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Constant Fear of Becoming a Plagiarist

THE summer and winter following "The Frost-King" incident I spent with my family in Alabama. I recall with delight that home-going. Everything had budded and blossomed. I was happy; "The Frost-King" was forgotten.

When the ground was strewn with the crimson and golden leaves of autumn, and the musk-scented grapes that covered the arbor at the end of the garden were turning golden brown in the sunshine, I began to write a sketch of my life -- a year after I had written "The Frost-King." I was still excessively scrupulous about everything I wrote. The thought that what I wrote might not be absolutely my own tormented me. No one knew of these fears except my teacher. A strange sensitiveness prevented me from referring to "The Frost-King"; but often when an idea flashed out in the course of conversation I would spell softly in her hand, "I am not sure it is mine." At other times, in the midst of a paragraph I was writing, I said to myself, "Suppose it should be found that all this was written by some one long ago!" An impish fear clutched hold of my hand, so that I could not write any more that day. And even now I sometimes feel the same uneasiness and disquietude.

The chief events of the year 1893 were my trip to Washington during the inauguration of President Cleveland, and visits to Niagara and the World's Fair. With an eagerness as insatiable as that with which Cortez seized the treasures of Mexico I took in the glories of the Fair with my fingers. I saw many wonders -- marvels of invention; treasures of skill and patient industry; the works of man in every country and in all times. We were accompanied by Doctor Alexander Graham Bell, who went everywhere with us and explained the objects of greatest interest. Whenever it was possible I touched the machinery and followed the work in all its processes. Needless to say, these experiences added a great many new terms to my vocabulary; and before the summer was over I had taken a long leap from the child's interest in fairy-tales and toys to the appreciation of the real and the earnest in the workaday world. In a word, all the marvels of tale and song, all the activities of human life passed tinder my finger-tips.

Study Began in Earnest in 1893

BEFORE October, 1893, I had studied various subjects by myself in a more or less desultory manner. I read the histories of Greece, Rome and the United States. I also had a French grammar in raised print, and as I already knew some French I often amused myself by composing in my head short exercises, using the new words as I came across them, and ignoring rules and other technicalities as much as possible. I even tried, without aid, to master the French pronunciation, as I found all the letters and sounds described in the book. Of course, this was tasking slender powers for great ends; but it gave me something to do on a rainy day, and I acquired a sufficient knowledge of French to read with pleasure La Fontaine's "Fables," "Le Medecin Malgrè Lui," and passages from Athalie.

I also gave considerable time to the improvement of my speech. I read aloud to Miss Sullivan and recited passages from my favorite poets, which I had committed to memory; and she corrected my pronunciation and helped me to phrase and inflect. It was not, however, until October, 1893, after I had recovered from the fatigue and excitement of my visit to the World's Fair, that I began to have regular lessons.

Miss Sullivan and I were at that time in Hulton, Pennsylvania, visiting the family of Mr. William Wade. It was arranged that I should study under Mr. Irons, a neighbor of theirs. I remember him as a man of rare, sweet nature and of wide experience. He taught me Latin Grammar principally; but he often helped me in Arithmetic, which I found as troublesome as it was uninteresting. I regarded this study as a system of pitfalls. I hung about the dangerous frontier of "guess," avoiding with infinite trouble to myself and others the broad valley of reason. When I was not guessing I was jumping at conclusions, and this fault, in addition to my dullness, aggravated my difficulties.

Mr. Irons also read with me Tennyson's "In Memoriam." I had read many books before, but never from a critical point of view. I learned for the first time to know an author, to recognize his style as I would recognize the clasp of a friend's hand. I studied "In Memoriam" not merely as a great poem, but a poem filled with soul, chastened and noble in style, breathing of shattered hopes, and cruel sorrow.

At first I was rather unwilling to study Latin Grammar. It seemed absurd to waste time analyzing every word I came across -- noun, genitive, singular, feminine, etc. -- when its meaning was quite plain. I thought I might just as well describe my pet in order to know it -- order, vertebrate; division, quadruped; class, mammalia; genus, felinus; species, cat; individual, tabby. But as I got deeper into the subject I became more interested, and the beauty of the language delighted me. I often amused myself by reading Latin passages, picking up words I understood and trying to make sense; I have never ceased to enjoy this pastime. There is nothing more beautiful, I think, than the evanescent fleeting images and sentiments presented by a language one is just becoming familiar with -- ideas that flit across the mental sky like iridescent clouds, shaped and tinted by capricious fancy. Miss Sullivan sat beside me at my lessons, spelling into my hand whatever Mr. Irons wished to say, and looking up new words for me. I was just beginning to read Caesar's "Gallic War" when I went to my home in Alabama.