The world is filled with the proverbs[663] and acts and winkings of a base prudence, which is a devotion to matter, as if we possessed no other faculties than the palate, the nose, the touch, the eye and ear; a prudence which adores the Rule of Three, which never subscribes, which gives never, which seldom lends, and asks but one question of any project,—­Will it bake bread?  This is a disease like a thickening of the skin until the vital organs are destroyed.  But culture, revealing the high origin of the apparent world and aiming at the perfection of the man as the end, degrades everything else, as health and bodily life, into means.  It sees prudence not to be a several faculty, but a name for wisdom and virtue conversing with the body and its wants.  Cultivated men always feel and speak so as if a great fortune, the achievement of a civil or social measure, great personal influence, a graceful and commanding address, had their value as proofs of the energy of the spirit.  If a man lose his balance and immerse himself in any trades or pleasures for their own sake, he may be a good wheel or pin,[664] but he is not a cultivated man.

The spurious prudence, making the senses final, is the god of sots and cowards, and is the subject of all comedy.  It is nature’s joke, and therefore literature’s.  The true prudence limits this sensualism by admitting the knowledge of an internal and real world.  This recognition once made,—­the order of the world and the distribution of affairs and times being studied with the co-perception of their subordinate place, will reward any degree of attention.  For, our existence, thus apparently attached in nature to the sun and the returning moon and the periods which they mark; so susceptible to climate and to country, so alive to social good and evil, so fond of splendor and so tender to hunger and cold and debt,—­reads all its primary lessons out of these books.

Prudence does not go behind nature and ask whence it is?  It takes the laws of the world whereby man’s being is conditioned, as they are, and keeps these laws that it may enjoy their proper good.  It respects space and time, climate, want, sleep, the law of polarity,[665] growth and death.  There revolve, to give bound and period to his being on all sides, the sun and moon, the great formalists in the sky:  here lies stubborn matter, and will not swerve from its chemical routine.  Here is a planted globe, pierced and belted with natural laws and fenced and distributed externally with civil partitions and properties which impose new restraints on the young inhabitant.

We eat of the bread which grows in the field.  We live by the air which blows around us and we are poisoned by the air that is too cold or too hot, too dry or too wet.  Time, which shows so vacant, indivisible and divine in its coming, is slit and peddled into trifles and tatters.  A door is to be painted, a lock to be repaired.  I want wood or oil, or meal, or salt; the house smokes, or I have a headache;