Napoleon. As long as our civilization is essentially one of property,
of fences, of exclusiveness, it will be mocked by delusions. Our riches
will leave us sick; there will be bitterness in our laughter; and our
wine will burn our mouth. Only that good profits, which we can taste
with all doors open, and which serves all men.




VII. GOETHE; OR, THE WRITER


I find a provision in the constitution of the world for the writer or
secretary, who is to report the doings of the miraculous spirit of
life that everywhere throbs and works. His office is a reception of
the facts into the mind, and then a selection of the eminent and
characteristic experiences.

Nature will be reported. All things are engaged in writing their
history. The planet, the pebble, goes attended by its shadow. The
rolling rock leaves its scratches on the mountain; the river, its
channel in the soil; the animal, its bones in the stratum; the fern
and leaf their modest epitaph in the coal. The falling drop makes its
sculpture in the sand or the stone. Not a foot steps into the snow,
or along the ground, but prints in characters more or less lasting,
a map of its march. Every act of the man inscribes itself in the
memories of his fellows, and in his own manners and face. The air is
full of sounds; the sky, of tokens; the ground is all memoranda and
signatures; and every object covered over with hints, which speak to
the intelligent.