So draw near their end these garrulous notes. There have doubtless
occurr'd some repetitions, technical errors in the consecutiveness of
dates, in the minutiae of botanical, astronomical, &c., exactness,
and perhaps elsewhere;--for in gathering up, writing, peremptorily
dispatching copy, this hot weather, (last of July and through August,
'82,) and delaying not the printers, I have had to hurry along, no time
to spare. But in the deepest veracity of all--in reflections of objects,
scenes, Nature's outpourings, to my senses and receptivity, as they
seem'd to me--in the work of giving those who care for it, some
authentic glints, specimen-days of my life--and in the _bona fide_
spirit and relations, from author to reader, on all the subjects
design'd, and as far as they go, I feel to make unmitigated claims.
The synopsis of my early life, Long Island, New York city, and so forth,
and the diary-jottings in the Secession war, tell their own story. My
plan in starting what constitutes most of the middle of the book, was
originally for hints and data of a Nature-poem that should carry one's
experiences a few hours, commencing at noon-flush, and so through
the after-part of the day--I suppose led to such idea by my own
life-afternoon now arrived. But I soon found I could move at more ease,
by giving the narrative at first hand. (Then there is a humiliating
lesson one learns, in serene hours, of a fine day or night. Nature seems
to look on all fixed-up poetry and art as something almost impertinent.)
Thus I went on, years following, various seasons and areas, spinning
forth my thought beneath the night and stars, (or as I was confined to
my room by half-sickness,) or at midday looking out upon the sea, or far
north steaming over the Saguenay's black breast, jotting all down in the
loosest sort of chronological order, and here printing from my
impromptu notes, hardly even the seasons group'd together, or anything
corrected--so afraid of dropping what smack of outdoors or sun or
starlight might cling to the lines, I dared not try to meddle with or
smooth them. Every now and then, (not often, but for a foil,) I carried
a book in my pocket--or perhaps tore out from some broken or cheap
edition a bunch of loose leaves; most always had something of the sort
ready, but only took it out when the mood demanded. In that way, utterly
out of reach of literary conventions, I re-read many authors.
I cannot divest my appetite of literature, yet I find myself eventually
trying it all by Nature--_first premises_ many call it, but really the
crowning results of all, laws, tallies and proofs. (Has it never occur'd
to any one how the last deciding tests applicable to a book are
entirely outside of technical and grammatical ones, and that any truly
first-class production has little or nothing to do with the rules and
calibres of ordinary critics? or the bloodless chalk of Allibone's
Dictionary? I have fancied the ocean and the daylight, the mountain
and the forest, putting their spirit in a judgment on our books. I have
fancied some disembodied human soul giving its verdict.)