Farewell, then, to books for the present; and now for pen and ink." I had read somewhere that the first effusions of the greatest poets were always satires, and I determined to write satires. I accordingly penned a most brilliant one against my old schoolmistress, in which I v'd and w'd her without mercy. I then got into a sentimental strain; wrote sonnets to the moon, an elegy on the death of a sparrow, an ode to a kitten while it was drowning, pathetic stanzas addressed to an old woman in a red cloak, verses on a withered rose which I picked up in the streets. But my principal poem was a descriptive one, on a storm at sea, which was portrayed with great vivacity of coloring, although I had never seen the sea; but I had read in some of my books that poets write best about what they know nothing of. Well, having collected a sufficient number of poems to fill a volume, I showed them to my father, who was in ecstasies that his daughter had imbibed, and so far transcended, his genius. He read them to his friends with all the graces of voice and action. O, what lifting up of hands and eyes! what exclamations of rapture and astonishment! Even at this period, when time has "chilled the genial current of my soul," my heart kindles at the recollection. "Publish them, Mr. Sparerib! ay, to be sure; Miss Eugenia's merit should be hid from the world no longer. I know at least twenty people that will take two copies apiece, if they are printed by subscription." This was, however, a begging way, and I disdained it. My father, to be sure, was not quite so high minded; but then I was a greater genius than he; so he yielded to my better judgment. Ah, ye booksellers! how many a fair blossom have ye nipped in the bud! How many walks did my father take to you with my invaluable packet in his hand, and without it! "Leave it, sir, if you please. I will look it over at my leisure. Call again this day month." "Upon my word, sir, I have been so busy, that positively I have never opened your packet. Call another time, if you please." "I have looked at the poems, sir; but they do not suit my plans. You had better carry them to Mr. recommended me to "Did he so? Humph! I To-morrow I leave town for 66 Sir, your acquaintance, Mr. wait on you with some poems." I am not much indebted to him. three months. Perhaps I may take a look at them when I return." Thus did three years pass away, and my luckless poems were returned at last, by one more candid than the rest, who told my father, that he thought them mere trash, and not worth the paper they were written on. Thus, then, I was tumbled at once from the pinnacle of hope and expectation, on which I had been so long perched, into the abyss of disappointment and despair. Now, here, as perhaps these poems may have never fallen into your hands, permit me to give you two stanzas as a specimen of what the bookseller chose to denominate mere trash." They are part of my elegy on the death of a sparrow. 66 "Ah, woe to me! ah, misery! My sparrow, wherefore didst thou die? The tears fall fast from either eye: Why didst thou die? Ah, tell me why! "With liberal hand, no more shall I The crumbs, from garret window high, Thou view'dst those crumbs with joyful eye; Ah, woe is me! ah, misery!" I may inform you, as well here as any where else, how I acquired the reputation of being a Latin scholar. I need not mention to you how customary it is for people, both in their writings and conversation, to interlard what they say with a great mixture of Latin and French words, proverbs, and phrases. I had only to learn a few Latin phrases, and apply them, when occasion offered, and the business was done. I became complete mistress of Latin; nay, some went the length of affirming that I knew Greek and Hebrew, but did not choose to display this knowledge, for fear of being thought pedantic. During the latter part of my three years. of suspense, I had taken mightily to the reading of novels, and soon converted myself into the heroine of one. This, to be sure, required rather a stretch of imagination; for I was very tall, very meagre, my complexion was sallow, I was pitted with the small-pox, and my eyes possessed the property of looking two ways at once. But the beauties of the mind were mine, and no one could think of placing bodily perfections in competition with them. As it was absolutely necessary for the heroine of a novel to be in love, I fell in love accordingly, and placed my affections on a young man who occupied a garret in my father's house, and followed the profession of a tailor. You may wonder at the meanness of my choice; but I had no choice about the matter. Love is a feeling of the heart, and reason is reason, and they have nothing to do with each other; besides, people will fall in love. Time cured my ill-placed passion, and likewise my fondness for novels. Aided, however, by some books of moral philosophy which fell into my hands, together with an abridgment of the lives of some of the most celebrated sages of antiquity, I became deeply enamored of these persons, and of their maxims; but while I was hesitating whether I should laugh with one, cry with another, live in a tub with a third, or eat herbs and drink water with a fourth, my mother died, and the care of the house devolved upon me. What was to be done in this situation? My father liked n 81, 85. eh 37. d 222. a clean house, and a good dinner, when he could get one. In vain did I represent to him the folly of superfluities. liked a warm bed better than a tub, and beef and beer better than lettuce and water. My moral and philosophical maxims had no effect on him, for he differed from the rest of the world in this particular, that he approved only of what accorded with his own inclinations. It was impossible, however, for a philosopher to descend to the vulgar occupations of cleaning and cooking. I therefore resigned all the rights of seniority in favor of my sister, and she assumed the household offices. You may think, perhaps, that as I disdained cooking, I disdained eating what was cooked; but that is a mistake. I had not thoroughly become a convert to the abstemious system, and my philosophical speculations were generally laid aside at dinnertime. FROM philosophy, I proceeded to the study of anatomy, surgery, and medicine. In the course of time, I could describe all the bones in the human body, knew all the various uses of surgical instruments, and could prescribe for every disorder. I recollect that I imbibed a sovereign contempt for a very learned and sensible man of my acquaintance, because he spoke of the pericardium, as something belonging to the head, mistaking it for pericranium. Being, however, rather of a fanciful turn, I soon, by this course of study, brought on a nervous complaint. I then imagined that my heart had fallen out of its proper place, that my face was turned round where the back of my head should be, that my veins were branches of trees, and that I had entirely lost my appetite, of which last I had every symptom but leaving off eating. In short, I grew quite melancholy; but happily for me, a man, who set up an apothecary's shop in the neighborhood, purchased all my father's cargo of medical books: my father made me walk every day out to Islington, and in process of time I was quite cured. You may, perhaps, wonder why, during the different periods I have mentioned, I never again thought of attempting to figure as an author. I will tell you the reason: I had read that indolence is universally allowed to be a characteristic of genius, and this feature of it I possessed in a very superior degree. My father had, by his traffic in books, gathered a little money. I had, therefore, no need to write for bread; and I had read that some of our greatest authors never would put pen to paper till they could not get a dinner any other way. Now and then, to be sure, for the pleasure of seeing myself in print, I sent a poem, or moral essay, to some of the monthly publications, and had the pleasure of seeing it acknowledged, as "beautiful, charming, elegant," &c., because the publishers got it for nothing. Being praised soon lost its novelty, and I discontinued my communications. intervals, however, I made considerable progress, by the help of an old dictionary and my father's assistance, in the study of the French language: I actually read through a torn jest book, Scarron's Romant Comique, and a volume of sermons of these Scarron was my favorite. At Spiteful people have said that learned ladies never get husbands; but this I can contradict from my own experience. At the age of twenty-eight I had two offers; one from a weaver, who, having heard that my father could give me a small trifle of money, honestly told me that he was but poor, but that he hoped, with what I might have, and prudence and industry, we could contrive to live decently. My other lover was a sergeant in a marching regiment. lgt 98, 352. e 265. |