August 18, 2025 • 15 mins
Step back into the 1800s and experience the life of a seaside country girl in New England. Discover her dreams, aspirations, and the realities of her education and opportunities as she navigates a world shaped by her familys needs. At just 11 years old, she begins working in the Lowell Textile Mills in Massachusetts to support her family—a journey that leads her to edit magazines, teach at Wheaton College, and pen enchanting books filled with her hopes, memories, poetry, and profound insights on life. As she beautifully reflects, “Every little thread must take its place as warp or woof, and keep in it steadily... that we are entirely separate, while yet we entirely belong to the Whole, is a truth that we learn to rejoice in.” The preface, positioned at the end, serves as a fascinating historical afterward that enhances Lucys vivid narratives from the very first page. (Summary by Michele Fry, Book Coordinator)
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Speaker 1 (00:01):
Dedication and preface to A New England Girlhood by Lucy Larcom.
This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in
the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
visit LibriVox dot org. Read by Michel Frye Baton Rouge,
(00:21):
Louisiana in March twenty twenty three A New England Girlhood Dedication.
I dedicate this sketch to my girlfriends in general, and
in particular to my namesake niece Lucy Larcom Spalding. Happy
(00:43):
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 glorious spy
some shadows of eternity. Before I talk, my tongue to
wound my conscience by a sinful sound, but felt through
(01:05):
all this fleshy dress, bright shoots of everlastingness. Henry Vaughan,
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
perpetual benediction Wordsworth and now Lucy Larcom's preface. The following
(01:28):
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 girls and of
those who write for them, are also welcome to listen
to as much of my narrative as they choose. All
(01:48):
others are eavesdroppers, and of course have no right to criticize.
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, a story
(02:11):
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
(02:32):
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 life, which is the very
best thing we have is ours, only that we may
(02:55):
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,
(03:17):
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 life story. For better
or worse. There may be more vanity in covering one's
(03:40):
face with a veil to be wondered at and guessed 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 autobiography myself.
When the subject is a person of so little import
importance as in the present instance, still it may have
(04:04):
a reason for being. Even in a case like this,
Everyone whose name is before the public, and all must
be aware of the common annoyance in these frequent requests
which are made for personal facts, data, for biographical paragraphs,
and the like. To answer such requests and furnish the
(04:25):
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.
(04:47):
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
(05:07):
reader may be, and often does become, that of mutual friendship,
and 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
(05:27):
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 girl reader's
thoughts about life in themselves than to be writing out
my own experiences. It is to my disadvantage that the
(05:48):
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
(06:14):
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
(06:35):
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,
(06:57):
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 one's future
history can never repeat, although something far better is undoubtedly
already resulting. Thence those peculiarities were the natural development of
(07:19):
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 bows were already decaying, so that perhaps we began
(07:42):
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
(08:04):
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
(08:25):
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
belonged together. Perhaps habits of conscientious work induced thought. Certainly,
(08:52):
right thinking naturally impels people to work. We learned no
theories about the dignity of labor. We were taught to work,
almost as if it were a religion, to keep at work,
expecting nothing else. It was our inheritance, handed down from
the outcasts of Eden, and for us, as for them,
(09:13):
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
(09:33):
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, I must have. Was poetry from the first
life meant that to me? And fortunately, poetry is not
(09:57):
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,
(10:20):
by contrast, its heaven breathing flowers. To different minds, poetry
may present different phases. To me, the reverend 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,
(10:42):
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 person, in lovely and
lofty characters, more sacredly than all, in the one divine
(11:05):
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
(11:27):
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 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
(11:49):
things that she possesses. The highest possible poetic conception is
that of a life consecrated to a noble ideal. It
may be an able 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
(12:12):
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
(12:36):
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. It seems to
(13:00):
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 I hope never to part company with her.
I do not feel so much satisfaction in the older
(13:22):
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
(13:45):
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 be without her comradeship. Every
phase of our life belongs to us. The moon does
(14:08):
not accept, 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
(14:30):
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
(14:51):
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
(15:12):
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.
(15:34):
Lucy Larcom, Beverly, Massachusetts, October eighteen eighty nine. End of preface,
and this ends A New England Girlhood outlined from memory
by Lucy Larcom
Dedication and preface to A New England Girlhood by Lucy Larcom.
This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in
the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
visit LibriVox dot org. Read by Michel Frye Baton Rouge,
(00:21):
Louisiana in March twenty twenty three A New England Girlhood Dedication.
I dedicate this sketch to my girlfriends in general, and
in particular to my namesake niece Lucy Larcom Spalding. Happy
(00:43):
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 glorious spy
some shadows of eternity. Before I talk, my tongue to
wound my conscience by a sinful sound, but felt through
(01:05):
all this fleshy dress, bright shoots of everlastingness. Henry Vaughan,
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
perpetual benediction Wordsworth and now Lucy Larcom's preface. The following
(01:28):
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 girls and of
those who write for them, are also welcome to listen
to as much of my narrative as they choose. All
(01:48):
others are eavesdroppers, and of course have no right to criticize.
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, a story
(02:11):
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
(02:32):
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 life, which is the very
best thing we have is ours, only that we may
(02:55):
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,
(03:17):
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 life story. For better
or worse. There may be more vanity in covering one's
(03:40):
face with a veil to be wondered at and guessed 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 autobiography myself.
When the subject is a person of so little import
importance as in the present instance, still it may have
(04:04):
a reason for being. Even in a case like this,
Everyone whose name is before the public, and all must
be aware of the common annoyance in these frequent requests
which are made for personal facts, data, for biographical paragraphs,
and the like. To answer such requests and furnish the
(04:25):
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.
(04:47):
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
(05:07):
reader may be, and often does become, that of mutual friendship,
and 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
(05:27):
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 girl reader's
thoughts about life in themselves than to be writing out
my own experiences. It is to my disadvantage that the
(05:48):
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
(06:14):
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
(06:35):
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,
(06:57):
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 one's future
history can never repeat, although something far better is undoubtedly
already resulting. Thence those peculiarities were the natural development of
(07:19):
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 bows were already decaying, so that perhaps we began
(07:42):
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
(08:04):
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
(08:25):
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
belonged together. Perhaps habits of conscientious work induced thought. Certainly,
(08:52):
right thinking naturally impels people to work. We learned no
theories about the dignity of labor. We were taught to work,
almost as if it were a religion, to keep at work,
expecting nothing else. It was our inheritance, handed down from
the outcasts of Eden, and for us, as for them,
(09:13):
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
(09:33):
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, I must have. Was poetry from the first
life meant that to me? And fortunately, poetry is not
(09:57):
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,
(10:20):
by contrast, its heaven breathing flowers. To different minds, poetry
may present different phases. To me, the reverend 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,
(10:42):
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 person, in lovely and
lofty characters, more sacredly than all, in the one divine
(11:05):
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
(11:27):
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 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
(11:49):
things that she possesses. The highest possible poetic conception is
that of a life consecrated to a noble ideal. It
may be an able 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
(12:12):
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
(12:36):
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. It seems to
(13:00):
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 I hope never to part company with her.
I do not feel so much satisfaction in the older
(13:22):
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
(13:45):
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 be without her comradeship. Every
phase of our life belongs to us. The moon does
(14:08):
not accept, 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
(14:30):
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
(14:51):
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
(15:12):
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.
(15:34):
Lucy Larcom, Beverly, Massachusetts, October eighteen eighty nine. End of preface,
and this ends A New England Girlhood outlined from memory
by Lucy Larcom
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