and
therefore it gets spoken. The strong, self-complacent Luther declares
with an emphasis not to be mistaken, that "God himself cannot do without
wise men." Jacob Behmen and George Fox betray their egotism in the
pertinacity of their controversial tracts, and James Naylor once
suffered himself to be worshipped as the Christ. Each prophet comes
presently to identify himself with his thought, and to esteem his hat
and shoes sacred. However this may discredit such persons with the
judicious, it helps them with the people, as it gives heat, pungency,
and publicity to their words. A similar experience is not infrequent
in private life. Each young and ardent person writes a diary, in which,
when the hours of prayer and penitence arrive, he inscribes his soul.
The pages thus written are to him burning and fragrant; he reads them
on his knees by midnight and by the morning star; he wets them with his
tears; they are sacred; too good for the world, and hardly yet to be
shown to the dearest friend. This is the man-child that is born to the
soul, and her life still circulates in the babe. The umbilical cord
has not yet been cut. After some time has elapsed, he begins to wish to
admit his friend to this hallowed experience, and with hesitation, yet
with firmness, exposes the pages to his eye. Will they not burn his
eyes? The friend coldly turns them over, and passes from the writing to
conversation, with easy transition, which strikes the other party with
astonishment and vexation. He cannot suspect the writing itself. Days
and nights of fervid life, of communion with angels of darkness and of
light have engraved their shadowy characters on that tear-stained book.
He suspects the intelligence or the heart of his friend. Is there then
no friend? He cannot yet credit that one may have impressive experience
and yet may not know how to put his private fact into literature; and
perhaps the discovery that wisdom has other tongues and ministers than
we, that though we should hold our peace the truth would not the less be
spoken, might check injuriously the flames of our zeal. A man can
only speak so long as he does not feel his speech to be partial and
inadequate. It is partial, but he does not see it to be so whilst he
utters it. As soon as he is released from the instinctive and particular
and sees its partiality, he shuts his mouth in disgust. For no man can
write anything who does not think that what he writes is for the time
the hist