THE following sketch was written for the young, at the suggestion of
friends.
My audience is understood to be composed of girls of all ages, and of
women who have not forgotten their girlhood. Such as have a friendly
appreciation of girls--and of those who write for them--are also
welcome to listen to as much of my narrative as they choose. All others
are eavesdroppers, and, of course, have no right to criticise.
To many, the word "autobiography" implies nothing but conceit and
egotism. But these are not necessarily its characteristics. If an apple
blossom or a ripe apple could tell its own story, it would be, still
more than its own, the story of the sunshine that smiled upon it, of
the winds that whispered to it, of the birds that sang around it, of
the storms that visited it, and of the motherly tree that held it and
fed it until its petals were unfolded and its form developed.
A complete autobiography would indeed be a picture of the outer and
inner universe photographed upon one little life's consciousness. For
does not the whole world, seen and unseen go to the making up of every
human being? The commonest personal history has its value when it is
looked at as a part of the One Infinite Life. Our life--which is the
very best thing we have--is ours only that we may share it with Our
Father's family, at their need. If we have anything, within us worth
giving away, to withhold it is ungenerous; and we cannot look honestly
into ourselves without acknowledging with humility our debt to the
lives around us for whatever of power or beauty has been poured into
ours.
None of us can think of ourselves as entirely separate beings. Even an
autobiographer has to say "we" much oftener than "I." Indeed, there may
be more egotism in withdrawing mysteriously into one's self, than in
frankly unfolding one's life--story, for better or worse. There may be
more vanity in covering, one's face with a veil, to be wondered at and
guessed about, than in drawing it aside, and saying by that act,
"There! you see that I am nothing remarkable."
However, I do not know that I altogether approve of autobiography
myself, when the subject is a person of so little importance as in the
present instance. Still, it may have a reason for being, even in a
case like this.
Every one whose name is before the public at all must be aware of a
common annoyance in the frequent requests which are made for personal
facts, data for biographical paragraphs, and the like. To answer such
requests and furnish the material asked for, were it desirable, would
interfere seriously with the necessary work of almost any writer. The
first impulse is to pay no attention to them, putting them aside as
mere signs of the ill-bred, idle curiosity of the age we live in about
people and their private affairs. It does not seem to be supposed
possible that authors can have any natural shrinking from publicity,
like other mortals.
But while one would not willingly encourage an intrusive custom, there
is another view of the matter. The most enjoyable thing about writing
is that the relation between writer and reader may be and often does
become that of mutual friendship; an friends naturally like to know
each other in a neighborly way.
We are all willing to gossip about ourselves, sometimes, with those who
are really interested in us. Girls especially are fond of exchanging
confidences with those whom they think they can trust; it is one of the
most charming traits of a simple, earnest-hearted girlhood, and they
are the happiest women who never lose it entirely.
I should like far better to listen to my girl-readers' thoughts about
life and themselves than to be writing out my own experiences. It is to
my disadvantage that the confidences, in this case, must all be on one
side. But I have known so many girls so well in my relation to them of
schoolmate, workmate, and teacher, I feel sure of a fair share of their
sympathy and attention.
It is hardly possible for an author to write anything sincerely without
making it something of an autobiography. Friends can always read a
personal history, or guess at it, between the lines. So I sometimes
think I have already written mine, in my verses. In them, I have found
the most natural and free expression of myself. They have seemed to set
my life to music for me, a life that has always had to be occupied with
many things besides writing. Not, however, that I claim to have written
much poetry: only perhaps some true rhymes: I do not see how there
could be any pleasure in writing insincere ones.
Whatever special interest this little narrative of mine may have is due
to the social influences under which I was reared, and particularly to
the prominent place held by both work and religion in New England half
a century ago. The period of my growing-up had peculiarities which our
future history can never repeat, although something far better is
undoubtedly already resulting thence. Those peculiarities were the
natural development of the seed sown by our sturdy Puritan ancestry.
The religion of our fathers overhung us children like the shadow of a
mighty tree against the trunk of which we rested, while we looked up in
wonder through the great boughs that half hid and half revealed the
sky. Some of the boughs were already decaying, so that perhaps we began
to see a little more of the sky, than our elders; but the tree was
sound at its heart. There was life in it that can never be lost to the
world.
One thing we are at last beginning to understand, which our ancestors
evidently had not learned; that it is far more needful for theologians
to become as little children, than for little children to become
theologians. They considered it a duty that they owed to the youngest
of us, to teach us doctrines. And we believed in our instructors, if we
could not always digest their instructions. We learned to reverence
truth as they received it and lived it, and to feel that the search for
truth was one chief end of our being.
It was a pity that we were expected to begin thinking upon hard
subjects so soon, and it was also a pity that we were set to hard work
while so young. Yet these were both inevitable results of circumstances
then existing; and perhaps the two belong together. Perhaps habits of
conscientious work induce thought. Certainly, right thinking naturally
impels people to work.
We learned no theories about "the dignity of labor," but we were taught
to work almost as if it were a religion; to keep at work, expecting
nothing else. It was our inheritance, banded down from the outcasts of
Eden. And for us, as for them, there was a blessing hidden in the
curse. I am glad that I grew up under these wholesome Puritanic
influences, as glad as I am that I was born a New Englander; and I
surely should have chosen New England for my birthplace before any
region under the sun.
Rich or poor, every child comes into the world with some imperative
need of its own, which shapes its individuality. I believe it was
Grotius who said, "Books are necessities of my life. Food and clothing
I can do without, if I must."
My "must-have" was poetry. From the first, life meant that to me. And,
fortunately, poetry is not purchasable material, but an atmosphere in
which every life may expand. I found it everywhere about me. The
children of old New England were always surrounded, it is true, with
stubborn matter of fact,--the hand to hand struggle for existence. But
that was no hindrance. Poetry must have prose to root itself in; the
homelier its earth-spot, the lovelier, by contrast, its
heaven-breathing flowers.
To different minds, poetry may present different phases. To me, the
reverent faith of the people I lived among, and their faithful everyday
living, was poetry; blossoms and trees and blue skies were poetry. God
himself was poetry. As I grew up and lived on, friendship became to me
the deepest and sweetest ideal of poetry. To live in other lives, to
take their power and beauty into our own, that is poetry experienced,
the most inspiring of all. Poetry embodied in persons, in lovely and
lofty characters, more sacredly than all in the One Divine Person who
has transfigured our human life with the glory of His sacrifice,--all
the great lyrics and epics pale before that, and it is within the reach
and comprehension of every human soul.
To care for poetry in this way does not make one a poet, but it does
make one feel blessedly rich, and quite indifferent to many things
which are usually looked upon as desirable possessions. I am sincerely
grateful that it was given to me, from childhood, to see life from this
point of view. And it seems to me that every young girl would be
happier for beginning her earthly journey with the thankful
consciousness that her life does not consist in the abundance of things
that she possesses.
The highest possible poetic conception is that of a life consecrated to
a noble ideal. It may be unable to find expression for itself except
through humble, even menial services, or through unselfish devotion
whose silent song is audible to God alone; yet such music as this might
rise to heaven from every young girl's heart and character if she would
set it free. In such ways it was meant that the world should be filled
with the true poetry of womanhood.
It is one of the most beautiful facts in this human existence of ours,
that we remember the earliest and freshest part of it most vividly.
Doubtless it was meant that our childhood should live on in us forever.
My childhood was by no means a cloudless one. It had its light and
shade, each contributing a charm which makes it wholly delightful in
the retrospect.
I can see very distinctly the child that I was, and I know how the
world looked to her, far off as she is now. She seems to me like my
little sister, at play in a garden where I can at any time return and
find her. I have enjoyed bringing her back, and letting her tell her
story, almost as if she were somebody else. I like her better than I
did when I was really a child, and I hope never to part company with
her.
I do not feel so much satisfaction in the older girl who comes between
her and me, although she, too, is enough like me to be my sister, or
even more like my young, undisciplined mother; for the girl is mother
of the woman. But I have to acknowledge her faults and mistakes as my
own, while I sometimes feel like reproving her severely for her
carelessly performed tasks, her habit of lapsing into listless
reveries, her cowardly shrinking from responsibility and vigorous
endeavor, and many other faults that I have inherited from her. Still,
she is myself, and I could not be quite happy without her comradeship.
Every phase of our life belongs to us. The moon does not, except in
appearance, lose her first thin, luminous curve, nor her silvery
crescent, in rounding to her full. The woman is still both child and
girl, in the completeness of womanly character. We have a right to our
entire selves, through all the changes of this mortal state, a claim
which we shall doubtless carry along with us into the unfolding
mysteries of our eternal being. Perhaps in this thought lies hidden the
secret of immortal youth; for a seer has said that "to grow old in
heaven is to grow young."
To take life as it is sent to us, to live it faithfully, looking and
striving always towards better life, this was the lesson that came to
me from my early teachers. It was not an easy lesson, but it was a
healthful one; and I pass it on to younger pupils, trusting that they
will learn it more thoroughly than I ever have.
Young or old, we may all win inspiration to do our best, from the needs
of a world to which the humblest life may be permitted to bring
immeasurable blessings:--
"For no one doth know
What he can bestow,
What light, strength, and beauty may after him go:
Thus onward we move,
And, save God above,
None guesseth how wondrous the journey will prove."
L.L.
BEVERLY, MASSACHUSETTS,
October, 1889.