With their sad sisterhood are intermingled many youthfulmaidens， who have sickened in aristocratic mansions，and for whose aid science has unavailingly searched itsvolumes， and whom breathless love has watched. In ourranks the rich maiden and the poor seamstress may walkarm in arm. We might find innumerable other instances，where the bond of mutual disease—not to speak ofnation-sweeping pestilences—embraces high and low， andmakes the king a brother of the clown. But it is not hardto own that Disease is the natural aristocrat. Let him keephis state， and have his established orders of rank， and wearhis royal mantle of the color of a fever-flush； and let thenoble and wealthy boast their own physical infirmities，and display their symptoms as the badges of high station！
All things considered， these are as proper subjects ofhuman pride as any relations of human rank that men canfix upon.
Sound again， thou deep-breathed trumpeter！ and herald，with thy voice of might， shout forth another summons，that shall reach the old baronial castles of Europe， and therudest cabin of our western wilderness！ What class is nextto take its place in the procession of mortal life？ Let it bethose whom the gifts of intellect have united in a noblebrotherhood！
Aye， this is a reality， before which the conventionaldistinctions of society melt away， like a vapor when wewould grasp it with the hand. Were Byron now alive， andBurns， the first would come from his ancestral Abbey，flinging aside， although unwillingly， the inherited honorsof a thousand years， to take the arm of the mighty peasant，who grew immortal while he stooped behind his plough.
These are gone； but the hall， the farmer’s fireside， the hut，perhaps the palace， the counting-room， the workshop，the village， the city， life’s high places and low ones， mayall produce their poets， whom a common temperamentpervades like an electric sympathy. Peer or ploughman， wewill muster them， pair by pair， and shoulder to shoulder.
Even society， in its most artificial state， consents to thisarrangement. These factory girls from Lowell shall matethemselves with the pride of drawing-rooms and literarycircles—the bluebells in fashion’s nose-gay， the Sapphos，and Montagues， and Nortons， of the age. Other modesof intellect bring together as strange companies. Silkgownedprofessor of languages， give your arm to thissturdy blacksmith， and deem yourself honored by theconjunction， though you behold him grimy from theanvil. All varieties of human speech are like his mothertongue to this rare man. Indiscriminately， let those taketheir places， of whatever rank they come， who possess thekingly gifts to lead armies， or to sway a people， Nature’sgenerals， her lawgivers， her kings， —and with them， also，the deep philosophers， who think the thought in onegeneration that is to revolutionize society in the next.
With the hereditary legislator， in whom eloquence is a fardescendedattainment—a rich echo repeated by powerful
voices， from Cicero downward—we will match somewondrous backwoodsman， who has caught a wild power oflanguage from the breeze among his native forest boughs.
But we may safely leave brethren and sisterhood tosettle their own congenialities. Our ordinary distinctionsbecome so trifling， so impalpable， so ridiculously visionary，in comparison with a classification founded on truth， thatall talk about the matter is immediately a common-place.
Yet， the longer I reflect， the less am I satisfied withthe idea of forming a separate class of mankind on thebasis of high intellectual power. At best， it is but a higherdevelopment of innate gifts common to all. Perhaps，moreover， he， whose genius appears deepest and truest，excels his fellows in nothing save the knack of expression；he throws out， occasionally， a lucky hint at truths of whichevery human soul is profoundly， though unutterably，conscious. Therefore， though we suffer the brotherhoodof intellect to march onward together， it may be doubtedwhether their peculiar relation will not begin to vanish， assoon as the procession shall have passed beyond the circleof this present world. But we do not classify for eternity.
And next， let the trumpet pour forth a funereal wail，and the herald’s voice give breath， in one vast cry， to all thegroans and grievous utterances that are audible throughoutthe earth. We appeal now to the sacred bond of sorrow，and summon the great multitude who labor under similarafflictions， to take their places in the march.
