world to be full of such.  They did me good, for by them a standard was early given of sight and thought, from which I could never go back, and beneath which I cannot suffer patiently my own life or that of any friend to fall.  They did me harm, too, for the child fed with meat instead of milk becomes too soon mature.  Expectations and desires were thus early raised, after which I must long toil before they can be realized.  How poor the scene around, how tame one’s own existence, how meagre and faint every power, with these beings in my mind!  Often I must cast them quite aside in order to grow in my small way, and not sink into despair.  Certainly I do not wish that instead of these masters I had read baby books, written down to children, and with such ignorant dulness that they blunt the senses and corrupt the tastes of the still plastic human being.  But I do wish that I had read no books at all till later,—­that I had lived with toys, and played in the open air.  Children should not cull the fruits of reflection and observation early, but expand in the sun, and let thoughts come to them.  They should not through books antedate their actual experiences, but should take them gradually, as sympathy and interpretation are needed.  With me, much of life was devoured in the bud.

FIRST FRIEND.

’For a few months, this bookish and solitary life was invaded by interest in a living, breathing figure.  At church, I used to look around with a feeling of coldness and disdain, which, though I now well understand its causes, seems to my wiser mind as odious as it was unnatural.  The puny child sought everywhere for the Roman or Shakspeare figures, and she was met by the shrewd, honest eye, the homely decency, or the smartness of a New England village on Sunday.  There was beauty, but I could not see it then; it was not of the kind I longed for.  In the next pew sat a family who were my especial aversion.  There were five daughters, the eldest not above four-and-twenty,—­yet they had the old fairy, knowing look, hard, dry, dwarfed, strangers to the All-Fair,—­were working-day residents in this beautiful planet.  They looked as if their thoughts had never strayed beyond the jobs of the day, and they were glad of it.  Their mother was one of those shrunken, faded patterns of woman who have never done anything to keep smooth the cheek and dignify the brow.  The father had a Scotch look of shrewd narrowness, and entire self-complacency.  I could not endure this family, whose existence contradicted all my visions; yet I could not forbear looking at them.

’As my eye one day was ranging about with its accustomed coldness, and the proudly foolish sense of being in a shroud of thoughts that were not their thoughts, it was arrested by a face most fair, and well-known as it seemed at first glance,—­for surely I had met her before and waited for her long.  But soon I saw that