"I set down such choice experiences that my own writings may inspire
me, and at last I may make wholes of parts. Certainly it is a distinct
profession to rescue from oblivion and to fix the sentiments and
thoughts which visit all men, more or less, generally, and that the
contemplation of the unfinished picture may suggest its harmonious
completion. Associate reverently and as much as you can with your
loftiest thoughts. Each thought that is welcomed and recorded is
a nest-egg by the side of which another will be laid. Thoughts
accidentally thrown together become a frame in which more may be
developed and exhibited. Perhaps this is the main value of a habit of
writing or keeping a journal,--that is, we remember our best draught,
and stimulate ourselves. My thoughts are my company. They have a
certain individuality and separate existence, large personality.
Having by chance recorded a few disconnected thoughts and then brought
them into juxtaposition, they suggest a whole new field in which it
is possible to labor and think. Thought begets thought. I have a
commonplace-book for facts, and another for poetry. But I find it
difficult always to preserve the vague distinctions which I had in my
mind, for the most interesting and beautiful facts are so much the more
poetry,--and that is their success. They are translated from earth to
heaven. I see that if my facts were sufficiently vital and significant,
perhaps transmuted more into the substance of the human mind, I should
need but one book of poetry to contain them all.
"I do not know but thoughts written down thus in a journal might be
printed in the same form with greater advantage than if the related
ones were brought together into separate essays. They are allied to
life, and can be seen by the reader not to be far-fetched; thus, more
simple, less artful. I feel that in the other case, I should have a
proper form for my sketches. Here facts and names and dates communicate
more than we suspect. Whether the flower looks better in the nosegay
than in the meadow where it grew, and we had to wet our feet to get
it? Is the scholastic air any advantage? Perhaps I can never find so
good a setting for thoughts as I shall thus have taken them out of.
The crystal never sparkles more brightly than in the cavern. The world
have always liked best the fable with the moral. The children could
read the fable alone. The grown-up read both. The truth so told has
the best advantages of the most abstract statement, for it is not the
less universally applicable. Where else will you ever find the true
cement for your thoughts? How will you ever rivet them together without
leaving the marks of your file?
"Yet Plutarch did not so. Montaigne did not so. Men have written
travels in this form; but perhaps no man's daily life has been rich
enough to be journalized. Yet one's life should be so active and
progressive as to be a journey. But I am afraid to travel much, or to
famous places, lest it might completely dissipate the mind. Then I am
sure that what we observe at home, if we observe anything, is of more
importance than what we observe abroad. The far-fetched is of least
value. What we observe in travelling are to some extent the accidents
of the body; but what we observe when sitting at home are in the same
proportion phenomena of the mind itself. A wakeful night will yield as
much thought as a long journey. If I try thoughts by their quality, not
their quantity, I may find that a restless night will yield more than
the longest journey."
These masterpieces, Thoreau's Diaries, are a choice mingling of
physical and metaphysical elements. They show the art above art which
was busied about their composition. They come near fulfilling the
highest ends of expression; the things seen become parts of the
describer's mind, and speak through his Person. Quick with thought, his
sentences are colored and consolidated therein by his plastic genius.
* * * * *
Of gifts, there seems none more becoming to offer a friend than a
beautiful book, books of verse especially. How exquisite these verses
of Crashaw's, "Addressed to a Lady with a Prayer Book."
"Lo, here a little volume, but great book,
Fear it not, sweet,
It is no hypocrite,
Much larger in itself, than in its look.
"It is, in one rich handful, heaven and all
Heaven's royal hosts encamp'd, thus small,
To prove that true schools used to tell
A thousand angels in one point can dwell.
"'Tis Love's great artillery
Which here contracts itself and comes to lie
Close couched in your white bosom, and from thence
As from a snowy fortress of defence
Against the ghostly foe to take your part,
And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.
"It is the armory of light,
Let constant use but keep it bright,
You'll find it yields
To holy hands and humble hearts,
More swords and shields
Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.
Only be sure
The hands be pure
That hold these weapons, and the eyes
Those of turtles, chaste and true,
Wakeful and wise.
"Here is a friend shall fight for you;
Hold this book before your heart,
Let prayer alone to play his part.
"But O! the heart
That studies this high art,
Must be a sure housekeeper,
And yet no sleeper.
"Dear soul, be strong,
Mercy will come ere long,
And bring her bosom full of blessings;
Flowers of never-fading graces
To make immortal dressings
For worthy souls, whose wise embraces
Store up themselves for him, who is alone
The spouse of virgins, and the Virgin's Son.
"But if the noble bridegroom when he come
Shall find the wandering heart from home,
Leaving her chaste abode
To gad abroad
Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies,
To take her pleasures, and to play
And keep the devil's holiday;
To dance in the sunshine of some smiling
But beguiling
Spear of sweet and sugared lies;
Some slippery pair
Of false, perhaps as fair,
Flattering, but forswearing eyes,
Doubtless some other heart
Will get the start,
And stepping in before,
Will take possession of the sacred store
Of hidden sweets and holy joys,
Words which are not heard with ears
(Those tumultuous shops of noise),
Effectual whispers, whose still voice
The soul itself more feels than hears;
Amorous languishments, luminous trances,
Sights which are not seen with eyes;
Spiritual and soul-piercing glances,
Whose pure and subtle lightning flies
Home to the heart and sets the house on fire,
And melts it down in sweet desire,
Yet doth not stay
To ask the window's leave to pass that way.
An hundred thousand loves and graces,
And many a mystic thing
Which the divine embraces,
Of the dear spouse of spirits with them will bring,
For which it is no shame
That dull mortality must not know a name.
Of all this hidden store
Of blessings, and ten thousand more,
If when he come
He find the heart from home,
Doubtless he will unload
Himself some otherwhere,
And pour abroad
His precious sweets
On the fair soul whom first he meets."