[Illustration: MADONNA, INFANT JESUS, AND ST. JOHN. VOUET (FRENCH: BORN 1590; DIED 1649).] [Illustration: LA VIERGE À LA GRAPPE--MADONNA OF THE GRAPES. PIERRE MIGNARD (FRENCH: BORN 1610; DIED 1695).] [Illustration: LA VIERGE AU LAPIN--MADONNA OF THE RABBIT. TITIAN (ITALIAN: BORN 1477; DIED 1576).] [Illustration: THE FOND MOTHER. GABRIEL GUAY, A LIVING FRENCH PAINTER.] [Illustration: ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. From a photograph by Mr. Benjamin Kimball, Boston.] CHAPTERS FROM A LIFE. I. BY ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS, Author of "The Gates Ajar," "The Madonna of the Tubs," etc. Has it not been said that once in a lifetime most of us succumb to the particular situation against which we have cultivated the strongest principles? If there be one such, among the possibilities to which a truly civilized career is liable, more than another objectionable to the writer of these words, the creation of autobiography has long been that one. Yet, for that offence, once criminal to my taste, I find myself hereby about to become indictable; and do set my hand and seal, on this day of the recall of my dearest literary oath, in this year of eminent autobiographical examples, one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five. "There is ----, who has written a charming series of personal reminiscences, and ---- ----, and ----. "You might meet your natural shrinking by allowing yourself to treat especially of your literary life; including, of course, whatever went to form and sustain it." "I suppose I _might_," I sigh. The answer is faint; but the deed is decreed. Shall I be sorry for it? It is a gray day, on gray Cape Ann, as I write these words. The fog is breathing over the downs. The outside steamers shriek from off the Point, as they feel their way at live of noon, groping as though it were dead of night, and stars and coast-lights all were smitten dark, and every pilot were a stranger to his chart. A stranger to my chart, I, doubtful, put about, and make the untried coast. At such a moment, one thinks wistfully of that fair, misty world which is all one's own, yet on the outside of which one stands so humbly, and so gently. One thinks of the unseen faces, of the unknown friends who have read one's tales of other people's lives, and cared to read, and told one so, and made one believe in their kindness, and affection and fidelity for thirty years. And the hesitating heart calls out to them: Will _you_ let me be sorry? Thirty years! It is a good while that you and I have kept step together. Shall we miss it now? If _you_ will care to hear such chapters as may select themselves from the story of the story-teller,--you have the oldest right to choose, and I, the happy will to please you if I can. * * * * *