Proverbial Philosophy / The First and Second Series

by Unknown

OF WRITING.

The pen of a ready writer, whereunto shall it be likened?

Ask of the scholar, he shall know,—to the chains that bind a Proteus:

Ask of the poet, he shall say,—to the sun, the lamp of heaven:

Ask of thy neighbour, he can answer,—to the friend that telleth my thought:

The merchant considereth it well, as a ship freighted with wares;

The divine holdeth it a miracle, giving utterance to the dumb.

It fixeth, expoundeth, and disseminateth sentiment;

Chaining up a thought, clearing it of mystery, and sending it bright into the world.

To think rightly, is of knowledge; to speak fluently, is of nature;

To read with profit, is of care; but to write aptly, is of practice.

No talent among men hath more scholars, and fewer masters:

For to write is to speak beyond hearing, and none stand by to explain.

To be accurate, write; to remember, write; to know thine own mind, write;

And a written prayer is a prayer of faith: special, sure, and to be answered.

Hast thou a thought upon thy brain, catch it while thou canst;

Or other thoughts shall settle there, and this shall soon take wing:

Thine uncompounded unity of soul, which argueth and maketh it immortal,

Yieldeth up its momentary self to every single thought;

Therefore, to husband thine ideas, and give them stability and substance,

Write often for thy secret eye; so shalt thou grow wiser.

The commonest mind is full of thoughts; some worthy of the rarest:

And could it see them fairly writ, would wonder at its wealth.

O precious compensation to the dumb, to write his wants and wishes;

O dear amends to the stammering tongue, to pen his burning thoughts!

To be of the college of Eloquence, through these silent symbols;

To pour out all the flowing mind without the toil of speech;

To show the babbling world how it might discourse more sweetly;

To prove that merchandize of words bringeth no monopoly of wisdom;

To take sweet vengeance on a prating crew, for the tongue's dishonour,

By the large triumph of the pen, the homage rendered to a writing.

With such, that telegraph of mind is dearer than wealth or wisdom,

Enabling to please without pain, to impart without humiliation.

Fair girl, whose eye hath caught the rustic penmanship of love,

Let thy bright brow and blushing cheek confess in this sweet hour,—

Let thy full heart, poor guilty one, whom the scroll of pardon hath just reached,—

Thy wet glad face, O mother, with news of a far-off child,—

Thy strong and manly delight, pilgrim of other shores,

When the dear voice of thy betrothed speaketh in the letter of affection,—

Let the young poet, exulting in his lay, and hope (how false) of fame,

While watching at deep midnight, he buildeth up the verse,—

Let the calm child of genius, whose name shall never die,

For that the transcript of his mind hath made his thoughts immortal,—

Let these, let all, with no faint praise, with no light gratitude, confess

The blessings poured upon the earth from the pen of a ready writer.

Moreover, their preciousness in absence is proved by the desire of their presence:

When the despairing lover waiteth day after day,

Looking for a word in reply, one word writ by that hand,

And cursing bitterly the morn ushered in by blank disappointment:

Or when the long-looked-for answer argueth a cooling friend,

And the mind is plied suspiciously with dark inexplicable doubts,

While thy wounded heart counteth its imaginary scars,

And thou art the innocent and injured, that friend the capricious and in fault:

Or when the earnest petition, that craveth for thy needs,

Unheeded, yea, unopened, tortureth with starving delay:

Or when the silence of a son, who would have written of his welfare,

Racketh a father's bosom with sharp-cutting fears.

For a letter, timely writ, is a rivet to the chain of affection,

And a letter, untimely delayed, is as rust to the solder.

The pen, flowing with love, or dipped black in hate,

Or tipped with delicate courtesies, or harshly edged with censure,

Hath quickened more good than the sun, more evil than the sword,

More joy than woman's smile, more woe than frowning fortune;

And shouldst thou ask my judgment of that which hath most profit in the world,

For answer take thou this, The prudent penning of a letter.

Thou hast not lost an hour, whereof there is a record;

A written thought at midnight shall redeem the livelong day.

Idea is as a shadow that departeth, speech is fleeting as the wind,

Reading is an unremembered pastime; but a writing is eternal:

For therein the dead heart liveth, the clay-cold tongue is eloquent,

And the quick eye of the reader is cleared by the reed of the scribe.

As a fossil in the rock, or a coin in the mortar of a ruin,

So the symbolled thoughts tell of a departed soul:

The plastic hand hath its witness in a statue, and exactitude of vision in a picture,

And so, the mind that was among us, in its writings is embalmed.

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