Howells, William Dean, 1837-1920 -- Childhood and youth
I must have gone through the old log cabin to see how it looked without
us, but I have no recollection of ever entering its door again, so soon
had it ceased to be part of my life. We remained in the new house, as we
continued to call it, for two or three months, and then the changes of
business which had been taking place without the knowledge of us
children called us away from that roof, too, and we left the mills and
the pleasant country that had grown so dear, to take up our abode in
city streets again. We went to live in the ordinary brick house of our
civilization, but we had grown so accustomed, with the quick and facile
adaptation of children, to living in a house which was merely lathed,
that we distinguished this last dwelling from the new house as a
"plastered house."
Some of our playmates of the neighborhood walked part of the way to
X---- with us boys, the snowy morning when we turned our backs on the
new house to take the train in that town. A shadow of the gloom in
which our spirits were steeped passes over me again, but chiefly I
remember our difficulties in getting our young Newfoundland dog away
with us; and our subsequent embarrassments with him on the train, where
he sat up and barked out of the window at the passing objects and
finally became seasick, blot all other memories of that journey from my
mind.
II
If in a child's first years the things which it apparently remembers are
really the suggestions of its elders, it begins soon to repay the debt,
and repays it more and more fully until its memory touches the history
of all whom it has known. Through the whole time when a boy is becoming
a man his autobiography can scarcely be kept from becoming the record of
his family and his world. He finds himself so constantly reflected in
the personality of those about him, so blent with it, that any attempt
to study himself as a separate personality is impossible. His
environment has become his life, and his hope of a recognizable
self-portrait must lie in his frank acceptance of the condition that he
can make himself truly seen chiefly in what he remembers to have seen of
his environment.
I
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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