a new england girlhood-第20章

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heir　physics　and　metaphysics　with　our　girl　boarders；　some　of　whom　had　remarkably　acute　and　well…balanced　minds。　Her　own　seemed　to　have　turned　from　its　early　bent　toward　the　romantic；　her　taste　being　now　for　serious　and　practical；　though　sometimes　abstruse；　themes。　I　remember　that　Young　and　Pollock　were　her　favorite　poets。

I　could　not　keep　up　with　her　in　her　studies　and　readings；　for　many　of　the　books　she　liked　seemed　to　me　very　dry。　I　did　not　easily　take　to　the　argumentative　or　moralizing　method；　which　I　came　to　regard　as　a　proof　of　the　weakness　of　my　own　intellect　in　comparison　with　hers。　I　would　gladly　have　kept　pace　with　her　if　I　could。　Anything　under　the　heading　of　〃Didactick；〃　like　some　of　the　pieces　in　the　old　〃English　Reader；〃　used　by　school…children　in　the　generation　just　before　ours；　always　repelled　me。　But　I　though　it　necessary　to　discipline　myself　by　reading　such　pieces；　and　my　first　attempt　at　prose　composition；　〃On　Friendship；〃　was　stiffly　modeled　after　a　certain　〃Didactick　Essay〃　in　that　same　English　Reader。

My　sister；　however；　cared　more　to　watch　the　natural　development　of　our　minds　than　to　make　us　follow　the　direction　of　hers。　She　was　really　our　teacher；　although　she　never　assumed　that　position。　Certainly　I　learned　more　from　her　about　my　own　capabilities；　and　how　I　might　put　them　to　use；　than　I　could　have　done　at　any　school　we　knew　of；　had　it　been　possible　for　me　to　attend　one。

I　think　she　was　determined　that　we　should　not　be　mentally　defrauded　by　the　circumstances　which　had　made　it　necessary　for　us　to　begin　so　early　to　win　our　daily　bread。　This　remark　applies　especially　to　me；　as　my　older　sisters　（only　two　or　three　of　them　had　come　to　Lowell）　soon　drifted　away　from　us　into　their　own　new　homes　or　occupations；　and　she　and　I　were　left　together　amid　the　whir　of　spindles　and　wheels。

One　thing　she　planned　for　us；　her　younger　housemates；a　dozen　or　so　of　cousins；　friends；　and　sisters；　some　attending　school；　and　some　at　work　in　the　mill；was　a　little　fortnightly　paper；　to　be　filled　with　our　original　contributions；　she　herself　acting　as　editor。

I　do　not　know　where　she　got　the　idea；　unless　it　was　from　Mrs。　Lydia　Maria　Child's　〃Juvenile　Miscellany；〃　which　had　found　its　way　to　us　some　years　before；a　most　delightful　guest；　and；　I　think；　the　first　magazine　prepared　for　American　children；　who　have　had　so　many　since　then。（I　have　always　been　glad　that　I　knew　that　sweet　woman　with　the　child's　heart　and　the　poet's　soul；　in　her　later　years；　and　could　tell　her　how　happy　she　had　helped　to　make　my　childhood。）　Our　little　sheet　was　called　〃The　Diving　Bell；〃　probably　from　the　sea…associations　of　the　name。　We　kept　our　secrets　of　authorship　very　close　from　everybody　except　the　editor；　who　had　to　decipher　the　handwriting　and　copy　the　pieces。　It　was；　indeed；　an　important　part　of　the　fun　to　guess　who　wrote　particular　pieces。　After　a　little　while；　however；　our　mannerisms　betrayed　us。　One　of　my　cousins　was　known　to　be　the　chief　story…　teller；　and　I　was　recognized　as　the　leading　rhymer　among　the　younger　contributors；　the　editor…sister　excelling　in　her　versifying；　as　she　did　in　almost　everything。

It　was　a　cluster　of　very　conscious…looking　little　girls　that　assembled　one　evening　in　the　attic　room；　chosen　on　account　of　its　remoteness　from　intruders　（for　we　did　not　admit　even　the　family　as　a　public；　the　writers　themselves　were　the　only　audience）；　to　listen　to　the　reading　of　our　first　paper。　We　took　Saturday　evening；　because　that　was　longer　than　the　other　workday　evenings；　the　mills　being　closed　earlier。　Such　guessing　and　wondering　and　admiring　as　we　had！　But　nobody　would　acknowledge　her　own　work；　for　that　would　have　spoiled　the　pleasure。　Only　there　were　certain　wise　hints　and　maxims　that　we　knew　never　came　from　any　juvenile　head　among　us；　and　those　we　set　down　as　〃editorials。〃

Some　of　the　stories　contained　rather　remarkable　incidents。　One；　written　to　illustrate　a　little　girl's　habit　of　carelessness　about　her　own　special　belongings；　told　of　her　rising　one　morning；　and　after　hunting　around　for　her　shoes　half　an　hour　or　so；　finding　them　in　the　book…case；　where　she　had　accidentally　locked　them　up　the　night　before！

To　convince　myself　that　I　could　write　something　besides　rhymes；　I　had　attempted　an　essay　of　half　a　column　on　a　very　extensive　subject；　〃MIND。〃　It　began　loftily：…

〃What　a　noble　and　beautiful　thing　is　mind！〃　and　it　went　on　in　the　same　high…flown　strain　to　no　particular　end。　But　the　editor　praised　it；　after　having　declined　the　verdict　of　the　audience　that　she　was　its　author；　and　I　felt　sufficiently　flattered　by　both　judgments。

I　wrote　more　rhymes　than　anything　else；　because　they　came　more　easily。　But　I　always　felt　that　the　ability　to　write　good　prose　was　far　more　desirable；　and　it　seems　so　to　me　still。　I　will　give　my　little　girl　readers　a　single　specimen　of　my　twelve…year…old　〃Diving　Bell〃　verses；　though　I　feel　as　if　I　ought　to　apologize　even　for　that。　It　is　on　a　common　subject；　〃Life　like　a　Rose〃：

〃Childhood's　like　a　tender　bud　That's　scarce　been　formed　an　hour；　But　which　erelong　will　doubtless　be　A　bright　and　lovely　flower。

〃And　youth　is　like　a　full…blown　rose　Which　has　not　known　decay；　But　which　must　soon；　alas！　too　soon！　Wither　and　fade　away。

〃And　age　is　like　a　withered　rose；　That　bends　beneath　the　blast；　But　though　its　beauty　all　is　gone；　Its　fragrance　yet　may　last。〃

This；　and　other　verses　that　I　wrote　then；　serve　to　illustrate　the　child's　usual　inclination　to　look　forward　meditatively；　rather　than　to　think　and　write　of　the　simple　things　that　belong　to　children。

Our　small　venture　set　some　of　us　imagining　what　larger　possibilities　might　be　before　us　in　the　far　future。　We　talked　over　the　things　we　should　like　to　do　when　we　should　be　women　out　in　the　active　world；　and　the　author　of　the　shoe…story　horrified　us　by　declaring　that　she　meant　to　be　distinguished　when　she　grew　up　for　something；　even　if　it　was　for　something　bad！　She　did　go　so　far　in　a　bad　way　as　to　plagiarize　a　long　poem　in　a　subsequent　number　of　the　〃Diving　Bell〃　but　the　editor　found　her　out；　and　we　all　thought　that　a　reproof　from　Emilie　was　sufficent　punishment。

I　do　not　know　whether　it　was　fortunate　or　unfortunate　for　me　that　I　had　not；　by　nature；　what　is　called　literary　ambition。　I　knew　that　I　had　a　knack　at　rhyming；　and　I　knew　that　I　enjoyed　nothing　better　than　to　try　to　put　thoughts　and　words　together；　in　any　way。　But　I　did　it　for　the　pleasure　of　rhyming　and　writing；　indifferent　as　to　what　might　come　of　it。　For　any　one　who　could　take　hold　of　every…day；　practical　work；　and　carry　it　on　successfully；　I　had　a　profound　respect。　To　be　what　is　called　〃capable〃　seemed　to　me　better　worth　while　than　merely　to　have　a　taste　or　for　writing；　perhaps　because　I　was　conscious　of　my　deficiencies　in　the　former　respect。　But　certainly　the　world　needs　deeds　more　than　it　needs　words。　I　should　never　have　been　willing　to　be　only　a　writer；　without　using　my　hands　to　some　good　purpose　besides。

My　sister；　however；　told　me　that　here　was　a　talent　which　I　had　no　right　to　neglect；　and　which　I　ought　to　make　the　most　of。　I　believed　in　her；　I　thought　she　understood　me　better　than　I　understood　myself；　and　it　was　a　comfort　to　be　assured　that　my　scribbling　was　not　wholly　a　waste　of　time。　So　I　used　pencil　and　paper　in　every　spare　minute　I　could　find。Our　little　home…journal　went　bravely　on　through　twelve　numbers。　　Its　yellow　manuscript　pages　occasionally　meet　my　eyes　when　I　am　rummaging　among　my　old　papers；　with　the　half…conscious　look　of　a　waif　that　knows　it　has　no　right　to　its　escape　from　the　waters　of　oblivion。

While　it　was　in　progress　my　sister　Emilie　became　acquainted　with　a　family　of　bright　girls；　near　neighbors　of　ours；　who　proposed　that　we　should　join　with　them；　and　form　a　little　society　for　writing　and　discussion；　to　meet　fortnightly　at　their　house。　We　met；I　think　I　was　the　youngest　of　the　group；prepared　a　Constitution　and　By…Laws；　and　named　ourselves　〃The　Improvement　Circle。〃　If　I　remember　rightly；　my　sister　was　our　first　president。　The　older　ones　talked　and　wrote　on　many　subjects　quite　above　me。　I　was　shrinkingly　bashful；　as　half…grown　girls　usually　are；　but　I　wrote　my　little　essays　and　read　them；　and　listened　to　the　rest；　and　enjoyed　it　all　exceedingly。　Out　of　this　little　〃Improvement　Circle〃　grew　the　larger　one　whence　issued　the　〃Lowell　Offering；〃　a　year　or　two　later。

At　this　time　I　had　learned　to　do　a　spinner's　work；　and　I　obtained　permission　to　tend　some　frames　that　stood　directly　in　front　of　the　river…windows；　with　only　them　and　the　wall　behind　me；　extending　half　the　length　of　the　mill；and　one　young　woman　beside　me；　at　the　farther　end　of　the　row。　She　was　a　sober；　mature　person；　who　scarcely　thought　it　worth　her　while　to　speak　often　to　a　child　like　me；　and　I　was；　when　with　strangers；　rather　a　reserved　girl；　so　I　kept　myself　occupied　with　the　river；　my　work；　and　my　thoughts。　And　the　river　and　my　thoughts　flowed　on　together；　the　happiest　of　companions。　Like　a　loitering　pilgrim；　it　sparkled　up　to　me　in　recognition　as　it　glided　along　and　bore　away　my　little　frets　and　fatigues　on　its　bosom。　When　the　work　〃went　well；〃　I　sat　in　the　window…seat；　and　let　my　fancies　fly　whither　they　would；downward　to　the　sea；　or　upward　to　the　hills　that　hid　the　mountain…cradle　of　the　Merrimack。

The　printed　regulations　forbade　us　to　bring　books　into　the　mill；　so　I　made　my　window…seat　into　a　small　library　of　poetry；　pasting　its　side　all　over　with　newspaper　clippings。　In　those　days　we　had　only　weekly　papers；　and　they　had　always　a　〃poet's　corner；〃　where　standard　writers　were　well　represented；　with　anonymous　ones；　also。　I　was　not；　of　course；　much　of　a　critic。　I　chose　my　verses　for　their　sentiment；　and　because　I　wanted　to　commit　them　to　memory；　sometimes　it　was　a　long　poem；　sometimes　a　hymn；　sometimes　only　a　stray　verse。　　Mrs。　Hemans　sang　with　me；

〃Far　away；　o'er　the　blue　hills　far　away；〃

and　I　learned　and　loved　her　〃Better　Land；〃　and

〃If　thou　hast　crushed　a　flower；〃

and　〃Kindred　Hearts。〃

I　wonder　if　Miss　Landon　really　did　write　that　fine　poem　to　Mont　Blanc　which　was　printed　in　her　volume；　but　which　sounds　so　entirely　unlike　everything　else　she　wrote！　This　was　one　of　my　window…gems。　It　ended　with　the　appeal；

〃Alas　for　thy　past　mystery！　For　thine　untrodden　snow！　Nurse　of　the　tempest！　hast　thou　none　To　guard　thine　outraged　brow？〃　and　it　contained　a　stanza　that　I　often　now　repeat　to　myself：

〃We　know　too　much：　scroll　after　scroll　Weighs　down　our　weary　shelves：　Our　only　point　of　ignorance　Is　centred　in　ourselves。〃

There　was　one　anonymous　waif　in　my　collection　that　I　was　very　fond　of。　I　have　never　seen　it　since；　nor　ever　had　the　least　clue　to　its　authorship。　It　stirred　me　and　haunted　me；　and　it　often　comes　back　to　me　now；　in　snatches　like　these：

〃The　human　mind！　That　lofty　thing；　The　palace　and　the　throne　Where　Reason　sits；　a　sceptred　king；　And　breathes　his　judgment…tone！〃

〃The　human　soul！　That　startling　thing；　Mysterious　and　sublime；　An　angel　sleeping　on　the　wing；　Worn　by　the　scoffs　of　time。　》From　heaven　in　tears　to　earth　it　stole…　That　startling　thing；　the　human　soul。〃

I　was　just　beginning；　in　my　questionings　as　to　the　meaning　of　life；　to　get　glimpses　of　its　true　definition　from　the　poets；　that　it　is　love；　service；　the　sacrifice　of　self　for　others'　good。　The　lesson　was