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.Ibelieve 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.Iam sincerely grateful that it was given to me,from childhood,to see life from this point of view.And it seems to me that every young girl would be happier for beginning her earthly journey with the thankful consciousness that her life does not consist in the abundance of things that she possesses.
The highest possible poetic conception is that of a life consecrated to a noble ideal.It may be unable to find expression for itself except through humble,even menial services,or through unselfish devotion whose silent song is audible to God alone;yet such music as this might rise to heaven from every young girl's heart and character if she would set it free.In such ways it was meant that the world should be filled with the true poetry of womanhood.
It is one of the most beautiful facts in this human existence of ours,that we remember the earliest and freshest part of it most vividly.Doubtless it was meant that our childhood should live on in us forever.My childhood was by no means a cloudless one.It had its light and shade,each contributing a charm which makes it wholly delightful in the retrospect.
I can see very distinctly the child that I was,and I know how the world looked to her,far off as she is now.She seems to me like my little sister,at play in a garden where I can at any time return and find her.I have enjoyed bringing her back,and letting her tell her story,almost as if she were somebody else.
I like her better than I did when I was really a child,and Ihope never to part company with her.
I do not feel so much satisfaction in the older girl who comes between her and me,although she,too,is enough like me to be my sister,or even more like my young,undisciplined mother;for the girl is mother of the woman.But I have to acknowledge her faults and mistakes as my own,while I sometimes feel like reproving her severely for her carelessly performed tasks,her habit of lapsing into listless reveries,her cowardly shrinking from responsibility and vigorous endeavor,and many other faults that I have inherited from her.Still,she is myself,and I could not be quite happy without her comradeship.
Every phase of our life belongs to us.The moon does not,except in appearance,lose her first thin,luminous curve,nor her silvery crescent,in rounding to her full.The woman is still both child and girl,in the completeness of womanly character.
We have a right to our entire selves,through all the changes of this mortal state,a claim which we shall doubtless carry along with us into the unfolding mysteries of our eternal being.
Perhaps in this thought lies hidden the secret of immortal youth;for a seer has said that "to grow old in heaven is to grow young."To take life as it is sent to us,to live it faithfully,looking and striving always towards better life,this was the lesson that came to me from my early teachers.It was not an easy lesson,but it was a healthful one;and I pass it on to younger pupils,trusting that they will learn it more thoroughly than I ever have.
Young or old,we may all win inspiration to do our best,from the needs of a world to which the humblest life may be permitted to bring immeasurable blessings:--"For no one doth know What he can bestow,What light,strength,and beauty may after him go:
Thus onward we move,And,save God above,None guesseth how wondrous the journey will prove."L.L.
BEVERLY,MASSACHUSETTS,October,1889.
CONTENTS.
