Nay, it would even seem that in some cases the finest openings and invitations for what is best in man must operate inversely, and elicit only what is worst in him.  Every profoundest truth, when uttered with fresh power in history, polarizes men, accumulating atheism at one pole, while collecting faith and resolve at the other.  As the sun bleaches some surfaces into whiteness, but tans and blackens others, so the sweet shining of Truth illumines some countenances with belief, but some it darkens into a scowl of hate and denial.  The American Revolution gave us George Washington; but it gave us also Benedict Arnold.  One and the same great spiritual emergency in Europe produced Luther’s Protestantism and Loyola’s Jesuitism.  Our national crisis has converted General Butler; what has it done for Vallandigham?

It were easy to show that the deepest intelligence of the world concurs with common sense in this judgment.  Its declaration ever is, in effect, that, though Paul plant and Apollos water, yet fruit can come only out of divine and infinite Nature,—­only, that is, out of the native, incommunicable resources of the soul.  “No man can come to me,” said Jesus, “except the Father draw him.”  “To him that hath shall be given.”  The frequent formula, “He that hath ears to hear, let him hear,” is a confession that no power of speech, no wisdom of instruction, can command results.  The grandest teacher, like the humblest, can but utter his word, sure that the wealthy and prepared spirits will receive it, and equally sure that shallow, sterile, and inane natures will either not receive it at all, or do so to extremely little purpose.

And such, as I read, is the judgment of Plato; though, ever disposed to explore the remote possibilities of education, he discusses the subject in a tentative spirit, as if vaguely hoping that more might, through some discovery in method, be accomplished by means of doctrine.  But in the “Republic” his permanent persuasion is shown.  He there bases his whole scheme of polity, as Goethe in the second part of “Wilhelm Meister” bases his scheme of education, upon a primary inspection of natures, in which it is assumed that culture must begin by humbly accepting the work of Nature, forswearing all attempt to add one jot or tittle to the native virtue of any human spirit.

It is always, however, less important for us to know what another thinks upon any high matter than to know what is our own deepest and inevitable thought concerning it; for, as the man himself thinketh, not as another thinketh for him, so is he:  his own thoughts are forces and engines in his nature; those of any other are at best but candidates for these profound effects.  I propose, therefore, that we throw open the whole question of man’s benefit to man by means of words.  Let us inquire—­if possible, with somewhat of courage and vigor—­what are the limits and what the laws of instructive communication.

And our first discovery will be that such communication has adamantine limitations.  The off-hand impression of most persons would probably be that we are able to make literal conveyance of our thought.  But, in truth, one could as soon convey the life out of his veins into the veins of another as transfer from his own mind to that of another any belief, thought, or perception whatsoever.