In nature, this self-registration is incessant, and the narrative is
the print of the seal. It neither exceeds nor comes short of the fact.
But nature strives upward; and, in man, the report is something more
than print of the seal. It is a new and finer form of the original.
The record is alive, as that which it recorded is alive. In man, the
memory is a kind of looking-glass, which, having received the images
of surrounding objects, is touched with life, and disposes them in a
new order. The facts which transpired do not lie in it inert; but some
subside, and others shine; so that soon we have a new picture, composed
of the eminent experiences. The man cooperates. He loves to communicate;
and that which is for him to say lies as a load on his heart until it
is delivered. But, besides the universal joy of conversation, some men
are born with exalted powers for this second creation. Men are born
to write. The gardener saves every slip, and seed, and peach-stone;
his vocation is to be a planter of plants. Not less does the writer
attend his affairs. Whatever he beholds or experiences, comes to him
as a model, and sits for its picture. He counts it all nonsense that
they say, that some things are undescribable. He believes that all
that can be thought can be written, first or last; and he would report
the Holy Ghost, or attempt it. Nothing so broad, so subtle, or so dear,
but comes therefore commended to his pen,--and he will write. In his
eyes, a man is the faculty of reporting, and the universe is the
possibility of being reported. In conversation, in calamity, he finds
new materials; as our German poet said, "some god gave me the power
to paint what I suffer." He draws his rents from rage and pain. By
acting rashly, he buys the power of talking wisely. Vexations, and a
tempest of passion, only fill his sails; as the good Luther writes,
"When I am angry I can pray well, and preach well;" and if we knew the
genesis of fine-strokes of eloquence, they might recall the complaisance