THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics.

VOL. XVIII.—OCTOBER, 1866.—NO. CVIII.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by Ticknor andFields, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District ofMassachusetts.

Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes movedto the end of the article. Table of contents has been created for the HTML version.

Contents

CHILDHOOD: A STUDY.
HER PILGRIMAGE.
FARMER HILL'S DIARY.
THE DARWINIAN THEORY.
VARIOUS ASPECTS OF THE WOMAN QUESTION.
SCARABÆI ED ALTRI.
MIANTOWONA.
PASSAGES FROM HAWTHORNE'S NOTE-BOOKS.
THE NORMAN CONQUEST.
THE NOVELS OF GEORGE ELIOT.
GRIFFITH GAUNT; OR, JEALOUSY.
THE USURPATION.
REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.


[Pg 385]

CHILDHOOD: A STUDY.

There is a rushing southwest wind. It murmurs overhead among thewillows, and the little river-waves lap and wash upon the point below;but not a breath lifts my hair, down here among the tree-trunks, closeto the water. Clear water ripples at my feet; and a mile and more away,across the great bay of the wide river, the old, compact brick-red citylies silent in the sunshine. Silent, I say truly: to me, here, it ismotionless and silent. But if I should walk up into State Street and sayso, my truth, like many others, when uprooted from among theircircumstances, would turn into a disagreeable lie. Sharp points riseabove the irregular profile of the line of roofs. Some are churchspires, and some are masts,—mixed at the rate of about one church and ahalf to a schooner. I smell the clear earthy smell of the pure graysand, and the fresh, cool smell of the pure water. Tiny bird-tracks liealong the edge of the water, perhaps to delight the soul of somemillennial ichnologist. A faint aromatic perfume rises from the stems ofthe willow-bushes, abraded by the ice of the winter floods. I should notperceive it, were they not tangled and matted all around so close to myhead.

Just this side of the city is the monstrous arms factory; and over thelevel line of its great dike, the chimneys of the attendant village ofboarding-houses peep up like irregular teeth. A sail-boat glides up theriver. A silent brown sparrow runs along the stems of the willowthicket, and delicate slender flies now and then alight on me. They willdie to-night. It is too early in the spring for them.

The air is warm and soft. Now, and here, I can write. Utter solitude,warmth, a landscape, and a comfortable seat are the requisites. Thefirst and the last are the chiefest; if but one of the four could behad, I think that (as a writer) I should take the seat. That which, ofall my writing, I wrote with the full

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