The point of view of Schleiermacher’s “Monologues,” which is also that of Emerson, is great indeed, but proud and egotistical, since the Self is made the centre of the universe.  It is man rejoicing in himself, taking refuge in the inaccessible sanctuary of self-consciousness, and becoming almost a god.  It is a triumph which is not far removed from impiety; it is a superhuman point of view which does away with humility; it is precisely the temptation to which man first succumbed when he desired to become his own master by becoming like the gods.

We are too much encumbered with affairs, too busy, too active; we even read too much.  We must throw overboard all our cargo of anxieties, preoccupations and pedantry to recover youth, simplicity, childhood, and the present moment with its happy mood of gratitude.  By that leisure which is far from idleness, by an attentive and recollected inaction, the soul loses her creases, expands, unfolds, repairs her injuries like a bruised leaf, and becomes once more new, spontaneous, true, original Reverie, like showers at night, refreshes the thoughts which have become worn and discoloured by the heat of day.

I have been walking in the garden in a fine autumnal rain.  All the innumerable, wonderful symbols which the forms and colours of Nature afford charm me and catch at my heart.  There is no country scene that is not a state of the soul, and whoever will read the two together will be astonished by their detailed similarity.  Far truer is true poetry than science; poetry seizes at first glance in her synthetic way that essential thing which all the sciences put together can only hope to reach at the very end.

Lessons from the Greeks

How much we have to learn from our immortal forefathers, the Greeks; and how far better than we did they solve their problem!  Their type was not ours, but how much better did they revere, cultivate and ennoble the man they knew!  Beside them we are barbarians in a thousand ways, as in education, eloquence, public life, poetry, and the like.  If the number of its accomplished men be the measure of a civilization, ours is far below theirs.  We have not slaves beneath us, but we have them among us.  Barbarism is not at our frontiers, but at our doors.  We bear within us greater things, but we ourselves are how much smaller!  Strange paradox:  that their objective civilisation should have created great men as it were by accident, while our subjective civilisation, contrary to its express mission, turns out paltry halflings.  Things are becoming majestic, but man is diminishing.

The Glory of Motherhood