A Diary of Innocence: Older Than My Years
This is the last entry in Mary Hutchinson's diary, which she began in January, 1927, when she was 13.
Mary was chronically ill, suffering from tuberculosis and having to endure lengthy stays in hospital from time to time. Although she wrote of those episodes, she never mentioned the nature of her condition. Only once did she use the term ‘consumptive illness’, speaking about someone else. Most of her entries were about family life, friends and her love of nature and poetry.
The Hutchinsons were a very close-knit Methodist family living in Thirsk, North Yorkshire. John and Mary had five children: Annie, married to Arthur Nesbitt and living in Canada, Harold, a student at Cliff College, Alice, Nellie and Mary, the youngest, who was 13 when she began her journal.
Mary wrote "It is my hope that some day someone may find my simple daily record interesting or that someone may be helped and comforted by something I have written in its pages.”
She died when she was 21.
Her hope has become reality. Her diary lives on.
Sunday, 11th December. I will have to mend my ways. Dear me, when I see how long it is since I have written any record of my simple life I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I am reminded how quickly time passes. A few days ago I had a dream in which I was reading a poem. Though I have never read such a poem before, it seemed so natural and it rhymed well. I just remember the last line. It ran thus: “And youth is gone ere it is felt! Oh! I thought how very true, for though only fourteen summers have passed over me, they have not passed lightly. There were clouds and storms as well as sunshine, and the roses had their thorns which left not only physical scars, but the storms have left me more calm and sober and wise and older than my years. Perhaps because I was taken from the companions of my own age so early. For even now I look back on the time which, though I did not know it, was youth to me. But I have learnt to trust Jesus and cast my care upon Him. For my affliction has been a sorrow to me. But now I know that it is His will and “Whatever is, is best”.
I have been at Fanny’s for three delightful weeks since I last wrote in my diary. Alice has had her twenty-first birthday, 2nd Sep. I have had my birthday. Harold is at Cliff. Summer is past and autumn is here. Autumn with its red, gold and brown tints and later the misty cold days.
Alice has got a very nice and comfortable situation as companion help to an old lady of 87. Mrs. Blakeborough is such a nice old lady. I have spent several evenings with her and Alice. She is such an entertaining old lady, so jolly and nice. She has some lovely old things. Her house is so delightful to me, for I am fond of antiques, be they furniture, crockery or any china.
A day or two ago Harold sent us a card each. His had on in large letters KEEP SMILING. Nellie’s and Alice’s were pieces of poetry, and Alice’s was a particularly nice piece. I will write it here. Mine was a postcard size in colours. Oh I do love it. It is called “The Hope of the World.” It is a beautiful picture of Christ with children of all nations. I do love it.
I have been busy making doll pincushions and handkerchiefs. The pincushions are very beautiful. I made Alice a camisole for her birthday, but I did not finish it until lately. I trimmed it with tatting -- an old fashioned art -- round the neck and armholes, and I tatted a medallion and let it in the front. It looked very nice. When Mrs. Blakeborough saw it, she was so charmed with it she gave me her tatting shuttle. It is nicer than the one I had. It is made of ivory. She used to tat many years ago, but her hand is not cool enough now.
Harold is coming home on Tuesday. I am looking forward to his coming. Nellie is in a situation, but it is not suitable. She is coming home for Christmas and about a week later she is going, if all be well, to Dishforth. If only she were in as comfortable situation as Alice. Mrs. Blakeborough is such a charming old lady.
Hilda is staying here now. But she is going home tomorrow, when she will have been here about three weeks.
I have some daffodil bulbs in a willow pattern bowl. They are growing splendidly.
Tuesday, 20th December, 1927. Harold has come home. I have a swollen neck. It has just come like it did when I was in hospital last Christmas just before I came home. I hope it will go away. On Friday Alice and Mother and I went to Thirsk. Hilda went home. I did my Christmas shopping. Then I went to Mrs. Bendelow’s. I did enjoy myself. I have got a card this morning from Doris Bendelow.
Tuesday, 27th December. Arose 9 a.m. The day is cold and frosty. In the afternoon I went for a walk with Harold. We met Mr. Appleton and went with him. We had a very nice walk. He took us to an old camp of the Wars of the Roses. There are two clumsy spires built on each side of the valley where the camp was in commemoration. They are dated thirteen hundred and something. Mr. Appleton is a very nice old gentleman. He lends me books to read.
We had a very nice Christmas. I got many presents. Indeed we all did. We have not yet got the Canadian Christmas parcel or letter. Alice had a happy Christmas with Mrs. Blakeborough. Harold is going missioning with another brother.
Sunday, January 1st, 1928. On Friday Harold and I went for a walk. We went into Mr. Barley’s grass field. There was about half an acre of hard ice. In summer it is like a shallow lake. I call them the rinks. I skated all over. Harold could not walk on them for the nails in his boots. He made a slide over twenty yards long.
On Saturday we had Millie and Wag and Arthur and Willie Scott. We had a very nice time. This Christmas I have got many letters and cards. Harold has bought me a diary. It is so small and dainty but there is heaps of room in it. I shall use it more as an autograph to put anything I fancy in. Rather than a record of my commonplace affairs.
The old year with its joys and sorrows has gone, and the new year has been ushered in by a keen frost and a biting wind. What better fitting poetry can I write than lines from Tennyson’s “In Memoriam.”
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night:
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow
The year is going, let him go.
Ring out the false, ring in the true,
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land.
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
