I had various reasons for my preferences. With some, I was caught
by a melodious echo, or a sonorous ring; with others by the hint
of a picture, or a story, or by some sacred suggestion that
attracted me, I knew not why. Of some I was fond just because I
misunderstood them; and of these I made a free version in my
mind, as I murmured them over. One of my first favorites was
certainly rather a singular choice for a child of three or four
years. I had no idea of its meaning, but made up a little story
out of it, with myself as the heroine. It began with the words--

"Come, humble sinner, in whose breast
A thousand thoughts revolve."

The second stanza read thus:--

"I'll go to Jesus, though my sin
Hath like a mountain rose."

I did not know that this last line was bad grammar, but thought
that the sin in question was something pretty, that looked "like
a mountain rose." Mountains I had never seen; they were a
glorious dream to me. And a rose that grew on a mountain must
surely be prettier than any of our red wild roses on the hill,
sweet as they were. I would pluck that rose, and carry it up the
mountain-side into the temple where the King sat, and would give
it to Him; and then He would touch me with his sceptre, and let
me through into a garden full of flowers. There was no garden in
the hymn; I suppose the "rose" made me invent one. But it did
read--