As regards her minor half, she is as commonplace as the rest of us.

Vain of trivial things all the first half of her life, and still vain of them at seventy and recording them with naive satisfaction--even rescuing some early rhymes of hers of the sort that we all scribble in the innocent days of our youth--rescuing them and printing them without pity or apology, just as the weakest and commonest of us do in our gray age.

More--she still frankly admires them; and in her introduction of them profanely confers upon them the holy name of "poetry." Sample: "And laud the land whose talents rock The cradle of her power, And wreaths are twined round Plymouth Rock From erudition's bower." "Minerva's silver sandals still Are loosed and not effete." You note it is not a shade above the thing which all human beings churn out in their youth.
You would not think that in a little wee primer--for that is what the Autobiography is--a person with a tumultuous career of seventy years behind her could find room for two or three pages of padding of this kind, but such is the case.

She evidently puts narrative together with difficulty and is not at home in it, and is glad to have something ready-made to fill in with.

Another sample: "Here fame-honored Hickory rears his bold form, And bears a brave breast to the lightning and storm, While Palm, Bay, and Laurel in classical glee, Chase Tulip, Magnolia, and fragrant Fringe-tree." Vivid?
You can fairly see those trees galloping around.