Page 400 - The Story of My Lif

To-day I took luncheon with the Freshman Class of Radcliffe. This was my first

real experience in college life, and a delightful experience it was! For the first
time since my entrance into Radcliffe I had the opportunity to make friends with
all my classmates, and the pleasure of knowing that they regarded me as one of
themselves, instead of thinking of me as living apart and taking no interest in the
everyday nothings of their life, as I had sometimes feared they did. I have often
been surprised to hear this opinion expressed or rather implied by girls of my
own age and even by people advanced in years. Once some one wrote to me that
in his mind I was always “sweet and earnest,” thinking only of what is wise,
good and interesting—as if he thought I was one of those wearisome saints of
whom there are only too many in the world! I always laugh at these foolish
notions, and assure my friends that it is much better to have a few faults and be
cheerful and responsive in spite of all deprivations than to retire into one’s shell,
pet one’s affliction, clothe it with sanctity, and then set one’s self up as a
monument of patience, virtue, goodness and all in all; but even while I laugh I
feel a twinge of pain in my heart, because it seems rather hard to me that any one
should imagine that I do not feel the tender bonds which draw me to my young

sisters—the sympathies springing from what we have in common—youth, hope,
a half-eager, half-timid attitude towards the life before us and above all the
royalty of maidenhood.

Sainte-Beuve says, “Il vient un age peut-etre quand on n’ecrit plus.” This is the
only allusion I have read to the possibility that the sources of literature, varied

and infinite as they seem now, may sometime be exhausted. It surprises me to
find that such an idea has crossed the mind of any one, especially of a highly
gifted critic. The very fact that the nineteenth century has not produced many
authors whom the world may count among the greatest of all time does not in
my opinion justify the remark, “There may come a time when people cease to
write.”

In the first place, the fountains of literature are fed by two vast worlds, one of
action, one of thought, by a succession of creations in the one and of changes in
the other. New experiences and events call forth new ideas and stir men to ask
questions unthought of before, and seek a definite answer in the depths of human
knowledge.