a new england girlhood-第15章

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　inexhaust…　ible　source　of　entertainment　to　us　younger　ones。

My　father　kept　his　newspapers　also　carefully　filed　away　in　the　garret；　but　we　made　sad　havoc　among　the　〃Palladiums〃　and　other　journals　that　we　ought　to　have　kept　as　antiquarian　treasures。　We　valued　the　anecdote　column　and　the　poet's　corner　only；　these　we　clipped　unsparingly　for　our　scrap…books。

A　tattered　copy　of　Johnson's　large　Dictionary　was　a　great　delight　to　me；　on　account　of　the　specimens　of　English　versification　which　I　found　in　the　Introduction。　I　learned　them　as　if　they　were　so　many　poems。　I　used　to　keep　this　old　volume　close　to　my　pillow；　and　I　amused　myself　when　I　awoke　in　the　morning　by　reciting　its　jingling　contrasts　of　iambic　and　trochaic　and　dactylic　metre；　and　thinking　what　a　charming　occupation　it　must　be　to　〃make　up〃　verses。

I　made　my　first　rhymes　when　I　was　about　seven　years　old。　My　brother　John　proposed　〃writing　poetry〃　as　a　rainy…day　amusement；　one　afternoon　when　we　two　were　sent　up　into　the　garret　to　entertain　ourselves　without　disturbing　the　family。　He　soon　grew　tired　of　his　unavailing　attempts；　but　I　produced　two　stanzas；　the　first　of　which　read　thus：

〃One　summer　day；　said　little　Jane；　We　were　walking　down　a　shady　lane；　When　suddenly　the　wind　blew　high；　And　the　red　lightning　flashed　in　the　sky。　The　second　stanza　descended　in　a　dreadfully　abrupt　anti…climax；　but　I　was　blissfully　ignorant　of　rhetoricians'　rules；　and　supposed　that　the　rhyme　was　the　only　important　thing。　It　may　amuse　my　child…readers　if　I　give　them　this　verse　too：

〃The　peals　of　thunder；　how　they　rolled！　And　I　felt　myself　a　little　cooled；　For　I　before　had　been　quite　warm；　But　now　around　me　was　a　storm。〃

My　brother　was　surprised　at　my　success；　and　I　believe　I　thought　my　verses　quite　fine；　too。　But　I　was　rather　sorry　that　I　had　written　them；　for　I　had　to　say　them　over　to　the　family；　and　then　they　sounded　silly。　The　habit　was　formed；　however；　and　I　went　on　writing　little　books　of　ballads；　which　I　illustrated　with　colors　from　my　toy　paintbox；　and　then　squeezed　down　into　the　cracks　of　the　garret　floor；　for　fear　that　somebody　would　find　them。

My　fame　crept　out　among　the　neighbors；　nevertheless。　I　was　even　invited　to　write　some　verses　in　young　lady's　album；　and　Aunt　Hannah　asked　me　to　repeat　my　verses　to　her。　I　considered　myself　greatly　honored　by　both　requests。

My　fondness　for　books　began　very　early。　At　the　age　of　four　I　had　formed　the　plan　of　collecting　a　library。　Not　of　limp；　paper…　covered　picture…books；　such　as　people　give　to　babies；　no！　I　wanted　books　with　stiff　covers；　that　could　stand　up　side　by　side　on　a　shelf；　and　maintain　their　own　character　as　books。　But　I　did　not　know　how　to　make　a　beginning；　for　mine　were　all　of　the　kind　manufactured　for　infancy；　and　I　thought　they　deserved　no　better　fate　than　to　be　tossed　about　among　my　rag…babies　and　playthings。

One　day；　however；　I　found　among　some　rubbish　in　a　corner　a　volume；　with　one　good　stiff　cover；　the　other　was　missing。　It　did　not　look　so　very　old；　nor　as　if　it　had　been　much　read；　neither　did　it　look　very　inviting　to　me　as　I　turned　its　leaves。　On　its　title…page　I　read　〃The　Life　of　John　Calvin。〃　I　did　not　know　who　he　was；　but　a　book　was　a　book　to　me；　and　this　would　do　as　well　as　any　to　begin　my　library　with。　I　looked　upon　it　as　a　treasure；　and　to　make　sure　of　my　claim；　I　took　it　down　to　my　mother　and　timidly　asked　if　I　might　have　it　for　my　own。　She　gave　me　in　reply　a　rather　amused　〃Yes；〃　and　I　ran　back　happy；　and　began　my　library　by　setting　John　Calvin　upright　on　a　beam　under　the　garret　eaves；　my　〃make…believe〃　book…case　shelf。

I　was　proud　of　my　literary　property；　and　filled　out　the　shelf　in　fancy　with　a　row　of　books；　every　one　of　which　should　have　two　stiff　covers。　But　I　found　no　more　neglected　volumes　that　I　could　adopt。　John　Calvin　was　left　to　a　lonely　fate；　and　am　afraid　that　at　last　the　mice　devoured　him。　Before　I　had　quite　forgotten　him；　however；　I　did　pick　up　one　other　book　of　about　his　size；　and　in　the　same　one…covered　condition；　and　this　attracted　me　more；　because　it　was　in　verse。　Rhyme　had　always　a　sort　of　magnetic　power　over　me；　whether　I　caught　at　any　idea　it　contained　or　not。

This　was　written　in　the　measure　which　I　afterwards　learned　was　called　Spenserian。　It　was　Byron's　〃Vision　of　Judgment；〃　and　Southey's　also　was　bound　up　with　it。　Southey's　hexameters　were　too　much　of　a　mouthful　for　me；　but　Byron's　lines　jingled；　and　apparently　told　a　story　about　something。　St。　Peter　came　into　it；　and　King　George　the　Third；　neither　of　which　names　meant　anything　to　me；　but　the　scenery　seemed　to　be　somewhere　up　among　the　clouds；　and　I；　unsuspicious　of　the　author's　irreverence；　took　it　for　a　sort　of　semi…Biblical　fairy　tale。

There　was　on　my　mother's　bed　a　covering　of　pink　chintz；　pictured　all　over　with　the　figure　of　a　man　sitting　on　a　cloud；　holding　a　bunch　of　keys。　I　put　the　two　together　in　my　mind；　imagining　the　chintz　counterpane　to　be　an　illustration　of　the　poem；　or　the　poem　an　explanation　of　the　counterpane。　For　the　stanza　I　liked　best　began　with　the　words；

〃St。Peter　sat　at　the　celestial　gate；　And　nodded　o'er　his　keys。〃

I　invented　a　pronunciation　for　the　long　words；　and　went　about　the　house　reciting　grandly；

〃St。　Peter　sat　at　the　kelestikal　gate；　And　nodded　o'er　his　keys。〃

That　volume；　swept　back　to　me　with　the　rubbish　of　Time；　still　reminds　me；　forlorn　and　half…clad；　of　my　childish　fondness　for　its　mock…magnificence。

John　Calvin　and　Lord　Byron　were　rather　a　peculiar　combination；　as　the　foundation　of　an　infant's　library；　but　I　was　not　aware　of　any　unfitness　or　incompatibility。　To　me　they　were　two　brother…books；　like　each　other　in　their　refusal　to　wear　limp　covers。

It　is　amusing　to　recall　the　rapid　succession　of　contrasts　in　one　child's　tastes。　I　felt　no　incongruity　between　Dr。　Watts　and　Mother　Goose。　I　supplemented　〃Pibroch　of　Donuil　Dhu〃　and

〃Lochiel；　Lochiel；　beware　of　the　day；〃

with　〃Yankee　Doodle〃　and　the　〃Diverting　History　of　John　Gilpin；〃　and　with　the　glamour　of　some　fairy　tale　I　had　just　read　still　haunting　me；　I　would　run　out　of　doors　eating　a　big　piece　of　bread　and　butter；sweeter　than　any　has　tasted　since；and　would　jump　up　towards　the　crows　cawing　high　above　me；　cawing　back　to　them；　and　half　wishing　I　too　were　a　crow　to　make　the　sky　ring　with　my　glee。

After　Dr。　Watts's　hymns　the　first　poetry　I　took　great　delight　in　greeted　me　upon　the　pages　of　the　〃American　First　Class　Book；〃　handed　down　from　older　pupils　in　the　little　private　school　which　my　sisters　and　I　attended　when　Aunt　Hannah　had　done　all　she　could　for　us。　That　book　was　a　collection　of　excellent　literary　extracts；　made　by　one　who　was　himself　an　author　and　a　poet。　It　deserved　to　be　called　〃first…class〃　in　another　sense　than　that　which　was　understood　by　its　title。　I　cannot　think　that　modern　reading　books　have　improved　upon　it　much。　It　contained　poems　from　Wordsworth；　passages　from　Shakespeare's　plays；　among　them　the　pathetic　dialogue　between　Hubert　and　little　Prince　Arthur；　whose　appeal　to　have　his　eyes　spared；　brought　many　a　tear　to　my　own。　Bryant's　〃Waterfowl〃　and　〃Thanatopsis〃　were　there　also；　and　Neal's；

〃There's　a　fierce　gray　bird　with　a　bending　beak；〃

that　the　boys　loved　so　dearly　to　〃declaim；〃　and　another　poem　by　this　last　author；　which　we　all　liked　to　read；　partly　from　a　childish　love　of　the　tragic；　and　partly　for　its　graphic　description　of　an　avalanche's　movement：

〃Slowly　it　came　in　its　mountain　wrath；　And　the　forests　vanished　before　its　path；　And　the　rude　cliffs　bowed；　and　the　waters　fled；　And　the　valley　of　life　was　the　tomb　of　the　dead。〃

In　reading　this；　〃Swiss　Minstrel's　Lament　over　the　Ruins　of　Goldau；〃　I　first　felt　my　imagination　thrilled　with　the　terrible　beauty　of　the　mountainsa　terror　and　a　sublimity　which　attracted　my　thoughts　far　more　than　it　awed　them。　But　the　poem　in　which　they　burst　upon　me　as　real　presences；　unseen；　yet　known　in　their　remote　splendor　as　kingly　friends　before　whom　I　could　bow；　yet　with　whom　I　could　aspire；for　something　like　this　I　think　mountains　must　always　be　to　those　who　truly　love　them；was　Coleridge's　〃Mont　Blanc　before　Sunrise；〃　in　this　same　〃First　Class　Book。〃　I　believe　that　poetry　really　first　took　possession　of　me　in　that　poem；　so　that　afterwards　I　could　not　easily　mistake　the　genuineness　of　its　ring；　though　my　ear　might　not　be　sufficiently　trained　to　catch　its　subtler　harmonies。　This　great　mountain　poem　struck　some　hidden　key…note　in　my　nature；　and　I　knew　thenceforth　something　of　what　it　was　to　live　in　poetry；　and　to　have　it　live　in　me。　Of　course　I　did　not　consider　my　own　foolish　little　versifying　poetry。　The　child　of　eight　or　nine　years　regarded　her　rhymes　as　only　one　among　her　many　games　and　pastimes。

But　with　this　ideal　picture　of　mountain　scenery　there　came　to　me　a　revelation　of　poetry　as　the　one　unattainable　something　which　I　must　reach　out　after；　because　I　could　not　live　without　it。　The　thought　of　it　was　to　me　like　the　thought　of　God　and　of　truth。　To　leave　out　poetry　would　be　to　lose　the　real　meaning　of　life。　I　felt　this　very　blindly　and　vaguely；　no　doubt；　but　the　feeling　was　deep。　It　was　as　if　Mont　Blanc　stood　visibly　before　me；　while　I　murmured　to　myself　in　lonely　places　

〃Motionless　torrents！　silent　cataracts！　Who　made　you　glorious　as　the　gates　of　heaven　Beneath　the　keen　full　moon？　Who　bade　the　sun　Clothe　you　with　rainbows？　Who　with　lovely　flowers　Of　living　blue　spread　garlands　at　your　feet？〃

And　then　the

〃Pine　groves　with　their　soft　and　soul…like　sound〃　gave　glorious　answer；　with　the　streams　and　torrents；　and　my　child…heart　in　its　trance　echoed　the　poet's　invocation；

〃Rise；　like　a　cloud　of　incense　from　the　earth！　And　tell　the　stars；　and　tell　the　rising　sun；　Earth；　with　her　thousand　voices；　calls　on　GOD！〃

I　have　never　visited　Switzerland；　but　I　surely　saw　the　Alps；　with　Coleridge；　in　my　childhood。　And　although　I　never　stood　face　to　face　with　mountains　until　I　was　a　mature　woman；　always；　after　this　vision　of　them；　they　were　blended　with　my　dream　of　whatever　is　pure　and　lofty　in　human　possibilities；like　a　white　ideal　beckoning　me　on。

Since　I　am　writing　these　recollections　for　the　young；　I　may　say　here　that　I　regard　a　love　for　poetry　as　one　of　the　most　needful　and　helpful　elements　in　the　life…outfit　of　a　human　being。　It　was　the　greatest　of　blessings　to　me；　in　the　long　days　of　toil　to　which　I　was　shut　in　much　earlier　than　most　young　girls　are；　that　the　poetry　I　held　in　my　memory　breathed　its　enchanted　atmosphere　through　me　and　around　me；　and　touched　even　dull　drudgery　with　its　sunshine。

Hard　work；　however；　has　its　own　illuminationif　done　as　duty　which　worldliness　has　not；　and　worldliness　seems　to　be　the　greatest　temptation　and　danger　Of　young　people　in　this　genera…　tion。　Poetry　is　one　of　the　angels　whose　presence　will　drive　out　this　sordid　demon；　if　anything　less　than　the　Power　of　the　Highest　can。　But　poetry　is　of　the　Highest。　It　is　the　Divine　Voice；　always；　that　we　recognize　through　the　poet's；　whenever　he　most　deeply　moves　our　souls。

Reason　and　observation；　as　well　as　my　own　experience；　assure　me　also　that　it　is　greatpoetry　even　the　greatestwhich　the　youngest　crave；　and　upon　which　they　may　be　fed；　because　it　is　the　simplest。　Nature　does　not　write　down　her　sunsets；　her　starry　skies；　her　mountains；　and　her　oceans　in　some　smaller　style；　to