring of studies and wins it from the farmer and the herb-woman. Davy, chemistry; and Cuvier, fossils. The day is always his, who works in it with serenity and great aims. The unstable estimates of men crowd to him whose mind is filled with a truth, as the heaped waves of the Atlantic follow the moon.

For this self-trust, the reason is deeper than can be fathomed,—darker than can be enlightened. I might not carry with me the feeling of my audience in stating my own belief. But I have already shown the ground of my hope, in adverting to the doctrine that man is one. I believe man has been wronged; he has wronged himself. He has almost lost the light, that can lead him back to his prerogatives. Men are become of no account. Men in history, men in the world of to-day are bugs, are spawn, and are called 'the mass' and 'the herd.' In a century, in a millenium, one or two men; that is to say,—one or two approximations to the right state of every man. All the rest behold in the hero or the poet their own green and crude being,—ripened; yes, and are content to be less, so that may attain to its full stature. What a testimony,—full of grandeur, full of pity, is borne to the demands of his own nature, by the poor clansman, the poor partisan, who rejoices in the glory of his chief. The poor and the low find some amends to their immense moral capacity, for their acquiescence in a political and social inferiority. They are content to be brushed like flies from the path of a great person, so that justice shall be done by him to that common nature which it is the dearest desire of all to see enlarged and glorified. They sun themselves in the great man's light, and feel it to be their own element. They cast the dignity of man from their downtrod selves upon the shoulders of a hero, and will perish to add one drop of blood to make that great heart beat, those giant sinews combat and conquer. He lives for us, and we live in him.

Men such as they are, very naturally seek money or power; and power because it is as good as money,—the 'spoils,' so called, 'of office.' And why not? for they aspire to the highest, and this, in their sleep-walking, they dream is highest. Wake them, and they shall quit the false good and leap to the true, and leave governments to clerks and desks. This revolution is to be wrought by the gradual domestication of the idea of Culture. The main enterprise of the world for splendor, for extent, is the upbuilding of a man. Here are the materials strown along the ground. The private life of one man shall be a more illustrious monarchy,—more formidable to its enemy, more sweet and serene in its influence to its friend, than any kingdom in history. For a man, rightly viewed, comprehendeth the particular natures of all men. Each philosopher, each bard, each actor, has only done for me, as by a delegate, what one day I can do for myself. The books which once we valued more than the apple of the eye, we have quite exhausted. What is that but saying, that we have come up with the point of view which the universal mind took through the eyes of that one scribe; we have been that man, and have passed on. First, one; then, another; we drain all cisterns, and, waxing greater by all these supplies, we crave a better and more abundant food. The man has never lived that can feed us ever. The human mind cannot be enshrined in a person, who shall set a barrier on any one side to this unbounded, unboundable empire. It is one central fire, which, flaming now out of the lips of Etna, lightens the capes of Sicily; and, now out of the throat of Vesuvius, illuminates the towers and vineyards of Naples. It is one light which beams out of a thousand stars. It is one soul which animates all men.

But I have dwelt perhaps tediously upon this abstraction of the Scholar. I ought not to delay longer to add what I have to say, of nearer reference to the time and to this country.

Historically, there is thought to be a difference in the ideas which predominate over successive epochs, and there are data for marking the genius of the Classic, of the Romantic, and now of the Reflective or Philosophical age. With the views I have intimated of the oneness or the identity of the mind through all individuals, I do not much dwell on these differences. In fact, I believe each individual passes through all three. The boy is a Greek; the youth, romantic; the adult, reflective. I deny not, however, that a revolution in the leading idea may be distinctly enough traced.

Our age is bewailed as the age of Introversion. Must that needs be evil? We, it seems, are critical. We are embarrassed with second thoughts. We cannot enjoy any thing for hankering to know whereof the pleasure consists. We are lined with eyes. We see with our feet. The time is infected with Hamlet's unhappiness,—

"Sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought."

Is it so bad then? Sight is the last thing to be pitied. Would we be blind? Do we fear lest we should outsee nature and God, and drink truth dry? I look upon the discontent of the literary class, as a mere announcement of the fact, that they find themselves not in the state of mind of their fathers, and regret the coming state as untried; as a boy dreads the water before he has learned that he can swim. If there is any period one would desire to be born in,—is it not the age of Revolution; when the old and the new stand side by side, and admit of being compared; when the energies of all men are searched by fear and by hope; when the historic glories of the old, can be compensated by the rich possibilities of the new era? This time, like all times, is a very good one, if we but know what to do with it.

I read with joy some of the auspicious signs of the coming days, as they glimmer already through poetry and art, through philosophy and science, through church and state.

One of these signs is the fact, that the same movement which effected the elevation of what was called the lowest class in the state, assumed in literature a very marked and as benign an aspect. Instead of the sublime and beautiful; the near, the low, the common, was explored and poetized. That, which had been negligently trodden under foot by those who were harnessing and provisioning themselves for long journeys into far countries, is suddenly found to be richer than all foreign parts. The literature of the poor, the feelings of the child, the philosophy of the street, the meaning of household life, are the topics of the time. It is a great stride. It is a sign,—is it not? of new vigor, when the extremities are made active, when currents of warm life run into the hands and the feet. I ask not for the great, the remote, the romantic; what is doing in Italy or Arabia; what is Greek art, or Provencal minstrelsy; I embrace the common, I explore and sit at the feet of the familiar, the low. Give me insight into to-day, and you may have the antique and future worlds. What would we really know the meaning of? The meal in the firkin; the milk in the pan; the ballad in the street; the news of the boat; the glance of the eye; the form and the gait of the body;—show me the ultimate reason of these matters; show me the sublime presence of the highest spiritual cause lurking, as always it does lurk, in these suburbs and extremities of nature; let me see every trifle bristling with the polarity that ranges it instantly on an eternal law; and the shop, the plough, and the leger, referred to the like cause by which light undulates and poets sing;—and the world lies no longer a dull miscellany and lumber-room, but has form and order; there is no trifle; there is no puzzle; but one design unites and animates the farthest pinnacle and the lowest trench.

This idea has inspired the genius of Goldsmith, Burns, Cowper, and, in a newer time, of Goethe, Wordsworth, and Carlyle. This idea they have differently followed and with various success. In contrast with their writing, the style of Pope, of Johnson, of Gibbon, looks cold and pedantic. This writing is blood-warm. Man is surprised to find that things near are not less beautiful and wondrous than things remote. The near explains the far. The drop is a small ocean. A man is related to all nature. This perception of the worth of the vulgar is fruitful in discoveries. Goethe, in this very thing the most modern of the moderns, has shown us, as none ever did, the genius of the ancients.

There is one man of genius, who has done much for this philosophy of life, whose literary value has never yet been rightly estimated;—I mean Emanuel Swedenborg. The most imaginative of men, yet writing with the precision of a mathematician, he endeavoured to engraft a purely philosophical Ethics on the popular Christianity of his time. Such an attempt, of course, must have difficulty, which no genius could surmount. But he saw and showed the connexion between nature and the affections of the soul. He pierced the emblematic or spiritual character of the visible, audible, tangible world. Especially did his shade-loving muse hover over and interpret the lower parts of nature; he showed the mysterious bond that allies moral evil to the foul material forms, and has given in epical parables a theory of insanity, of beasts, of unclean and fearful things.

Another sign of our times, also marked by an analogous political movement, is, the new importance given to the single person. Every thing that tends to insulate the individual,—to surround him with barriers of natural respect, so that each man shall feel the world is his, and man shall treat with man as a sovereign state with a sovereign state;—tends to true union as well as greatness. "I learned," said the melancholy Pestalozzi, "that no man in God's wide earth is either willing or able to help any other man." Help must come from the bosom alone. The scholar is that man who must take up into himself all the ability of the time, all the contributions of the past, all the hopes of the future. He must be an university of knowledges. If there be one lesson more than another, which should pierce his ear, it is, The world is nothing, the man is all; in yourself is the law of all nature, and you know not yet how a globule of sap ascends; in yourself slumbers the whole of Reason; it is for you to know all, it is for you to dare all. Mr. President and Gentlemen, this confidence in the unsearched might of man belongs, by all motives, by all prophecy, by all preparation, to the American Scholar. We have listened too long to the courtly muses of Europe. The spirit of the American freeman is already suspected to be timid, imitative, tame. Public and private avarice make the air we breathe thick and fat. The scholar is decent, indolent, complaisant. See already the tragic consequence. The mind of this country, taught to aim at low objects, eats upon itself. There is no work for any but the decorous and the complaisant. Young men of the fairest promise, who begin life upon our shores, inflated by the mountain winds, shined upon by all the stars of God, find the earth below not in unison with these,—but are hindered from action by the disgust which the principles on which business is managed inspire, and turn drudges, or die of disgust,—some of them suicides. What is the remedy? They did not yet see, and thousands of young men as hopeful now crowding to the barriers for the career, do not yet see, that, if the single man plant himself indomitably on his instincts, and there abide, the huge world will come round to him. Patience,—patience;—with the shades of all the good and great for company; and for solace, the perspective of your own infinite life; and for work, the study and the communication of principles, the making those instincts prevalent, the conversion of the world. Is it not the chief disgrace in the world, not to be an unit;—not to be reckoned one character;—not to yield that peculiar fruit which each man was created to bear, but to be reckoned in the gross, in the hundred, or the thousand, of the party, the section, to which we belong; and our opinion predicted geographically, as the north, or the south. Not so, brothers and friends,—please God, ours shall not be so. We will walk on our own feet; we will work with our own hands; we will speak our own minds. Then shall man be no longer a name for pity, for doubt, and for sensual indulgence. The dread of man and the love of man shall be a wall of defence and a wreath of joy around all. A nation of men will for the first time exist, because each believes himself inspired by the Divine Soul which also inspires all men.

----

中文译文 · Claude（AI）译

主席先生，诸位先生：

在我们的文学年度重新开始之际，我向诸位致意。我们的周年纪念是一个怀抱希望的日子，或许劳作得还不够。我们相聚，不是像古希腊人那样，为了力量或技巧的竞赛，为了吟诵历史、悲剧和颂歌；不是像游吟诗人那样，为了爱情与诗歌的议会；也不是像我们在英国和欧洲各国首都的同时代人那样，为了推进科学。迄今为止，我们的这个节日只是一个友好的标志，表明在一个忙得无暇再给文学更多时间的民族中间，对文学的爱依然存在。作为这样的标志，它是珍贵的，因为它标志着一种不可摧毁的本能。也许时候已经到了，它应当、也将会成为别的什么；这片大陆迟钝的智力，将从它铁一般沉重的眼睑下向外张望，用比机械技巧的努力更好的东西，来满足世界延宕已久的期待。我们依赖的日子，我们向别国的学问长久当学徒的日子，即将结束。在我们周围涌入生活的千百万人，不能总是靠外国收成枯干的残余来喂养。种种事件、种种行动正在兴起，它们必须被歌唱，它们也将自己歌唱自己。谁能怀疑，诗歌将会复兴，引领一个新的时代，正如天文学家宣告的那样，如今在我们天顶燃烧的天琴座中的那颗星，有一天将做一千年的北极星？

在这希望的光照下，我接受这个题目，不仅惯例、而且我们这个团体的性质，似乎都为今天规定好了它——美国学者。年复一年，我们来到这里，再读他传记中的一章。让我们探究一下，新的光、新的事件和更多的岁月，在他的品格、他的职责和他的希望上，投下了些什么。

有一个寓言，是那种从不可知的古代传下来、带着意想不到的智慧的寓言，说众神在太初把“人”分成了许多个人，好让他更能帮助自己；就像手被分成手指，好更合它的用途。

这个古老的寓言包含着一种永远新鲜而崇高的教义：有一个“大写的人”——他只是部分地、或者通过某一种官能，存在于所有个别的人身上；你必须把整个社会合起来，才能找到整个的人。人不是农夫，不是教授，也不是工程师，而是这一切。人是教士，是学者，是政治家，是生产者，是士兵。在*分割*的、即社会的状态中，这些职能被分派给了个人，每个人都力求做好自己在共同劳动中的那一份，同时别人也做他们的那一份。这个寓言暗示，个人要拥有他自己，就必须时时从自己的劳动中回来，拥抱所有其他的劳动者。但不幸的是，这个原初的整体，这个力量的源泉，已经被分配给了这么多人，被分割得这样细碎，零零碎碎地兜售出去，以至于它洒成了点点滴滴，再也收拢不起来。社会的状态是这样一种状态：它的成员都从躯干上被截了下来，作为许多行走的怪物昂首阔步——一根好手指，一个脖子，一个胃，一只胳膊肘，却从来不是一个人。

人就这样被变形成了一样东西，变成了许多东西。种植者，本是被派到田里去采集食物的“人”，却很少因为想到他这份职务的真正尊严而得到鼓舞。他看见他的蒲式耳和他的大车，此外什么也看不见，于是沉沦为农夫，而不是农场上的“人”。商人几乎从不给他的工作赋予一种理想的价值，而是被他那一行的常规所驾驭，灵魂屈从于美元。教士变成了一种形式；律师变成了一本法典；机械工变成了一台机器；水手变成了船上的一根绳子。

在这种职能的分配中，学者是被委派出来的智力。在正当的状态中，他是*思考着的人*。在堕落的状态中，当他成为社会的牺牲品时，他就容易变成一个纯粹的思考者，或者更糟，变成别人思想的鹦鹉。

把他看作“思考着的人”，他这份职务的全部理论就都包含在里面了。自然用她一切平静的、一切告诫的画面来恳求他。过去教导他。未来邀请他。难道不是每一个人都是学生，万物不都是为了学生的益处而存在吗？最后，真正的学者难道不是唯一真正的主人吗？但是，正如古老的神谕所说：“万物都有两个把手。当心抓错了那一个。”在生活中，学者太常与众人一同犯错，丧失了他的特权。让我们到他的学堂里去看看他，从他所接受的主要影响方面来考察他。

一、对心灵的种种影响中，时间上最早、重要性上也最首要的，是自然的影响。每天，有太阳；日落以后，有夜和她的星辰。风永远在吹；草永远在长。每天，有男男女女在交谈，在观看，也被观看。学者面对这一伟大的景象，必然怀着向往和赞叹站立。他必须在心中确定它的价值。自然对他是什么？上帝织成的这张网，有着无法解释的连续性，它从来没有开端，也从来没有终结，永远是循环的力量回归自身。在这一点上，它像他自己的精神，他永远找不到它的开端和终结——它那样完整，那样无边。自然的光辉照得多远，一个又一个体系像光线一样射出，向上，向下，没有中心，没有圆周——无论在整体中还是在微粒中，自然都急于向心灵说明她自己。分类开始了。对年轻的心灵来说，每一样东西都是个别的，独自存在。渐渐地，它发现怎样把两样东西联结起来，在它们身上看出一种本性；然后是三样，然后是三千样；就这样，被它自己那种追求统一的本能所支配，它不断地把事物捆在一起，减少反常的东西，发现在地下伸展的根，凭着这些根，相反的、遥远的事物结合在一起，从一根茎上开出花来。它很快就知道，自有历史的黎明以来，事实一直在不断地积累和分类。但分类不就是领悟到这些对象并不混乱、也并不陌生，而是有一条法则，它同时也是人类心灵的法则吗？天文学家发现，几何学这个人类心灵的纯粹抽象，就是行星运动的尺度。化学家在整个物质中发现了比例和可理解的方法；而科学不过是在最遥远的部分中发现类比和同一。雄心勃勃的灵魂坐下来面对每一个难以驾驭的事实；一个接一个地，把一切奇异的构造、一切新的力量，归入它们的类别和法则，并且永远继续下去，用洞察去赋予组织的最后一根纤维、自然的最边缘以生命。

于是，向他，向这个在白昼弯曲的穹顶下的学童，暗示出：他和自然出自同一个根；一个是叶，一个是花；关系、共鸣，在每一条脉络中搏动。那根是什么呢？难道不就是他灵魂的灵魂吗？——一个太大胆的思想——一个太狂野的梦。然而，当这精神之光揭示了更具尘世性的事物的法则——当他学会了崇拜灵魂，并且看出现存的自然哲学只是灵魂那巨手最初的摸索时，他就会期待一种不断扩展的知识，就像期待自己逐渐成为一个造物主。他会看出，自然是灵魂的对面，一部分一部分地与它相应。一个是印章，一个是印迹。自然的美是他自己心灵的美。自然的法则是他自己心灵的法则。于是自然成了他造诣的尺度。他对自然有多少无知，他就有多少自己的心灵尚未拥有。总之，古代的箴言“认识你自己”和现代的箴言“研究自然”，终于成了同一句格言。

二、对学者精神的第二大影响，是过去的心灵，无论它刻写在什么形式里，文学的、艺术的、制度的。书籍是过去之影响最好的代表；只考察书籍的价值，也许我们就能更方便地接近真相，弄清这种影响有多大。

关于书的理论是高贵的。最初一代的学者把周围的世界接纳进来，在心中反复孵育，按他自己心灵的方式重新安排，再把它说出来。它进入他时是生活，从他那里出来时是真理。它来到他这里时是短暂的行动，从他那里出去时是不朽的思想。它来时是事务，去时是诗。它曾经是死的事实，现在是活的思想。它能站立，也能行走。它如今持久，如今飞翔，如今激励人心。它出自多深的心灵，就飞得多高，唱得多久。

或者我可以说，这取决于把生活转化为真理的过程进行到了什么程度。蒸馏得越彻底，产物就越纯净、越不朽。但没有哪一样是完全完美的。正如任何抽气机都无法造出完全的真空，任何艺术家也无法把约定俗成的、地方性的、易朽的东西完全排除在他的书外，写出一本纯粹思想的书，对遥远的后代与对同时代的人，或者不如说对第二代人，在一切方面都同样有效。人们发现，每个时代都必须写它自己的书；或者不如说，每一代人为下一代人写书。较早时期的书，不合这一代人的身。

然而由此产生了一个严重的弊害。附着在创造行为、也就是思考行为上的神圣性，立刻被转移到了记录上。吟唱的诗人曾被看作一个神圣的人。从此吟唱的诗也成了神圣的。作者曾是一个正直而智慧的灵魂。从此便认定，这本书是完美的；就像对英雄的爱腐化成了对他雕像的崇拜。这本书立刻就有害了。向导成了暴君。我们寻找的是一位兄弟，看哪，来的却是一位统治者。大众迟钝而偏颇的心灵，向来很慢才向理性的进入敞开，一旦敞开，一旦接受了这本书，就站在它上面，谁贬低它就大声抗议。学院建在它上面。思想者写书论它，写书的却不是“思考着的人”；也就是说，是一些有才能的人，他们一开始就错了，从公认的教条出发，而不是从他们自己对原理的洞见出发。温顺的年轻人在图书馆里长大，以为接受西塞罗、洛克、培根给出的见解是他们的本分，却忘了西塞罗、洛克和培根写这些书的时候，也只是图书馆里的年轻人。

于是，我们没有了“思考着的人”，却有了书虫。于是有了读书阶层，他们看重书本身，不是把书当作与自然和人的构造相关联的东西，而是当作与世界和灵魂并列的一种第三等级。于是有了校订异文的人、修订文字的人，以及各种程度的藏书癖。

这很糟；比看起来还要糟。书用得好，是最好的东西；用得不好，是最坏的东西之一。什么才是正确的用法？一切手段所要达到的那一个目的是什么？书只为一件事：激发。我宁可从来不看一本书，也不愿被它的吸引力完全拉出我自己的轨道，成为一颗卫星，而不是一个星系。世上唯一有价值的东西，是能动的灵魂，自由的、自主的、能动的灵魂。这是每个人都有权拥有的；这是每个人心中都有的，虽然在几乎所有人身上，它都受到阻碍，尚未诞生。能动的灵魂看见绝对的真理；说出真理，或者创造。在这种行动中，它就是天才；天才不是这里那里某个宠儿的特权，而是每个人健全的产业。就其本质而言，它是前进的。书籍、学院、艺术学校、任何一种机构，都停留在天才过去的某一次表达上。他们说：这是好的，我们守住它吧。他们把我钉住。他们向后看，不向前看。但天才永远向前看。人的眼睛长在前额，不长在后脑。人怀着希望。天才创造。创造，创造，这才是神圣存在的证明。不论一个人有什么才能，如果他不创造，神性纯粹的流溢就不属于他；那里也许有灰烬和烟，却还没有火焰。有创造性的举止，有创造性的行动，有创造性的言辞；也就是说，这些举止、行动和言辞不表示任何习俗或权威，而是从心灵自己对善与美的感觉中自然涌出。

另一方面，如果心灵不做它自己的先知，总是从另一个心灵那里接受它的真理，即使那真理是光的洪流，却没有独处、探究和自我恢复的时期，那就是给它帮了一个致命的倒忙。天才对天才的过度影响，总足以使它成为天才的敌人。每个民族的文学都为我作证。英国的戏剧诗人们，两百年来一直在莎士比亚化。

毫无疑问，阅读有一种正确的方式，只要它严格地处于从属地位。“思考着的人”决不能被他的工具所制服。书是供学者闲暇时用的。当他能直接读上帝的时候，那一刻太宝贵了，不能浪费在别人对其阅读的转录上。但当黑暗的间歇到来时，它们一定会来，当灵魂看不见，当太阳隐没，星辰收起光芒，我们就去寻那些由它们的光点燃的灯，让它们引我们的脚步再回到东方，回到黎明所在的地方。我们听，是为了能说。阿拉伯谚语说：“一棵无花果树望着另一棵无花果树，就结了果。”

我们从最好的书里得到的那种快乐，性质很不寻常。它们总让我们确信，写书的和读书的是同一个天性。我们读英国一位大诗人的诗句，乔叟的、马维尔的、德莱顿的，怀着最现代的喜悦；我是说，这种快乐在很大程度上，是因为他们的诗句里抽去了一切*时间*。当这位生活在某个过去世界、两三百年前的诗人，说出了紧贴我自己灵魂的东西，那些我也几乎已经想到、说出的东西，我们惊喜之中便夹着几分敬畏。若不是这为一切心灵同一的哲学学说提供了证据，我们就会以为有某种预定的和谐，对将来的灵魂有某种预见，为它们将来的需要预备了储藏，就像人们在昆虫身上看到的那样，它们在死前为永远见不到的幼虫储下食物。

我不愿被任何对体系的爱、任何对本能的夸大所驱使，去低估书。我们都知道，人的身体可以靠任何食物来养活，哪怕是煮过的草和皮鞋熬的汤；人的心灵也可以靠任何知识来喂养。而且确实有过伟大而英勇的人，他们几乎只从印刷的书页上得到知识。我只想说，要有一副强健的头脑，才消受得了这样的饮食。一个人必须是发明者，才能读得好。正如谚语所说：“想把印度的财富带回家的人，必须把印度的财富带出去。”所以，有创造性的写作，也有创造性的阅读。当心灵因劳作和发明而振作时，我们读的不管什么书，那一页都会因多重的暗示而发光。每一个句子都有双重的意义，作者的意思像世界一样宽广。那时我们就会看到一个永远真实的事实：先知看见异象的时刻，在沉重的日子和月份之中是短暂而稀少的，他书中记录这些时刻的部分，大概也是全书最小的一部分。有眼力的人在他的柏拉图或莎士比亚里，只读那最小的一部分，只读神谕真正的话语，其余的一概不取，哪怕它们千真万确出自柏拉图和莎士比亚。

当然，有一部分阅读对一个智者是必不可少的。历史和精确科学，他必须经过辛苦的阅读才能学到。学院也同样有它不可缺少的职能，那就是教授基础。但只有当它们的目的不是操练而是创造，当它们从远方把各种天才的每一道光芒聚集到它们好客的殿堂里，用汇聚的火焰点燃青年的心，它们才能为我们作出崇高的贡献。思想和知识的本性是这样的：器具和排场在这里毫无用处。袍服和金钱的基金，即使有黄金的城镇那么多，也抵不上一句、一个音节的真知灼见。忘记了这一点，我们美国的学院就会在公众心目中日益退步，而它们却一年比一年富有。

三、世上流行着一种看法，认为学者应当是一个隐士、一个病弱的人——不适合任何手工或公共劳动，就像一把削笔刀不适合当斧头用。所谓的“实干家”嘲笑思辨的人，仿佛因为他们思辨或者说*观看*，他们就什么也干不成。我听人说，教士们——他们总是比其他任何阶层都更普遍地是他们那个时代的学者——被人当作女人来对待；男人们粗犷的、随口而出的谈话，他们听不到，只听到一种扭捏的、冲淡了的言语。他们常常实际上被剥夺了公民权；确实，还有人主张他们独身。这种看法用在读书阶层身上，有几分属实，就有几分不公正、不明智。对学者来说，行动是从属的，却是必不可少的。没有行动，他还算不上一个人。没有行动，思想永远不能成熟为真理。当世界像一片美丽的云悬在眼前时，我们甚至看不见它的美。不行动就是怯懦，而没有英雄的心灵，就不可能有学者。思想的序言，思想从无意识过渡到有意识所经历的转变，就是行动。我活过多少，我就知道多少。我们立刻就能知道，谁的话里装满了生命，谁的话里没有。

世界——这灵魂的影子，或者说*另一个我*——宽广地铺展在四周。它的吸引力是一把把钥匙，打开我的思想，使我认识我自己。我热切地投身于这片轰鸣的喧嚣之中。我握住身边的人的手，在圈子里站好我的位置，去受苦，去工作，凭一种本能得知：这样，那沉默的深渊就会响起言语。我刺穿它的秩序；我驱散它的恐惧；我把它安置在我不断扩展的生活的范围之内。我凭经验认识了多少生活，我就征服并种植了多少荒野，或者说，我就把我的存在、我的领地扩展了多远。我不明白，一个人怎么能为了他的神经和他的午睡，舍弃任何一种他能参与的行动。行动是他言谈中的珍珠和红宝石。苦役、灾难、恼怒、匮乏，都是教人雄辩和智慧的老师。真正的学者吝惜每一个错过的行动机会，把它当作力量的损失。

行动是原料，智力用它塑造出她辉煌的产品。这也是一个奇妙的过程，经验借此被转化为思想，就像桑叶被转化为绸缎。这种制造无时无刻不在进行。

我们童年和青年时代的行动和事件，如今是最平静的观察对象。它们像美丽的图画一样悬在空中。我们最近的行动——我们眼下手头的事务——却不是这样。对于这些，我们完全无法思辨。我们的情感还在它里面流动。我们感觉不到它、认识不到它，就像我们感觉不到自己身体的脚、手或大脑一样。新的行为仍是生活的一部分——还要在一段时间里浸没在我们无意识的生活中。在某个沉思的时刻，它像一颗成熟的果子那样从生活上脱落，成为心灵的一个思想。它立刻被提升，改变了形象；必朽坏的变成了不朽坏的。从此它总是一个美的对象，不管它的来历和周遭是多么卑贱。还要注意，这一过程是不可能提前的。在它的幼虫阶段，它不能飞，不能发光——它是一条迟钝的幼虫。但突然之间，不知不觉地，这同一个东西展开美丽的翅膀，成了一位智慧的天使。所以，在我们的私人历史中，没有哪一个事实、哪一个事件，不会或早或晚地失去它那黏滞的、惰性的形态，从我们的身体飞升到九重天上，令我们惊异。摇篮和婴儿时代，学校和操场，对男孩、对狗、对戒尺的害怕，对小姑娘和浆果的喜爱，还有许多曾经占满整个天空的别的事实，都已经飞走了；朋友和亲戚，职业和党派，城镇和乡村，民族和世界，也必将飞升、歌唱。

当然，一个在适当的行动中使出了全部力量的人，会得到最丰厚的智慧的回报。我不愿把自己关在这个行动的世界之外，把一棵橡树移栽进花盆，让它在那里饥饿憔悴；也不愿只依靠某一种官能的收入，耗尽一条思想的矿脉，就像那些萨伏依人那样：他们靠为全欧洲雕刻牧羊人、牧羊女和抽烟斗的荷兰人谋生，有一天到山上去找木料，却发现他们已经把最后的松树都削光了。我们有大批作者，已经把他们的矿脉写尽了，于是出于一种值得称赞的审慎，扬帆去希腊或巴勒斯坦，跟着捕兽人进入草原，或者在阿尔及尔四处漫游，好补充他们可供出售的存货。

哪怕只是为了词汇，学者也会渴望行动。生活是我们的词典。岁月用在乡下的劳作上，是用得好的；在城里——用在洞察各种行业和制造上；用在与许多男人和女人坦诚交往上；用在科学上；用在艺术上；都只为一个目的：掌握一种语言，掌握它所有的事实，用来阐明和体现我们的感知。从任何一个说话的人那里，我都能凭他言辞的贫乏或华美，立刻知道他已经生活了多少。生活就在我们身后，像一座采石场，我们从中取出瓦片和压顶石，来砌今天的墙。这才是学习语法的方法。学院和书本只是抄录田野和工场所造出的语言。

但行动的最终价值，像书的价值一样，而且比书更好，在于它是一种可以凭借的资源。自然中那个伟大的波动原理，它表现在呼吸的吸进和呼出里；在欲望和餍足里；在海的潮落潮涨里；在昼和夜里；在热和冷里；它还更深地铭刻在每一个原子、每一种流体之中，我们知道它的名字叫极性——这些“易透射与易反射的间歇”（牛顿这样称呼它们），之所以是自然的法则，是因为它们是精神的法则。

心灵时而思考；时而行动；每一阵都再生出另一阵。当艺术家用尽了他的材料，当幻想不再描绘，当思想不再被领会，书本令人厌倦——他总还有一种资源可以凭借：*去生活*。品格高于智力。思考是职能。生活是执行这职能的人。溪流退回到它的源头。一个伟大的灵魂，会强于生活，也强于思考。他缺少器官或媒介来传达他的真理吗？他仍然可以退回到把它们活出来的这种本原的力量上。这是一种完整的行为。思考是一种局部的行为。让正义的宏伟在他的事务中闪耀吧。让爱的美好使他简陋的屋顶下充满欢乐吧。那些与他同住同行的“远离声名”的人，会在日常的作为和往来中，感受到他禀性的力量，这比任何公开的、刻意的展示所能衡量的更好。时间会教给他：一个人活过的每一个钟头，学者都没有失去。在这里，他展开他本能中那颗神圣的种子，不受外来影响的遮蔽。体面上失去的，在力量上得到了。来摧毁旧事物或建造新事物的那个有用的巨人，不是出自那些被教育体系用尽了全部教养的人，而是出自未经开化的野蛮天性；从可怕的德鲁伊和狂战士之中，最后才来了阿尔弗雷德和莎士比亚。

因此，凡是开始有人谈论劳动对于每个公民的尊严和必要，我都高兴地倾听。锄头和铁锹里仍有美德，对有学问的手和没学问的手都是一样。劳动处处受欢迎；我们总是被邀请去工作；只是要遵守这一条限制：一个人不应为了更广泛的活动，而把他的任何一个见解牺牲给大众的判断和行为方式。

我已经谈了自然、书本和行动对学者的教育。还要谈一谈他的职责。

这些职责都是适合“思考着的人”的。它们都可以包括在自信之中。学者的职务，是通过在种种表象之中向人们指出事实，来鼓舞人、提升人、引导人。他从事着观察这项缓慢的、不受尊敬的、没有报酬的工作。弗兰斯蒂德和赫歇尔在他们装着玻璃的天文台里，可以在众人的赞美声中为星辰编目，而且，由于成果辉煌而有用，荣誉是有把握的。但他，在他私人的天文台里，为人类心灵中那些幽暗的、星云般的星辰编目，这些星辰至今还没有人想到它们是星辰——有时为了几个事实，要守望好几天、好几个月；还要不断地修正他的旧记录——他必须放弃炫耀和眼前的名声。在他漫长的准备时期里，他必须常常暴露出他在大众技艺上的无知和无能，招来那些把他挤到一边的能干之人的轻蔑。他必须长久地说话结巴；常常为了死者而舍弃生者。更糟的是，他必须接受——多么频繁啊！——贫穷和孤独。他舍弃了走那条老路、接受社会的风尚、教育和宗教的安逸和快乐，而背起了自己开辟道路的十字架；当然，还有自责、怯懦，时常的犹豫和时间的损失，这些都是自立自主的人路上的荨麻和缠绕的藤蔓；还有他似乎与社会、特别是与受过教育的社会所处的那种事实上的敌对状态。为了这一切损失和轻蔑，有什么补偿呢？他要在运用人性最高的职能中找到慰藉。他是一个把自己从私人的考虑中提升起来、靠公共的、光辉的思想来呼吸和生活的人。他是世界的眼睛。他是世界的心。他要通过保存和传播英雄的情操、高贵的传记、悦耳的诗篇和历史的结论，来抵抗那种总在倒退回野蛮的庸俗的繁荣。人心在一切紧急关头、在一切庄严时刻，作为它对行动世界的评注而说出的一切神谕——这些，他都要接受并传授。理性从她不可侵犯的座位上，对今天来来去去的人和事所宣布的一切新的裁决——这些，他都要倾听并颁布。

既然这些是他的职能，他就应当对自己充满信心，永不屈从于大众的呼声。他，而且只有他，认识世界。任何一个时刻的世界都只是最表面的表象。某种了不起的礼仪，某种政府的偶像，某种转瞬即逝的买卖、战争或人物，被一半人类捧上天，被另一半人类踩下地，仿佛一切都取决于这一捧一踩。十之八九，整个问题还抵不上学者在倾听这场争论时所丢掉的最微不足道的一个念头。即使世上古老而可敬的人们断言玩具枪的一响是末日的霹雳，也别让他放弃他的信念：玩具枪就是玩具枪。让他在沉默中、在坚定中、在严格的抽象中守住自己；把观察加到观察上，忍受冷落，忍受责难；等待属于他自己的时刻——如果他能单单使自己满意，相信今天他真正地看见了一点什么，那就足够幸福了。成功踏在每一个正确的步子上。因为那促使他把自己的想法告诉他兄弟的本能，是可靠的。于是他发现，深入他自己心灵的秘密时，他已经下降到了一切心灵的秘密之中。他发现，一个在他私人的思想中掌握了任何一条法则的人，在这个范围内，就是所有说他那种语言的人的主人，也是所有能把他的语言翻译成他们的语言的人的主人。诗人在全然的孤独中回想他自发的思想，把它们记录下来，结果人们发现，他记录下来的，正是“广大城市”里的人们觉得对他们也真实的东西。演说家起初不相信他坦率的自白是否合适——他不了解他所面对的听众——直到他发现，他是他的听众的补足；他们畅饮他的话，因为他为他们实现了他们自己的天性；他潜入自己最私密、最隐秘的预感越深，他就越惊奇地发现，这正是最受欢迎的、最公共的、普遍真实的东西。人们喜爱它；每个人身上较好的那一部分都觉得：这是我的音乐；这就是我自己。

一切美德都包含在自信之中。学者应当是自由的——自由而勇敢。自由，甚至达到自由的定义所说的程度：“除了出自他自身构造的障碍以外，没有任何障碍。”勇敢；因为恐惧是学者凭着他的职能本身就要抛在身后的东西。恐惧总是出于无知。如果他在危险的时代里的平静，是出于这样一种假定：他像孩子和妇女一样，属于受保护的阶层；或者，如果他把思想从政治或棘手的问题上移开，以求一时的安宁，像鸵鸟一样把头藏在开花的灌木丛里，窥探显微镜，凑几句韵文，就像一个男孩吹口哨给自己壮胆——那对他就是一种耻辱。危险照样是危险；恐惧却更糟了。让他像个男子汉一样转过身来面对它吧。让他直视它的眼睛，探究它的本性，查看它的来源——看看这头狮子是怎样生下来的——那并不在很远的从前；这样，他就会在自己身上找到对它的本性和范围的完全的理解；他的双手已经在它的另一边合拢，从此就可以蔑视它，高高在上地走过去了。谁能看穿世界的虚饰，世界就属于谁。你所看到的种种耳聋、种种瞎了眼的习俗、种种疯长的谬误，都只是因为被容忍才在那里——因为被你容忍。看出它是一个谎言，你就已经给了它致命的一击。

是的，我们是被吓住的人——我们是不自信的人。认为我们来到自然中太晚了，认为世界很久以前就已完成，这是一种有害的想法。正如世界在上帝手中是可塑的、流动的，对于我们带给它的、那么多的上帝的属性，它也永远是可塑的、流动的。对于无知和罪恶，它是燧石。它们只能尽量去适应它；但一个人身上有多少神性，苍穹就在他面前流动多少，接受他的印记和形状。伟大的不是能改变物质的人，而是能改变我的心境的人。那些把自己当下思想的色彩赋予一切自然和一切艺术的人，那些以他们处理事情时那种愉快的安详，使人们相信他们所做的这件事，正是历代人想要摘下的那颗苹果，如今终于成熟、邀请各民族来收获的人，他们才是世界的君王。伟大的人造就伟大的事。麦克唐纳坐在哪里，哪里就是首席。林奈使植物学成为最迷人的学问，从农夫和采药妇手中把它赢了过来。戴维使化学成为这样，居维叶使化石成为这样。白昼总是属于那个怀着安详和远大目标在其中工作的人。人们那些不稳定的评价，都涌向一个心中充满了真理的人，就像大西洋堆起的波浪追随着月亮。

这种自信的理由，深不可测——幽暗得无法照亮。陈述我自己的信念时，我未必能带着听众的感情一起走。但我在提到“人是一个”这一教义时，已经说明了我的希望的根据。我相信人受了委屈；他委屈了他自己。他几乎失去了那能领他回到他固有特权的光。人变得无足轻重了。历史上的人，今天世界上的人，都是虫子，是鱼卵，被叫作“大众”和“群氓”。一个世纪、一千年里，只有一两个人；也就是说——只有一两个近似于每个人的正当状态的人。其余所有的人，都在英雄或诗人身上看到他们自己青涩、粗糙的存在——成熟了；是的，他们甘愿自己渺小一些，好让那存在能长到它完整的身量。那可怜的族人、可怜的党徒，为他首领的荣耀而欢欣，这对他自己天性的要求，是一个多么充满宏伟、又充满悲悯的证明啊。贫穷而卑微的人，默认了政治上和社会上的低下，却为他们巨大的道德能力找到了某种补偿。他们甘愿像苍蝇一样被从一个伟人的路上拂开，只要他能为那共同的人性主持公道，而看到这共同的人性被扩大、被荣耀，正是所有人最珍贵的愿望。他们在伟人的光芒中晒太阳，觉得那就是他们自己的元素。他们把人的尊严从被践踏的自己身上，投到一位英雄的肩上，甘愿牺牲，只为添上一滴血，让那颗伟大的心跳动，让那巨人的筋骨战斗并得胜。他为我们而活，我们活在他里面。

像他们现在这样的人，很自然地追求金钱或权力；追求权力，是因为它和金钱一样好——就是所谓的“官职的战利品”。为什么不呢？因为他们渴望最高的东西，而在梦游中，他们梦见这就是最高的。唤醒他们，他们就会抛弃虚假的善，跃向真正的善，把政府留给书记员和办公桌。这场革命，要靠“教养”这个观念逐渐深入人心来完成。世界上就其辉煌、就其广度而言的主要事业，是造就一个人。材料就撒在地上。一个人的私人生活，将是一个比历史上任何王国都更显赫的君主国——对它的敌人更可畏，对它的朋友，其影响更甜美、更安详。因为一个人，如果正确地看，就包含着所有人的特殊本性。每一位哲学家，每一位诗人，每一位演员，都只是像代理人那样，替我做了我有一天能为自己做的事。我们曾经比眼珠还珍视的书，已经被我们完全读尽了。这不就是说，我们已经达到了那普遍的心灵透过那一个作者的眼睛所采取的观点；我们曾经是那个人，然后走过去了吗？先是一个，然后是另一个；我们汲干所有的水池，凭着这一切供给变得更大，便渴求更好、更丰盛的食物。能永远喂养我们的人，从来没有活过。人类的心灵不能被供奉在某一个人身上，让他在这个无边的、不可限量的帝国的任何一边设下界限。它是一团中心的火，时而从埃特纳火山的口中喷出，照亮西西里的海角；时而从维苏威火山的喉中喷出，照亮那不勒斯的塔楼和葡萄园。它是从千万颗星辰中射出的同一道光。它是赋予所有人生命的同一个灵魂。

不过，关于学者的这种抽象，我也许已经说得太冗长了。我不应该再拖延，该补充我要说的、与这个时代和这个国家关系更近的话了。

从历史上看，人们认为在相继的各个时代占主导地位的观念有所不同，而且有资料可以标出古典时代、浪漫时代以及如今的反思时代或哲学时代的特质。既然我已经暗示过我的看法，即心灵贯穿一切个人而是一体的、同一的，我就不大细说这些差别。事实上，我相信每个人都要经历这三个时代。男孩是希腊人；青年是浪漫的；成年人是反思的。不过我并不否认，主导观念的一场革命，是可以相当清楚地追溯出来的。

人们哀叹我们的时代是一个内省的时代。那就一定是坏事吗？看来，我们是好批评的。我们被再三的思虑所困扰。我们不能享受任何东西，因为我们急于知道这快乐是由什么构成的。我们周身都长着眼睛。我们用脚来看。这个时代感染了哈姆雷特的不幸——

“蒙上了一层思虑的苍白病容。”

这有那么糟吗？视力是最不值得怜悯的东西。我们愿意变瞎吗？我们是怕自己看得比自然和上帝还远，把真理喝干吗？我把文人阶层的不满，仅仅看作对这样一个事实的宣告：他们发现自己不再处于父辈的心境之中，又因为即将到来的状态还未经尝试而感到遗憾；就像一个男孩在知道自己会游泳之前害怕下水。如果有哪个时期是人们愿意生在其中的——那不就是革命的时代吗？那时新旧并肩而立，可以相互比较；那时一切人的精力都受到恐惧和希望的考验；那时旧时代的历史荣光，可以由新时代丰富的可能来补偿。这个时代，像一切时代一样，是一个很好的时代，只要我们知道拿它来做什么。

我欣喜地读到未来日子的一些吉兆，它们已经透过诗歌和艺术，透过哲学和科学，透过教会和国家，隐隐闪现出来。

这些征兆之一是这样一个事实：那个使国家中所谓最低阶层的地位得到提升的运动，在文学中也呈现出一种非常显著、同样良善的面貌。人们不再探索崇高和美，而去探索近的、低的、平常的东西，并把它们写成诗。那些为了远行到遥远的国度而整备行装、准备干粮的人，曾经漫不经心地踩在脚下的东西，突然被发现比一切异域都更丰富。穷人的文学，孩子的感情，街头的哲学，家庭生活的意义，成了这个时代的题目。这是一大步。当四肢末端活跃起来，当温暖的生命之流涌进手和脚，这就是——不是吗？——新的活力的征兆。我不要求伟大的、遥远的、浪漫的东西；不问意大利或阿拉伯在发生什么；不问希腊艺术或普罗旺斯的吟游诗是什么；我拥抱平常的东西，我探索熟悉的、低微的东西，坐在它们脚前受教。给我对今天的洞察，古代的世界和未来的世界，你们都可以拿去。我们真正想知道的是什么东西的意义呢？桶里的面粉；锅里的牛奶；街头的歌谣；船上带来的消息；眼睛的一瞥；身体的形态和步态——给我指出这些事情的终极原因；给我指出那最高的精神原因的崇高存在，它潜伏在——它总是潜伏在——自然的这些郊野和末梢里；让我看见每一件琐事都带着极性竖立起来，这极性立刻把它排列在一条永恒的法则之上；让我看见店铺、犁和账簿，都归结于同样的原因，正是凭着这原因，光在波动，诗人在歌唱——那么，世界就不再是一堆沉闷的杂物、一间堆放破烂的屋子，而是有了形式和秩序；没有琐事；没有谜；只有一个设计，联结并激活了最远的尖顶和最低的沟壑。

这个观念激发了哥尔德斯密斯、彭斯、柯珀的天才，在较新的时代，又激发了歌德、华兹华斯和卡莱尔的天才。他们各自以不同的方式追随这个观念，成就也各有不同。与他们的作品相比，蒲柏、约翰逊、吉本的文风显得冷淡而迂腐。这种文字是带着血温的。人惊奇地发现，近处的东西并不比远处的东西更不美、更不奇妙。近的解释远的。一滴水是一片小小的海洋。一个人与整个自然相关联。这种对平凡事物价值的感知，带来丰硕的发现。歌德正是在这一点上是现代人中最现代的，他向我们展示了古人的天才，任何人都没有像他那样展示过。

有一位天才，为这种生活哲学做了很多事，他的文学价值至今还没有被正确地估量过——我指的是伊曼纽·斯维登堡。他是最富于想象的人，写作时却有数学家的精确；他努力把一种纯粹哲学的伦理学嫁接到他那个时代的通俗基督教上。这样的尝试，当然必定有任何天才都无法克服的困难。但他看见并揭示了自然与灵魂的情感之间的联系。他看穿了这个看得见、听得见、摸得着的世界的象征性的、或者说精神性的品格。他那爱好阴影的缪斯，尤其在自然的较低部分上空盘旋，阐释它们；他揭示了把道德的恶与污秽的物质形态结合在一起的那条神秘的纽带，并且用史诗般的寓言，提出了一种关于疯狂、关于野兽、关于不洁和可怕之物的理论。

我们时代的另一个征兆，也以一场类似的政治运动为标志，就是赋予个人的新的重要性。凡是倾向于使个人独立出来的东西——用自然的尊重筑成屏障环绕他，好让每个人都觉得世界是他的，人与人之间像主权国家与主权国家那样交往——都既倾向于伟大，也倾向于真正的联合。忧郁的裴斯泰洛齐说：“我认识到，在上帝广大的大地上，没有一个人愿意或者能够帮助任何另一个人。”帮助必须单单来自内心。学者就是这样一个人：他必须把时代的一切能力、过去的一切贡献、未来的一切希望，都收进自己身上。他必须是一所知识的大学。如果有哪一个教训比别的更应刺进他的耳朵，那就是：世界什么也不是，人就是一切；在你自己身上有整个自然的法则，而你还不知道一小滴树液是怎样上升的；在你自己身上沉睡着整个理性；你应当去认识一切，你应当敢于一切。主席先生，诸位先生，这种对人那未经探测的力量的信心，从一切动机、一切预言、一切准备来说，都属于美国学者。我们听欧洲那些宫廷的缪斯听得太久了。人们已经在怀疑，美国自由人的精神是胆怯的、模仿的、驯顺的。公共的和私人的贪婪，使我们呼吸的空气变得浓浊而油腻。学者是体面的、懒散的、殷勤顺从的。看看已经出现的悲惨后果吧。这个国家的心灵，被教导去追求低下的目标，正在啃噬它自己。除了那些规矩得体、殷勤顺从的人，别人都没有工作。前程最美好的年轻人，在我们的海岸上开始生活，被山风鼓起胸怀，受着上帝所有星辰的照耀，却发现下面的大地与这些并不和谐——经营事业所依据的那些原则引起的厌恶，妨碍他们去行动，于是他们变成了做苦工的人，或者因厌恶而死——其中有些人自杀了。补救的办法是什么呢？他们还没有看出，而如今成千上万同样有希望的年轻人，正挤到起跑的栅栏前准备开始他们的生涯，也还没有看出：如果一个人不屈不挠地立足于他的本能，并且坚守在那里，这个庞大的世界就会转过来就他。忍耐，忍耐——有一切善良伟大的人的魂灵作伴；有你自己无限生命的远景作慰藉；有对原理的研究和传播作工作，使那些本能流行开来，使世界皈依。不成为一个单位——不被算作一个独立的品格——不结出每个人被造出来要结的那种独特的果实，而被成批地算进我们所属的党派、地区的一百人或一千人之中，我们的意见按地理被预测，就像北方或南方那样——这难道不是世上最大的耻辱吗？不要这样，弟兄们，朋友们——如果上帝允许，我们决不这样。我们要用自己的脚走路；我们要用自己的手工作；我们要说出自己的心里话。那时，人就不再是怜悯、怀疑和感官放纵的代名词。对人的敬畏和对人的爱，将成为环绕一切人的防御之墙和欢乐的花环。一个由人组成的国家将第一次存在，因为每个人都相信自己受到了那同样启示所有人的神圣灵魂的启示。