Journal of Arthur Stirling | Page 8

never been able to study style. I
believe that the style of this great writer came from what he had to say.
You think about how he said it; but he thought about what he was
saying.
It seemed strange to me when I thought of it. With all my trembling
eagerness, with all my preparation, such an idea as "practise" never
came to me. How could I cut the path until I had come to the forest?
All my soul has been centered upon living. Since this book first took
hold of me--eighteen months ago--I could not tell with what terrible
intensity I have lived it. They said to me, "You are a poet; why don't
you write verses for the magazines?" But I was not a writer of verses
for the magazines.
It has been a shrine that I have kept in the corner of my heart, and
tended there. I have never gone near it, except upon my knees. There
were days when I did not go near it at all, when I was weak, or
distraught. But I knew that every day I was closer to the task, that every
day my heart was more full of it. It was like wild music--it came to a
climax that swept me away in spite of myself.
To get the mastery of your soul, to hold it here, in your hands, at your
bidding, to consecrate your life to that, to watch and pray and toil for
that, to rouse yourself and goad yourself day and night for that; to thrill
with the memory of great consecrations, of heroic sufferings and
aspirations; to have the power of the stars in your heart, of nature, of
history and the soul of man; that is your "practise."
* * * * *
April 17th.
It is true that my whole life has been a practise for the writing of this
book, that this book is the climax of my whole life. I have
toiled--learned--built up a mind--found a conviction; but I have never
written anything, or tried to write anything, to be published. I have said,
"Wait; it is not time." And now it is time. If there is anything of use in
all that I have done, it is in this book.
Yes; and also it is a climax in another way. It is my goal and my

salvation.--Ah, how I have toiled for it!
* * * * *
April 19th.
I saw my soul to-day. It was a bubble, blown large, palpitating,
whirling over a stormy sea; glorious with the rainbow hues it was, but
perilous, abandoned.--Do you catch the feeling of my soul?
Something perilous--I do not much care what. A traveler scaling the
mountains, leaping upon dizzy heights; a gambler staking his fortune,
his freedom, his life--upon a cast!
I will tell you about it.
It began when I was fifteen. My great-uncle, my guardian, is a
wholesale grocer in Chicago; he has a large palace and a large
waistcoat.
"Will you be a wholesale grocer?" said he.
"No," said I, "I will not."
I might have been a partner by this time, had I said Yes, and had a
palace and a large waistcoat too.
"Then what will you be?" asked the great-uncle.
"I will be a poet," said I.
"You mean you will be a loafer?" said he.
"Yes," said I--disliking argument--"I will be a loafer."
And so I went away, and while I went I was thinking, far down in my
soul. And I said: "It must be everything or nothing; either I am a poet or
I am not. I will act as if I were; I will burn my bridges behind me. If I
am, I will win--for you can not kill a poet; and if I am not, I will die."
Thus is it perilous.
I fight the fight with all my soul; I give every ounce of my strength, my
will, my hope, to the making of myself a poet. And when the time
comes I write my poem. Then if I win, I win empires; and if I lose--
"You put all your eggs into one basket," some one once said to me.
"Yes," I replied, "I put all my eggs into one basket--and then I carry the
basket myself."
Now I have come to the last stage of the journey--the "one fight more,
and the last." And can I give any idea of what is back of me, to nerve
me to that fight? I will try to tell you.
For seven years I have borne poverty and meanness, sickness, heat,
cold, toil--that I might make myself an artist. The indignities, the

degradations--I could not tell them, if I spent all the time I have in
writing a