. . . . It is not that I have any love of
mystery, but because I abhor it, and because I have often felt that words
may be a thick and darksome veil of mystery between the soul and the
truth which it seeks. Wretched were we, indeed, if we had no better
means of communicating ourselves, no fairer garb in which to array our
essential being, than these poor rags and tatters of Babel. Yet words
are not without their use even for purposes of explanation,--but merely
for explaining outward acts and all sorts of external things, leaving the
soul's life and action to explain itself in its own way.
What a misty disquisition I have scribbled! I would not read it over for
sixpence.
May 29th.--Rejoice with me, for I am free from a load of coal which has
been pressing upon my shoulders throughout all the hot weather. I am
convinced that Christian's burden consisted of coal; and no wonder he
felt so much relieved, when it fell off and rolled into the sepulchre.
His load, however, at the utmost, could not have been more than a few
bushels, whereas mine was exactly one hundred and thirty-five chaldrons
and seven tubs.
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