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 critise.
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 draw-ing 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 girlreaders'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 de-velopment 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.
