DIARIES.
I T happens now and then that some life is extinguished of which one would gladly learn that a daily record had been kept. Perhaps it was passed among strange scenes or note- worthy people, and it would be pleasant to turn the pages of a diary in which its impressions might be found, vivid and sharply cut, as at the first moment, not modified by the understanding, or the misunderstanding, of later years. As a rule, however, there is little cause to regret the non-existence of diaries. The demands of any possible curiosity are apt to be anticipated, and if a few scraps of knowledge, which we would have given much to preserve, are lost to us by a fatal neglect, we may remember that a great deal of information with which we might have dispensed is printed and at hand. Perhaps this is not alto- gether satisfactory, but it is about as consoling as most consola- tions. And if anything further is needed, it may be surmised that in this, as in other things, waste is the inevitable order of the day, and that many must write diaries, in order that a few diaries may be written. It is a pleasure to take this view of the matter, and thus to be enabled to look on the writers of these worthless yet necessary pages with pity, and even with a little gratitude, rather than with condemnation. So few of us are qualified to cast the first stone, that any justi- fication must be welcome to the majority, and an extenuat- ing circumstance may be found in the fact that the temptation to keep a diary assails us early in life, while the wisdom which would strengthen us to resist it comes later. When we are young, the advantages are so obvious, and the penalties are not even suspected. Life is an unexplored country, and it is natural, if not inevitable, that we should take our experiences and discoveries to be not only new to us, but unique in them- selves, and worthy of record. Besides, there may be a longing to write, without any very definite idea what to write about, and a journal offers an easy and delightful solution of the diffi- culty. "An account kept of daily transactions," says the dic- tionary, coldly ; but dictionaries are apt to be cold, and few diaries are kept within these safe and uninteresting limits. They are more frequently the resource of those whose daily transactions fail to occupy their time, and are likely to prove rather an account kept of daily aspirations, longings, admira- tions, and discontents. All the passing moods which seem so novel and wonderful are henceforward to become eternal in their pages. It will only be needful to turn to such a book in dull and common-place hours, to go back to life's best and fullest moments, to catch once more the fire of some ardent resolve, the charm of a beautiful landscape, the delight in grasping a new thought. And it is quite true that there is no way to preserve the freshness of such impressions except by recording them at the time, for life is not so much a series of pages, as one page which is written and rewritten, till many of its sentences almost disappear in a cloud of corrections and modifications. Unfortunately, the attempt to preserve them at all has its draw- backs. The time will come when these early experiences will not seem quite so wonderful, when the ideas will strike us as lees absolutely original, and the verdict on the general arrange- ment of the universe will appear a little hasty. It is probable, too, that the style will leave something to be desired. We may feel ungratefully ashamed of the enthusiastic adjectives which did duty with equal readiness in describing scenery and sermons, a favourite author, or perhaps a picnic. To write about the moon is very hanhless ; remembering certain poets, one would willingly say far more ; one would feel that it might be a grievous thing, if no one should ever write about the moon from this time forward. But nevertheless it is not given to many of us to write about the moon in early life, and to look back to our efforts with unmixed satisfaction.
It is true that, when the exalted hopes with which the task was begun have faded away, certain advantages of a more prosaic kind will remain. Burdensome as the habit of keep- ing a diary may be, it undoubtedly gives a sense of supe- riority in dealing with passing events, which one may well be loath to relinquish. It is pleasant to be able to inform a friend that he is mistaken, when he confidently asserts that something happened four or five weeks ago, since the incident in question really occurred last Tuesday fohnight. And if he is half re- sentfully incredulous, it is pleasanter still to pelt him with a
few hard little facts which put the matter beyond dispute. A
little hesitation is natural before resigning such a position, laying down the pen, and consenting to pass the rest of one's life in a hazy atmosphere of unrecorded memories. Yet even these advantages are dearly bought. There are common- place hours to be chronicled, as well as bright ones. There will often be times when the writing of the daily record will be distasteful and irksome, and when we shall need to be goaded to it by a sense of duty. Conscience usually finds sufficient opportunities of inflicting torture, and it would seem hardly necessary to provide it with a new weapon for every-day use, for though we ourselves created the obliga- tion, any failure to fulfil the task will none the less be followed by stings of self-reproach. At such times, we might be tempted to break loose from our bondage. But we hesitate afresh,
remembering that such a decision, once made, is irrevocable ; the
renunciation must be complete. It would never do to go back to the diary which had been abandoned, and to begin to wind the broken threads afresh. Everything worth recording would have happened in the interval, and the blank, which could not be filled up, would be as oppressive as a nightmare. To stop short in such an undertaking is to render all previous perseverance useless. A lad might as well pause to consider when half- way up a greased pole. Each page is a new link added to the chain that binds us ; a new hostage is given with each corn-
pleted year, And even if we have decision enough, or it may be laziness enough, to triumph over the souse of duty, and to bring the journal to an abrupt close, it must not be assumed that there is an end of the matter. The incom- plete work will remain as a standing reproach, for if there is any difficulty in giving up the' habit of writing a diary, there is far more difficulty in destroying what is already wr ten. It would be a kind of self-mutilation, a wilful blot 'ng-out of a large space of memory. A tract clearly man +d out, and studded thickly with definite little certainties, woukt e exchanged for the vague breadth, the softened colour- ing afas the vanishing outlines of a distant landscape. Some- thing of self-knowledge that could never be replaced would be gone with the diary. It is spared, therefore, laid aside, and perhaps almost forgotten. But, sooner or later, chance will bring it from its hiding-place, and the longer it has lain there untouched, the greater will be the apprehension with which we shall open it once more. And in all probability the reality will be worse than our fears. We may remember that the book was closed in dissatisfaction with it and with ourselves, but the lapse of time will have made us still sterner and more unsympathetic in our judgment. We should not have believed for a moment that we could have been quite such fools, on any testimony in the world short of our own handwriting. But when the assertion that such we were faces us in that cruel black and white, it is useless to attempt to thrust the book back into forgetfulness. It will have flashed a light into the shadowland of memory, and revealed the work that is carried on there. The past is a picture, and we, unconsciously, are artists. In our desire for dignity and beauty, as we understand them, for something effective, and above all, for the unity which is so hard to find in our scrappy and thwarted lives, we instinctively colour, arrange, and harmonise our bygone days, with more or less approximation to the truth, Some flood even the saddest memories with the sun- shine of a happy temperament, some darken the shadows of life to bring out certain moments with a heightened and peculiar charm, or brighten earlier years the better to express the gloom of later sorrow. The one figure which alone has moved through all the scenes, though in some it may have played but a subordinate part, must naturally,assume a central position when the past is considered as a whole ; and events, however important in themselves, must be grouped with due regard to that supremacy. And the picture thus painted bears little trace of the doubts aud hesitations which form so consider- able a part of our daily lives. This we decided, that we did, and we conveniently forget how near We may have been to say- ing and doing something quite different, something which is now so far from us, that we do not care to be reminded that it could ever attract us. But a page from an old diary shows us how we were carried away by the enthusiasm or the despair of the moment; or rather, which is much more humiliating, by the enthusiasms and the despairs of many moments. Adjectives which might well be used once in a lifetime arc apt to appear. in the journal about once a week. It is difficult to get much dignity and consistency out of such materials, and it is equally difficult to go back to the ideal portrait, and not to feel a little uneasy about some of the other recollections on which we have delighted to dwell. Still, it may be urged, it is surely best to face the truth honestly, however unpleasant it may prove. No doubt, but the answer to that is that the diary is only a distorted shadow of the truth. Not only may we protest that we could never have believed we were such fools ; but in spite of our own handwriting, we may be justi- fied in believing that we were not. Our silliest feelings were always those we thought finest—for we were foolish enough—and we wrote them down with peculiar care ; indeed, we went farther, and wrote down what we thought they ought to have been, rather than what they were. More espe- cially is this true of diaries made up late at night. The colours laid on by candle-light will not bear the light of day, but we may be sure that we caricatured Ourselves, and that we were wiser in the mornings. The days which are gone were really better than the hackneyed words in which we tried to describe them, and our vague memories, glorified by the poetry which gathers about the past, are at least as near the truth as the dated entries. The picture may be idealised, but the diary is the common-place photograph which limits and degrades— more surely, the more we study it—the dim remembrance of an
absent friend,
Bat, after all, what is the use of saying anything about it Diaries will be written, and one in a thousand, o 7 one in a hun- dred thousand, may prove to have been well Worth the labour expended, though even of those few whirl' satisfy the reader, it may be suspected that still fewer will satisfy the writers. One may question, indeed, whether any diary which dealt with things deeper than the outward circumstances and experiences of life could ever be pleasant reading to its owner. Even sup- posing oneself to be on the high-road to perfection--and few people, with proper modesty, can lay claim to much more than that —we are told that the way to it lies through a series of disgusts. A diary is a contrivance which enables us to taste the flavour of all these disgusts at once, but none of the beginners who are intent on their delightful hopes and admirations will believe it. Nor will they listen, even though one should warn them that they are heedlessly undermiuing the support they may one day need. Yet it is true. How can they ever silence an uneasy conscience, by declaring that the future shall make ample amends for all the shortcomings of time gone by ? There is indeed much comfort in the good resolutions of to-day, but it is reserved for those who have wisely abstained from recording the resolutions of the past.
Previous page
