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
THE following sketch was written for the young, at the suggestion offriends.
My audience is understood to be composed of girls of all ages, and ofwomen who have not forgotten their girlhood. Such as have a friendlyappreciation of girls—and of those who write for them—are alsowelcome to listen to as much of my narrative as they choose. All othersare eavesdroppers, and, of course, have no right to criticise.
To many, the word "autobiography" implies nothing but conceit andegotism. But these are not necessarily its characteristics. If an appleblossom or a ripe apple could tell its own story, it would be, stillmore than its own, the story of the sunshine that smiled upon it, ofthe winds that whispered to it, of the birds that sang around it, ofthe storms that visited it, and of the motherly tree that held it andfed it until its petals were unfolded and its form developed.
A complete autobiography would indeed be a picture of the outer andinner universe photographed upon one little life's consciousness. Fordoes not the whole world, seen and unseen go to the making up of everyhuman being? The commonest personal history has its value when it islooked at as a part of the One Infinite Life. Our life—which is thevery best thing we have—is ours only that we may share it with OurFather's family, at their need. If we have anything, within us worthgiving away, to withhold it is ungenerous; and we cannot look honestlyinto ourselves without acknowledging with humility our debt to thelives around us for whatever of power or beauty has been poured intoours.
None of us can think of ourselves as entirely separate beings. Even anautobiographer has to say "we" much oftener than "I." Indeed, there maybe more egotism in withdrawing mysteriously into one's self, than infrankly unfolding one's life—story, for better or worse. There may bemore vanity in covering, one's face with a veil, to be wondered at andguessed about, than in drawing 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 autobiographymyself, when the subject is a person of so little importance as in thepresent instance. Still, it may have a reason for being, even in acase like this.
Every one whose name is before the public at all must be aware of acommon annoyance in the frequent requests which a