University of Virginia Library

LETTER I.

Not that you are very “dear” to me, for I never
saw you in all my life, but then one must begin their
epistles, and as everybody says dear, and don't mean
any thing by it, I say dear too, and don't mean any
thing by it, so don't flatter yourself in the least; for,
if it were the fashion, and the whim hit my fancy, I
should just as likely have written “Bear.” You editors
presume so much, you need to be put down.

I was going to begin my letter by saying why I call
my letters “needles.” Not, you may rest assured, because
they are likely to be sharp and keen, for I have
no doubt that they will be vastly dull, but one must
have a title, and what must one do for one? Simple
“Letters” would never tempt the eye. The pill must
be gilt. You would, no doubt, laugh very good-humoredly
if I should confess to you that I have been

bothering my poor little head for three hours to-day
for a title. A celebrated author once told me,—for I
have seen such lions in my day, and talked and flirted
with these lords of the quill, too,—that he thought more
of his “titles” than of the matter of his books, and
that was no slight matter either! He said he had
sometimes written out on a long paper, (like a subscription
list, I suppose,) a score of names, and then carefully
studied them, fancied how they would take the eye of
the lounger in the book-stores, or the passer-by, who
should glance at the big poster: he even used to go so
far as to set the title up in type, an amateur fount of
which he kept by him for this purpose, before he fully
fixed upon his “clap-trap.”

Now, I can imagine all this to be very necessary, and
I give this author credit for no inconsiderable knowledge
of human nature. Half the novels are bought by their
titles by half the world. I used to buy them so.
When I took this weighty fact into consideration, I was
sore perplexed. “Letters” I was resolved not to have.
“Epistles” looked like the New Testament, and I felt it
too sacred a word for me to make light use of; for I was
very properly brought up to reverence any thing about
the Scriptures. I thought of “Pen and Ink” sketches—
a nice title, but Mr. Willis had invented and used it:
happy gentleman with a gift for happy titles! for his
“Pencillings by the Way” is another that came into my
head, and I tried every way to parody it, but I couldn't
manage it at all, and gave it up. I thought of “Dots
and Lines,” but somebody had got it before me, and nothing
seemed left but Dot and go One; when, in my
troubles I pricked my finger with a needle that was

in my needle-book, which I was turning and turning
in my fingers while I was cogitating about my title. Instantly
the idea flashed upon me, and the words, “Needles
from my Needle-Book!” I seemed to read in the air
before my eyes. For fear I should forget the happy
combination, I scribbled it down on the spot, and determined
to adopt it.

No doubt you will expect to find something short
and shrewd, ascetic and attic in my articles, but I promise
you that you must look for nothing of the kind;
for it only takes great authors to write books that have
nothing to do with their titles, nor their titles with them.
The only defence I can make of my caption is that it is
very appropriate to my sex, being a fair weapon either
of offence or defence, as well as the glittering shuttle
of female industry. Would you believe it, sir, my pupil,
a wicked rogue of a beauty of sixteen, (for you must
know I am a governess, and but nineteen and a little
over, myself,) she has seen my title, and says I had better
put, “Scissors” to it? Scissors and Needles! Dear
us, Mr. —! what would you have thought to have
opened my package, and had this title met your astonished
editorial eyes?

“SCISSORS AND NEEDLES:”
“BY A YANKEE GIRL.”

You have had in this specimen a touch of my South-western
pupil's mischief, and you shall know more of
her by-and-by, perhaps, if you print this letter and don't
say any thing saucy about it; for editors, who have lady
correspondents, ought to be exceedingly well-behaved and
mannerly, and appreciate the honor done them. Now,

having introduced my title to you, how shall I introduce
myself and all the subjects I intend to let my pen run
on about? I shall not give you my name, nor give you
any clue to it, if you should be never so curious to find
it out; for men have so much curiosity! even where
there will be, as in my case, nothing worth the trouble
of finding out, for I am not so vain as to fancy I shall
ever be worth asking after. It will take more ink and
paper than I shall ever destroy, to make a lady who
would be “literary” singled out of the troupes of bas
bleu that fill the land like the golden-winged butterflies
in May. But I will do what I can to please, for my
poor, innocent pen has got to travel a weary length, and
I long to make happy more than one dear heart in this
world. Authorship is not woman's sphere by nature,
but by circumstances only. Oh, how many a gentle
lady has the needle of poverty pricked on to seize, with
trembling fingers, the awe-inspiring pen! and dip it into
her heart, to write out its life for bread! Weary, oh!
weary is the path to woman's little feet—the path furrowed
deep by the ploughshare of penury. In the furrows
she drops the seeds of hope, and waters them with
tears. It is a rough way this path amid types, and in
the hustle for popularity and pennies, the sex is not
spared by the ruder ones, and the critic's iron point,
that maddens the strong man, pierces to the heart the
timid woman! Yet, once started, she must write or die;
or, worse still, be dependent; and this, to a proud woman,
is the first death of this world's deaths.

Do not think I am going to charge my palette with
sombre tints, from these few sentences foregoing, or that
I am in tears because I am for the first time taking up

the fearful pen to write for coins of silver. I am young
and full of hope, and my heart bounds with cheerful
thoughts. I do not speak in allusion to myself, therefore,
when I say that it is a sad lot for a woman to be
compelled to toil with pen and ink for her bread; for
the prospect before me is a pleasing one. The very
idea that probably I shall see in print what I am
writing, (if it please your pleasure, sir, to print it,
though little worth it, I fear,) fills my bosom with an indefinable
sensation of joy, slightly mingled with a timid
apprehension. I am dying to see myself in type; not
in the place where marriages are noticed; don't naughtily
misconceive my meaning, sir; for I am not going to be
married till I enjoy myself sensibly as a “young woman,”
a little longer yet. My situation here is a happy one,
and if I only lived for myself I should not put pen to
paper; for I am blessed with all I require to make me
contented and grateful. The timid apprehension, I feel
when I look forward, arises from a creeping doubt which
once in a while coils itself around the tree of hope in my
heart, touching the acceptance of my communications;
for this doubt insinuates, with very serpent-like wickedness,
that I shall not be proved to be clever enough to
write any thing worth the printing. But “hope, and
hope on,” is the motto of my adoption, and I shall not
despair: I never could despair. It seems to me that if
I stood alone, the last one alive, upon a burning wreck
in the mid Mediterranean, I should not despair, but believe
that rescue would come.

This letter is only an introductory needle, a sort of
autorial probe, to feel the way; or rather like the first

needle placed in an electrical battery, to be increased
afterwards in number, as the patient will bear.