SELF-RELIANCE -- 2

Are they my poor?

I tell thee, thou foolish philanthropist, that I grudge the dollar, the dime, the cent, I give to such men as do not belong to me and to whom I do not belong.

There is a class of persons to whom by all spiritual affinity I am bought and sold;

for them I will go to prison, if need be;

but your miscellaneous popular charities;

the education at college of fools;

the building of meeting-houses to the vain end to which many now stand;

alms to sots; and

the thousandfold Relief Societies;

though I confess with shame I sometimes succumb and give the dollar, it is a wicked dollar which by and by I shall have the manhood to withhold.

Virtues are, in the popular estimate, rather the exception than the rule.

There is the man and his virtues.

Men do what is called a good action, as some piece of courage or charity, much as they would pay a fine in expiation of daily non-appearance on parade.

Their works are done as an apology or extenuation of their living in the world, as invalids and the insane pay a high board.

Their virtues are penances.

I do not wish to expiate, but to live.

My life is for itself and not for a spectacle.

I much prefer that it should be of a lower strain, so it be genuine and equal, than that it should be glittering and unsteady.

I wish it to be sound and sweet, and not to need diet and bleeding.

I ask primary evidence that you are a man, and refuse this appeal from the man to his actions.

I know that for myself it makes no difference whether I do or forbear those actions which are reckoned excellent.

I cannot consent to pay for a privilege where I have intrinsic right.

Few and mean as my gifts may be, I actually am, and do not need for my own assurance or the assurance of my fellows any secondary testimony.

What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think.

This rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual life, may serve for the whole distinction between greatness and meanness.

It is the harder, because you will always find those who think they know what is your duty better than you know it.

It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion;

it is easy in solitude to live after our own;

but

the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with

perfect sweetness

the independence of solitude.

The objection to conforming to usages that have become dead to you is, that it scatters your force.

It loses your time and blurs the impression of your character.

If you maintain a dead church,

contribute to a dead Bible-society,

vote with a great party

either for the government or against it,

spread your table like base housekeepers,

under all these screens I have difficulty to detect the precise man you are.

And, of course, so much force is withdrawn from your proper life.

But do your work, and I shall know you.

Do your work, and you shall reinforce yourself.

A man must consider what a blindman's-buff is this game of conformity.

If I know your sect, I anticipate your argument.

I hear a preacher announce for his text and topic the expediency of one of the institutions of his church.

Do I not know beforehand that not possibly can he say a new and spontaneous word?

Do I not know that, with all this ostentation of examining the grounds of the institution, he will do no such thing?

Do I not know that he is pledged to himself not to look but at one side, — the permitted side, not as a man, but as a parish minister?

He is a retained attorney, and these airs of the bench are the emptiest affectation.

Well, most men have bound their eyes with one or another handkerchief, and attached themselves to some one of these communities of opinion.

This conformity makes them not false in a few particulars, authors of a few lies, but false in all particulars.

Their every truth is not quite true.

Their two is not the real two, their four not the real four; so that every word they say chagrins us, and we know not where to begin to set them right.

Meantime nature is not slow to equip us in the prison-uniform of the party to which we adhere.

We come to wear one cut of face and figure, and acquire by degrees the gentlest asinine expression.

There is a mortifying experience in particular, which does not fail to wreak itself also in the general history;

I mean "the foolish face of praise," the forced smile which we put on in company where we do not feel at ease in answer to conversation which does not interest us.

The muscles, not spontaneously moved, but moved by a low usurping willfulness, grow tight about the outline of the face with the most disagreeable sensation.

For nonconformity the world whips you with its displeasure.