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Emerson And His Journals
by
II
Men who write Journals are usually men of certain marked traits–they are idealists, they love solitude rather than society, they are self-conscious, and they love to write. At least this seems to be true of the men of the past century who left Journals of permanent literary worth–Amiel, Emerson, and Thoreau. Amiel’s Journal has more the character of a diary than has Emerson’s or Thoreau’s, though it is also a record of thoughts as well as of days. Emerson left more unprinted matter than he chose to publish during his lifetime.
The Journals of Emerson and Thoreau are largely made up of left-overs from their published works, and hence as literary material, when compared with their other volumes, are of secondary importance. You could not make another “Walden” out of Thoreau’s Journals, nor build up another chapter on “Self-Reliance,” or on “Character,” or on the “Over-Soul,” from Emerson’s, though there are fragments here and there in both that are on a level with their best work.
Emerson records in 1835 that his brother Charles wondered that he did not become sick at the stomach over his poor Journal: “Yet is obdurate habit callous even to contempt. I must scribble on….” Charles evidently was not a born scribbler like his brother. He was clearly more fond of real life and of the society of his fellows. He was an orator and could not do himself justice with the pen. Men who write Journals, as I have said, are usually men of solitary habits, and their Journal largely takes the place of social converse. Amiel, Emerson, and Thoreau were lonely souls, lacking in social gifts, and seeking relief in the society of their own thoughts. Such men go to their Journals as other men go to their clubs. They love to be alone with themselves, and dread to be benumbed or drained of their mental force by uncongenial persons. To such a man his Journal becomes his duplicate self and he says to it what he could not say to his nearest friend. It becomes both an altar and a confessional. Especially is this true of deeply religious souls such as the men I have named. They commune, through their Journals, with the demons that attend them. Amiel begins his Journal with the sentence, “There is but one thing needful–to possess God,” and Emerson’s Journal in its most characteristic pages is always a search after God, or the highest truth.
“After a day of humiliation and stripes,” he writes, “if I can write it down, I am straightway relieved and can sleep well. After a day of joy, the beating heart is calmed again by the diary. If grace is given me by all angels and I pray, if then I can catch one ejaculation of humility or hope and set it down in syllables, devotion is at an end.” “I write my journal, I deliver my lecture with joy,” but “at the name of society all my repulsions play, all my quills rise and sharpen.”
He clearly had no genius for social intercourse. At the age of thirty he said he had “no skill to live with men; that is, such men as the world is made of; and such as I delight in I seldom find.” Again he says, aged thirty-two, “I study the art of solitude; I yield me as gracefully as I can to destiny,” and adds that it is “from eternity a settled thing” that he and society shall be “nothing to each other.” He takes to his Journal instead. It is his house of refuge.
Yet he constantly laments how isolated he is, mainly by reason of the poverty of his nature, his want of social talent, of animal heat, and of sympathy with the commonplace and the humdrum. “I have no animal spirits, therefore when surprised by company and kept in a chair for many hours, my heart sinks, my brow is clouded, and I think I will run for Acton woods and live with the squirrels henceforth.” But he does not run away; he often takes it out in hoeing in his garden: “My good hoe as it bites the ground revenges my wrongs, and I have less lust to bite my enemies.” “In smoothing the rough hillocks I smooth my temper. In a short time I can hear the bobolinks sing and see the blessed deluge of light and color that rolls around me.” Somewhere he has said that the writer should not dig, and yet again and again we find him resorting to hoe or spade to help him sleep, as well as to smooth his temper: “Yesterday afternoon, I stirred the earth about my shrubs and trees and quarrelled with the pipergrass, and now I have slept, and no longer am morose nor feel twitchings in the muscles of my face when a visitor is by.” We welcome these and many another bit of self-analysis: “I was born with a seeing eye and not a helping hand. I can only comfort my friends by thought, and not by love or aid.” “I was made a hermit and am content with my lot. I pluck golden fruit from rare meetings with wise men.” Margaret Fuller told him he seemed always on stilts: “It is even so. Most of the persons whom I see in my own house I see across a gulf. I cannot go to them nor they come to me. Nothing can exceed the frigidity and labor of my speech with such. You might turn a yoke of oxen between every pair of words; and the behavior is as awkward and proud.”