a new england girlhood-第1部分

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A　New　England　Girlhood

by　Lucy　Larcom






I　dedicated　this　sketch
To　my　girlfriends　in　general；
And　in　particular
To　my　namesake…niece；
Lucy　Larcom　Spaulding。


Happy　those　early　days；　when　I
Shined　in　my　angel…infancy！
When　on　some　gilded　cloud　or　flower
My　gazing　soul　would　dwell　an　hour；
And　in　those　weaker　glories　spy
Some　shadows　of　eternity：
Before　I　taught　my　tongue　to　wound
My　conscience　by　a　sinful　sound；
But　felt　through　all　this　fleshy　dress
Bright　shoots　of　everlastingness。

HENRY　VAUGHAN


The　thought　of　our　past　years　in　me　doth　breed
Perpetual　benediction。

WORDSWORTH




PREFACE

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　girlsand　of　those　who　write　for　themare　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　lifewhich　is　the　very　best　thing　we　haveis　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　lifestory；　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。

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　poin