a new england girlhood-第25章

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t　two　magazines　were　started　instead　of　one。　If　the　girls　who　enjoyed　writing　had　not　been　so　many　and　so　scattered；　they　might　have　made　the　better　arrange…　ment　of　joining　their　forces　from　the　beginning。

I　was　too　young　a　contributor　to　be　at　first　of　much　value　to　either　periodical。　They　began　their　regular　issues；　I　think；　while　I　was　the　nursemaid　of　my　little　nephews　at　Beverly。　When　I　returned　to　Lowell；　at　about　sixteen；　I　found　my　sister　Emilie　interested　in　the　〃Operatives'　Magazine；〃　and　we　both　contributed　to　it　regularly；　until　it　was　merged　in　the　〃Lowell　Offering；〃　to　which　we　then　transferred　our　writing　efforts。　It　did　not　occur　to　us　to　call　these　efforts　〃literary。〃　I　know　that　I　wrote　just　as　I　did　for　our　little　〃Diving　Bell；〃as　a　sort　of　pastime；　and　because　my　daily　toil　was　mechanical；　and　furnished　no　occupation　for　my　thoughts。　Perhaps　the　fact　that　most　of　us　wrote　in　this　way　accounted　for　the　rather　sketchy　and　fragmentary　character　of　our　〃Magazine。〃　It　gave　evidence　that　we　thought；　and　that　we　thought　upon　solid　and　serious　matters；　but　the　criticism　of　one　of　our　superintendents　upon　it；　very　kindly　given；　was　undoubtedly　just：　〃It　has　plenty　of　pith；　but　it　lacks　point。


The　〃Offering〃　had　always　more　of　the　literary　spirit　and　touch。　It　was；　indeed；　for　the　first　two　years；　edited　by　a　gentleman　of　acknowledged　literary　ability。　But　people　seemed　to　be　more　interested　in　it　after　it　passed　entirely　into　the　bands　of　the　girls　themselves。

The　〃Operatives'　Magazine〃　had　a　decidedly　religious　tone。　　We　who　wrote　for　it　were　loyal　to　our　Puritanic　antecedents；　and　considered　it　all…important　that　our　lightest　actions　should　be　moved　by　some　earnest　impulse　from　behind。　We　might　write　playfully；　but　there　must　be　conscience　and　reverence　somewhere　within　it　all。　We　had　been　taught；　and　we　believed；　that　idle　words　were　a　sin；　whether　spoken　or　written。　This；　no　doubt；　gave　us　a　gravity　of　expression　rather　unnatural　to　youth。

In　looking　over　the　bound　volume　of　this　magazine；　I　am　amused　at　the　grown…up　style　of　thought　assumed　by　myself；　probably　its　very　youngest　contributor。　I　wrote　a　dissertation　on　〃Fame；〃　quoting　from　Pollok；　Cowper；　and　Milton；　and　ending　with　Diedrich　Knickerbocker's　definition　of　immortal　fame；〃Half　a　page　of　dirty　paper。〃　For　other　titles　I　had　〃Thoughts　on　Beauty；〃　〃Gentility；〃　〃Sympathy；〃　etc。　　And　in　one　longish　poem；　entitled　〃My　Childhood〃　（written　when　I　was　about　fifteen）；　I　find　verses　like　these；　which　would　seem　to　have　come　out　of　a　mature　experience：

My　childhood！　O　those　pleasant　days；　when　everything　seemed　free；　And　in　the　broad　and　verdant　fields　I　frolicked　merrily；　When　joy　came　to　my　bounding　heart　with　every　wild　bird's　song；　And　Nature's　music　in　my　ears　was　ringing　all　day　long！

And　yet　I　would　not　call　them　back；　those　blessed　times　of　yore；　For　riper　years　are　fraught　with　joys　I　dreamed　not　of　before。　The　labyrinth　of　Science　opes　with　wonders　every　day；　And　friendship　hath　full　many　a　flower　to　cheer　life's　dreary　way。

And　glancing　through　the　pages　of　the　〃Lowell　Offering〃　a　year　or　two　later；　I　see　that　I　continued　to　dismalize　myself　at　times；　quite　unnecessarily。　The　title　of　one　sting　of　morbid　verses　is　〃The　Complaint　of　a　Nobody；〃　in　which　I　compare　myself　to　a　weed　growing　up　in　a　garden；　and　the　conclusion　of　it　all　is　this　stanza：

〃When　the　fierce　storms　are　raging；　I　will　not　repine；　Though　I'm　heedlessly　crushed　in　the　strife；　For　surely　't　were　better　oblivion　were　mine　Than　a　worthless；　inglorious　life。

Now　I　do　not　suppose　that　I　really　considered　myself　a　weed；　though　I　did　sometimes　fancy　that　a　different　kind　of　cultivation　would　tend　to　make　me　a　more　useful　plant。　I　am　glad　to　remember　that　these　discontented　fits　were　only　occasional；　for　certainly　they　were　unreasonable。　I　was　not　unhappy；　this　was　an　affect…　ation　of　unhappiness；　and　half　conscious　that　it　was；　I　hid　it　behind　a　different　signature　from　my　usual　one


How　truly　Wordsworth　describes　this　phase　of　undeveloped　feeling：

〃In　youth　sad　fancies　we　affect；　In　luxury　of　disrespect　To　our　own　prodigal　excess　Of　too　familiar　happiness。〃

It　is　a　very　youthful　weakness　to　exaggerate　passing　moods　into　deep　experiences；　and　if　we　put　them　down　on　paper；　we　get　a　fine　opportunity　of　laughing　at　ourselves；　if　we　live　to　outgrow　them；　as　most　of　us　do。　I　think　I　must　have　had　a　frequent　fancy　that　I　was　not　long　for　this　world。　Perhaps　I　thought　an　early　death　rather　picturesque；　many　young　people　do。　There　is　a　certain　kind　of　poetry　that　fosters　this　idea；　that　delights　in　imaginary　youthful　victims；　and　has；　reciprocally；　its　youthful　devotees。　One　of　my　blank　verse　poems　in　the　〃Offering〃　is　entitled　〃The　Early　Doomed。〃　It　begins；

And　must　I　die？　The　world　is　bright　to　me；　And　everything　that　looks　upon　me；　smiles。

Another　poem　is　headed　〃Memento　Mori；〃　and　another；　entitled　a　〃Song　in　June；〃　which　ought　to　be　cheerful；　goes　off　into　the　doleful　request　to　somebody；　or　anybody；　to

Weave　me　a　shroud　in　the　month　of　June！

I　was；　perhaps；　healthier　than　the　average　girl；　and　had　no　predisposition　to　a　premature　decline；　and　in　reviewing　these　absurdities　of　my　pen；　I　feel　like　saying　to　any　young　girl　who　inclines　to　rhyme；　〃Don't　sentimentalize！〃　　Write　more　of　what　you　see　than　of　what　you　feel；　and　let　your　feelings　realize　themselves　to　others　in　the　shape　of　worthy　actions。　Then　they　will　be　natural；　and　will　furnish　you　with　something　worth　writing。〃

It　is　fair　to　myself　to　explain；　however；　that　many　of　these　verses　of　mine　were　written　chiefly　as　exercises　in　rhythmic　expression。　I　remember　this　distinctly　about　one　of　my　poems　with　a　terrible　title；〃The　Murderer's　Request；〃in　which　I　made　an　imaginary　criminal　pose　for　me；　telling　where　he　would　not　and　where　be　would　like　to　be　buried。　I　modeled　my　verses；

〃Bury　ye　me　on　some　storm…rifted　mountain；　O'erhaliging　the　depths　of　a　yawning　abyss；〃

upon　Byron's；

〃Know　ye　the　land　where　the　cypress　and　myrtle　Are　emblems　of　deeds　that　are　done　in　their　clime；〃

and　I　was　only　trying　to　see　how　near　I　could　approach　to　his　exquisite　metre。　I　do　not　think　I　felt　at　all　murderous　in　writing　it；　but　a　more　innocent　subject　would　have　been　in　better　taste；　and　would　have　met　the　exigencies　of　the　dactyl　quite　as　well。

It　is　also　only　fair　to　myself　to　say　that　my　rhyming　was　usually　of　a　more　wholesome　kind。　I　loved　Nature　as　I　knew　her；in　our　stern；　blustering；　stimulating　New　England；and　I　chanted　the　praises　of　Winter；　of　snow…storms；　and　of　March　winds　（I　always　took　pride　in　my　birth　month；　March）；　with　hearty　delight。

Flowers　had　begun　to　bring　me　messages　from　their　own　world　when　I　was　a　very　small　child；　and　they　never　withdrew　their　companionship　from　my　thoughts；　for　there　came　summers　when　I　could　only　look　out　of　the　mill　window　and　dream　about　them。

I　had　one　pet　window　plant　of　my　own；　a　red　rosebush；　almost　a　perpetual　bloomer；　that　I　kept　beside　me　at　my　work　for　years。　I　parted　with　it　only　when　I　went　away　to　the　West；　and　then　with　regret；　for　it　had　been　to　me　like　a　human　little　friend。　But　the　wild　flowers　had　my　heart。　I　lived　and　breathed　with　them；　out　under　the　free　winds　of　heaven；　and　when　I　could　not　see　them；　I　wrote　about　them。　Much　that　I　contributed　to　those　mill…magazine　pages；　they　suggested；my　mute　teachers；　comforters；　and　inspirers。　It　seems　to　me　that　any　one　who　does　not　care　for　wild　flowers　misses　half　the　sweetness　of　this　mortal　life。

Horace　Smith's　〃Hymn　to　the　Flowers〃　was　a　continual　delight　to　me；　after　I　made　its　acquaintance。　It　seemed　as　if　all　the　wild　blossoms　of　the　woods　had　wandered　in　and　were　twining　themselves　around　the　whirring　spindles；　as　I　repeated　it；　verse　after　verse。　Better　still；　they　drew　me　out；　in　fancy；　to　their　own　forest…haunts　under　〃cloistered　boughs；〃　where　each　swinging　〃floral　bell〃　was　ringing　〃a　call　to　prayer；〃　and　making　〃Sab…　bath　in　the　fields。〃

Bryant's　〃Forest　Hymn〃　did　me　an　equally　beautiful　service。　I　knew　every　word　of　it。　It　seemed　to　me　that　Bryant　understood　the　very　heart　and　soul　of　the　flowers　as　hardly　anybody　else　did。　He　made　me　feel　as　if　they　were　really　related　to　us　human　beings。　In　fancy　my　feet　pressed　the　turf　where　they　grew；　and　I　knew　them　as　my　little　sisters；　while　my　thoughts　touched　them；　one　by　one；　saying　with　him；

〃That　delicate　forest…flower；　With　scented　breath；　and　look　so　like　a　smile；　Seems；　as　it　issues　from　the　shapeless　mould；　An　emanation　of　the　indwelling　Life；　A　visible　token　of　the　upholding　Love；　That　are　the　soul　of　this　wide　universe。〃

I　suppose　that　most　of　my　readers　will　scarcely　be　older　than　I　was　when　I　wrote　my　sermonish　little　poems　under　the　inspiration　of　the　flowers　at　my　factory　work；　and　perhaps　they　will　be　interested　in　reading　a　specimen　or　two　from　the　〃Lowell　Offer…　ing：〃

LIVE　LIKE　THE　FLOWERS。

Cheerfully　wave　they　o'er　valley　and　mountain；　Gladden　the　desert；　and　smile　by　the　fountain；　Pale　discontent　in　no　young　blossom　lowers：　Live　like　the　flowers！

Meekly　their　buds　in　the　heavy　rain　bending；　Softly　their　hues　with　the　mellow　light　blending；　Gratefully　welcoming　sunlight　and　showers：　Live　like　the　flowers！

Freely　their　sweets　on　the　wild　breezes　flinging；　While　in　their　depths　are　new　odors　upspringing：　（Blessedness　twofold　of　Love's　holy　dowers；）　Live　like　the　flowers！

Gladly　they　heed　Who　their　brightness　has　given：　Blooming　on　earth；　look　they　all　up　to　heaven；　Humbly　look　up　from　their　loveliest　bowers：　…　Live　like　the　flowers！

Peacefully　droop　they　when　autumn　is　sighing；　Breathing　mild　fragrance　around　them　in　dying；　Sleep　they　in　hope　of　Spring's　freshening　hours：　Die　like　the　flowers！

The　prose…poem　that　follows　was　put　into　a　rhymed　version　by　several　unknown　hands　in　periodicals　of　that　day；　so　that　at　last　I　also　wrote　one；　in　self…defense；　to　claim　my　own　waif。　　But　it　was　a　prose…poem　that　I　intended　it　to　be；　and　I　think　it　is　better　so。

〃BRING　BACK　MY　FLOWERS。〃

On　the　bank　of　a　rivulet　sat　a　rosy　child。　Her　lap　was　filled　with　flowers；　and　a　garland　of　rose…buds　was　twined　around　her　neck。　Her　face　was　as　radiant　as　the　sunshine　that　fell　upon　it；　and　her　voice　was　as　clear　as　that　of　the　bird　which　warbled　at　her　side。

The　little　stream　went　singing　on；　and　with　every　gush　of　its　music　the　child　lifted　a　flower　in　her　dimpled　hand；　and；　with　a　merry　laugh；　threw　it　upon　the　water。　In　her　glee　she　forgot　that　her　treasures　were　growing　less；　and　with　the　swift　motion　of　childhood；　she　flung　them　upon　the　sparkling　tide；　until　every　bud　and　blossom　had　disappeared。

Then；　seeing　her　loss；　she　sprang　to　her　feet；　and　bursting　into　tears；　called　aloud　to　the　stream；　〃Bring　back　my　flowers！〃　But　the　stream　danced　along；　regardless　of　her　sorrow；　and　as　it　bore　the　blooming　burden　away；　her　words　came　back　in　a　taunting　echo；　along　its　reedy　margin。　And　long　after；　amid　the　wailing　of　the　breeze　and　the　fitful　bursts　of　childish　grief；　was　heard　the　fruitless　cry；　〃Bring　back　my　flowers！〃

Merry　maiden；　who　art　idly　wasting　the　precious　moments　so　bountifully　bestowed　upon　thee；　see　in　the　thoughtless　child　an　emblem　of　thyself！　Each　moment　is　a　perfumed　flower。　L