could deceive none but the most incautious reader, that an ancestor of
mine was sent ambassador to Spain by Charles I., nor that in a remote
branch of my family there exists a claimant to an earldom, nor that an
uncle of mine used to own a dog that was descended from the dog that was
in the Ark; and at the same time I was never able to persuade myself to
call a gibbet by its right name when accounting for other ancestors of
mine, but always spoke of it as the “platform”–puerilely intimating that
they were out lecturing when it happened.
It is Mrs. Eddy over again. As regards her minor half, she is as
commonplace as the rest of us. Vain of trivial things all the first half
of her life, and still vain of them at seventy and recording them with
naive satisfaction–even rescuing some early rhymes of hers of the sort
that we all scribble in the innocent days of our youth–rescuing them and
printing them without pity or apology, just as the weakest and commonest
of us do in our gray age. More–she still frankly admires them; and in
her introduction of them profanely confers upon them the holy name of
“poetry.” Sample:
“And laud the land whose talents rock
The cradle of her power,
And wreaths are twined round Plymouth Rock
From erudition’s bower.”
“Minerva’s silver sandals still
Are loosed and not effete.”
You note it is not a shade above the thing which all human beings churn
out in their youth.
You would not think that in a little wee primer–for that is what the
Autobiography is–a person with a tumultuous career of seventy years
behind her could find room for two or three pages of padding of this
kind, but such is the case. She evidently puts narrative together with
difficulty and is not at home in it, and is glad to have something ready-
made to fill in with. Another sample:
“Here fame-honored Hickory rears his bold form,
And bears a brave breast to the lightning and storm,
While Palm, Bay, and Laurel in classical glee,
Chase Tulip, Magnolia, and fragrant Fringe-tree.”
Vivid? You can fairly see those trees galloping around. That she could
still treasure up, and print, and manifestly admire those Poems,
indicates that the most daring and masculine and masterful woman that has
appeared in the earth in centuries has the same soft, girly-girly places
in her that the rest of us have.
When it comes to selecting her ancestors she is still human, natural,
vain, commonplace–as commonplace as I am myself when I am sorting
ancestors for my autobiography. She combs out some creditable Scots, and
labels them and sets them aside for use, not overlooking the one to whom
Sir William Wallace gave “a heavy sword encased in a brass scabbard,” and
naively explaining which Sir William Wallace it was, lest we get the
wrong one by the hassock; this is the one “from whose patriotism and
bravery comes that heart-stirring air, ‘Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled.'”
Hannah More was related to her ancestors. She explains who Hannah More
was.
Whenever a person informs us who Sir William Wallace was, or who wrote
“Hamlet,” or where the Declaration of Independence was fought, it fills
us with a suspicion wellnigh amounting to conviction, that that person
would not suspect us of being so empty of knowledge if he wasn’t
suffering from the same “claim” himself. Then we turn to page 20 of the
Autobiography and happen upon this passage, and that hasty suspicion
stands rebuked:
“I gained book-knowledge with far less labor than is usually requisite.
At ten years of age I was as familiar with Lindley Murray’s Grammar as
with the Westminster Catechism; and the latter I had to repeat every
Sunday. My favorite studies were Natural Philosophy, Logic, and Moral
Science. From my brother A1bert I received lessons in the ancient
tongues, Hebrew, Greek, and Latin.”
You catch your breath in astonishment, and feel again and still again the
pang of that rebuke. But then your eye falls upon the next sentence but
one, and the pain passes away and you set up the suspicion again with