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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Lucy Larcom: Life, Letters, and Diary, by Daniel Dulany Addison.
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 55751 ***</div>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="transnote">
<p class="ph3">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p>
<p>The cover image has been created from the Title Page of the original and is entered into the public domain.</p>
<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p>
<p>Archaic spelling that may have been used at the time of publication has been preserved.</p>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<div class="bbox">
<p class="ph2">Miss Larcom’s Books.</p>
<p class="hangingindent">POETICAL WORKS. <i>Household Edition.</i> With
Portrait, 12mo, $1.50; full gilt, $2.00.</p>
<p class="hangingindent">POEMS. 16mo, $1.25.</p>
<p class="hangingindent">AN IDYL OF WORK. 16mo, $1.25.</p>
<p class="hangingindent">WILD ROSES OF CAPE ANN, AND OTHER POEMS.
16mo, gilt top, $1.25.</p>
<p class="hangingindent">CHILDHOOD SONGS. Illustrated, 12mo, $1.00.</p>
<p class="hangingindent">EASTER GLEAMS. Poems. 16mo, parchment
paper, 75 cents.</p>
<p class="hangingindent">AS IT IS IN HEAVEN. 16mo, $1.00.</p>
<p class="hangingindent">AT THE BEAUTIFUL GATE, <span class="smcap">and other Songs
of Faith</span>. 16mo, $1.00.</p>
<p class="hangingindent">THE UNSEEN FRIEND. 16mo, $1.00.</p>
<p class="hangingindent">A NEW ENGLAND GIRLHOOD, outlined from
Memory. In Riverside Library for Young People.
16mo, 75 cents.</p>
<p class="hangingindent"><i>Holiday Edition.</i> 16mo, $1.25.</p>
<p class="hangingindent">BREATHINGS OF THE BETTER LIFE. Edited by
<span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>. 18mo, $1.25.</p>
<p class="hangingindent">ROADSIDE POEMS FOR SUMMER TRAVELLERS.
Selected by <span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>. 18mo, $1.00.</p>
<p class="hangingindent">HILLSIDE AND SEASIDE IN POETRY. Selected
by <span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>. 18mo, $1.00.</p>
<p class="hangingindent">BECKONINGS FOR EVERY DAY. A Collection of
Quotations for each day in the year. Compiled by
<span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>. 16mo, $1.00.</p>
<p class="center">HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY,<br />
<span class="smcap">Boston and New York</span>.</p>
</div></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_003.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="titlepage">
<h1>LUCY LARCOM<br />
LIFE, LETTERS, AND DIARY</h1>
<p><small>BY</small><br />
DANIEL DULANY ADDISON</p>
<div class="topspace">
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/title_page.jpg" alt="" /></div></div>
<p>BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br />
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY<br />
The Riverside Press, Cambridge<br />
1895</p>
</div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p class="center">Copyright, 1894,<br />
<span class="smcap">By</span> DANIEL DULANY ADDISON.<br />
<br />
<i>All rights reserved.</i><br />
<br />
<i>The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.</i><br />
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[Pg iii]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">
PREFACE</h2></div>
<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was the purpose of Miss Larcom to write a
sequel to her hook, “A New England Girlhood,”
in which she intended to give some account of her
life in the log-cabins on the Western prairies as a
pioneer and schoolmistress, and her experiences as
a teacher in Wheaton Seminary, and as an editor
and literary woman. She also wished to trace the
growth of her religious ideas by showing the process
through which she was led to undergo changes
that finally made her accept a less rigorous theology
than the one in which she had been reared.
Her fascinating style, with its wealth of reminiscence
and interesting detail, would have characterized
her later book, as it did the former, but she
died before beginning it, and American literature
has lost a valuable record of a woman’s life. A
keen observer, her contact with famous men and
women gave her an opportunity for a large knowledge
of persons and events; deeply interested in
the questions of the day, her comments would have
been just and luminous; and her sensitiveness to
impressions was such that the varied influences
upon her life would have been most attractively<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[Pg iv]</a></span>
presented. She was deeply spiritual, and the
account of her religious experiences would have
supplemented the moral power of her published
works; but she was not permitted to give us, in
autobiographical form, the rich fruits of a well-spent
life.</p>
<p>The only preparation she had made for this book
was a few notes suggesting a title and headings of
the chapters. She proposed naming it, “Hitherward:
A Life-Path Retraced.” The suggestions
for chapters indicate the subjects that she intended
to treat,—“The Charm of Elsewhere;” “Over
the Prairies;” “Log-Cabin Experiences;” “A
Pioneer Schoolmistress;” “Teacher and Student;”
“Back to the Bay State;” “Undercurrents;”
“Beneath Norton Elms;” “During the
War;” “With ‘Our Young Folks;’” “Successful Failures;”
and “Going On.”</p>
<p>After her death, her papers came into my possession.
An examination showed that there was
material enough in her letters and diary to preserve
still some record of her later life, and possibly
to continue the narrative which she had given
in “A New England Girlhood.”</p>
<p>It will be noticed that some years are treated
more at length than others, the reason for this
being that more data have been accessible for those
periods; and also, as is the case with most lives,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span>
there were epochs of intenser emotion, more lasting
experiences, and deeper friendships, the account
of which is of greater value to the general reader
than the more commonplace incidents of her career.</p>
<p>Her life was one of thought, not of action. In
their outward movement, her days flowed on very
smoothly. She had no remarkable adventures;
but she had a constant succession of mental vicissitudes,
which are often more dramatic and real
than the outward events of even a varied life. In
her loves and sympathies, in her philosophy of
living and her creed, in her literary labors,—her
poetry and her prose,—in her studies of man,
nature, and God, she revealed a mind continually
venturing into the known and unknown, and bringing
back trophies of struggles and victories, of
doubts and beliefs, of despair and faith. My aim
has been to present the character of a New England
woman, as it was thus moulded by the intellectual
and moral forces of American living for the
last fifty years; and to show how she absorbed
the best from all sides, and responded to the highest
influences.</p>
<p>There are passages in her diaries that remind
one of Pascal’s “Thoughts,” for their frankness
and spiritual depth; there are others that recall
Amiel’s Journal, with its record of emotions and
longings after light. If such a singularly transparent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[Pg vi]</a></span>
and pure life had preserved for us its inner
history, it would be more valuable than any record
of mere outward events. Some such inner history
I have attempted to give, by making selections
from her journal and letters; and if, at times, I
have allowed her inmost thoughts and motives to
be disclosed, it has been with the feeling that such
frankness would be helpful in portraying a soul
stirred with love for the beautiful, a heart loving
humanity, a spirit with the passion for God in it.
She once said, “I am willing to make any part of
my life public, if it will help others.”</p>
<p>One soon sees that the religious element predominated
in her character. From her earliest
years, these questions of the soul’s relation to man,
to nature, and to God were uppermost in her
mind. She was impelled to master them; and as
Jacob wrestled with the angel, she could not let
Life go until she had received from it a blessing.
She found her rest and comfort in a Christianity
which had its centre in no theory or dogma, no
ecclesiastical system, but in the person of Jesus.
For Him she had the most loyal love. He satisfied
her soul; He interpreted life for her; He gave her
the inspiration for her work; and with this belief,
she went forth to live and to die, having the hope
and confidence of a larger life beyond.</p>
<p>She was a prophetess to her generation, singing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span>
the songs of a newer faith, and breathing forth in
hymns and lyrics, and even homely ballads, her
belief in God and immortality. Her two books,
“As It Is in Heaven” and “The Unseen Friend,”
written in the last years of her life, when she had
felt the presence of an invisible Power, and had
caught glimpses of the spiritual world through
the intimations of happiness given her in this life,
are messages to human souls, that come with authority,
and mark her as a strong spiritual force in
our American Christianity. She will be known, I
feel, not only as a woman with the most delicate
perceptions of the sweetness of truth, and an appreciation
of its poetry, but as one who could grasp
the eternal facts out of the infinite, and clothe
them with such beauty of imagery, and softness
of music, that other lives could receive from her
a blessing.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>I must make public acknowledgment to those
who have willingly rendered me assistance,—to
Miss Lucy Larcom Spaulding (now Mrs. Clark),
who gave me the privilege of using the rich material
her aunt had left in her guardianship; to
Mrs. James Guild, who furnished me with facts of
great interest; to Mrs. I. W. Baker, the sister of
Miss Larcom, whose advice has proved most valuable;
to Miss Susan Hayes Ward, who put at my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</a></span>
disposal the material used in the Memorial Number
of “The Rushlight,” the magazine of Wheaton
Seminary; to Mr. S. T. Pickard, for permitting
me to use some of Mr. Whittier’s letters; to the
Rev. Arthur Brooks, D. D., who consented to my
using the letters of his brother, Bishop Brooks;
to Prof. George E. Woodberry, whose sympathy
and suggestions have been of the greatest service
to me; and to all who have loaned the letters
that so clearly illustrate the richness of Miss
Larcom’s personality.</p>
<p class="right">DANIEL DULANY ADDISON.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="smcap">Beverly, Mass.</span>, June 19, 1894.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS.</h2></div>
<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary="table">
<tr><td align="right"><small>CHAPTER</small></td><td> </td><td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right">I.</td><td><span class="smcap">Early Days. 1824-1846</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right">II.</td><td><span class="smcap">In Illinois. 1846-1852</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right">III.</td><td><span class="smcap">Life at Norton. 1853-1859</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right">IV.</td><td><span class="smcap">Reflections of a Teacher</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_69">69</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right">V.</td><td><span class="smcap">The Beginning of the War</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right">VI.</td><td><span class="smcap">Intellectual Experiences</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_118">118</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right">VII.</td><td><span class="smcap">Letters and Work. 1861-1868</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_148">148</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right">VIII.</td><td><span class="smcap">Writings and Letters. 1868-1880</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right">IX.</td><td><span class="smcap">Religious Changes. 1881-1884</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_200">200</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right">X.</td><td><span class="smcap">Undercurrents. 1884-1889</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right">XI.</td><td><span class="smcap">Membership in the Episcopal Church</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_242">242</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="right">XII.</td><td><span class="smcap">Last Years</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_257">257</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td><span class="smcap">Index</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_291">291</a></td></tr>
</table>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p>
<p class="ph1">LUCY LARCOM.</p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I.</h2></div>
<p class="ph3">EARLY DAYS.<br />
1824-1846.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span> was born on March 5, 1824, in
the old seaside town of Beverly, Massachusetts.
She was next to the youngest in a family of seven
sisters and two brothers. Her father, Benjamin
Larcom, a retired shipmaster who became a shopkeeper
selling West India goods, was a man of
strong natural ability, and her mother, Lois Barrett,
“with bright blue eyes and soft dark curling
hair, which she kept pinned up under her white
lace cap,” was known for her sweetness. The
Larcoms had lived for generations on the borders
of the sea. Mordecai Larcom, born 1629, appeared
in Ipswich in 1655, and soon after moved
to Beverly, where he obtained a grant of land.
His son, Cornelius Larcom, born 1658, purchased
a place on the coast, in what is known as Beverly
Farms. David Larcom was born 1701, and his
son, Jonathan, born 1742, was the grandfather of
Miss Larcom. The qualities of energy and self-reliance
that come from the cultivation of Essex
County soil and the winning of a livelihood as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span>
trader and sailor, were apparent in the branch of
the family that lived in Wallace Lane,—one of
the by-streets of the quaint village, that led in one
direction through the fields to Bass River, “running
with its tidal water from inland hills,” and in
the other across the main street to the harbor, with
its fishing schooners and glimpses of the sea.</p>
<p>Her sensitive nature quickly responded to the
free surroundings of her childhood. The open
fields with the wild flowers and granite ledges
covered with vines, and the sandy beaches of the
harbor, and the village streets with their quiet picturesque
life, formed her playground. The little
daily events happening around her were interesting:
the stage-coach rattling down Cabot Street;
the arrival of a ship returning from a distant voyage;
the stately equipage driven from the doorway
of Colonel Thorndike’s house; the Sunday services
in the meeting-house; the companionship of other
children, and the charm of her simple home life.
These experiences are graphically recorded in “A
New England Girlhood,” where she testifies to her
love for her native town. “There is something in
the place where we were born that holds us always
by the heart-strings. A town that has a great
deal of country in it, one that is rich in beautiful
scenery and ancestral associations, is almost like a
living being, with a body and a soul. We speak
of such a town as of a mother, and think of ourselves
as her sons and daughters. So we felt
about our dear native town of Beverly.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span>In her poems there are numerous references to
the town:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Steady we’ll scud by the Cape Ann shore,</div>
<div class="verse">Then back to the Beverly Bells once more.</div>
<div class="indent3">The Beverly Bells</div>
<div class="verse">Ring to the tide as it ebbs and swells.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>In another place she says:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="indent4">“The gleam of</div>
<div class="verse">Thacher’s Isle, twin-beaconed, winking back</div>
<div class="verse">To twinkling sister-eyes of Baker’s Isle.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>Her childhood was a period which she always
looked back upon with fondness, for the deep impressions
made upon her mind never were obliterated.
The continued possession of these happy
remembrances as she incorporated them into her
womanhood, is shown by the way she entered into
the lives of other children, whether in compiling
a book of poems, like “Child Life,” known wherever
there are nurseries, or in writing her own
book, “Childhood Songs,” or in some of her many
sketches in “Our Young Folks,” “St. Nicholas,”
or the “Youth’s Companion.” She knew by an
unerring instinct what children were thinking
about, and how to interest them. She always took
delight in the little rivulets in the fields, or the
brown thrush singing from the tree, or the pussy-clover
running wild, and eagerly watched for the
red-letter days of children, the anniversaries and
birthdays. She had happy memories of play in the
old roomy barn, and of the improvised swing hung
from the rafters. She recalled the fairy-tales and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span>
wonderful stories to which she listened with wide
open eyes; the reflection of her face in the burnished
brass of the tongs; and her child’s night-thoughts
when she began to feel that there were
mysteries around her, and to remember that the
stars were shining when she was tucked in bed.</p>
<p>Lucy Larcom’s book-learning began very early.
It seems almost incredible that she should have
been able to read at two and a half years of age,
but such is the general testimony of her family.
She used to sit by the side of her old Aunt
Stanley, and thread needles for her, listening to
the songs and stories that the old lady told; and
Aunt Hannah, in the school held in her kitchen,
where she often let the children taste the good
things that were cooking, managed not only to
keep her out of mischief, by her “pudding-stick”
ferule, or by rapping her on the head with a
thimble, but taught her the “a, b, abs,” and parts
of the Psalms and Epistles.</p>
<p>The strongest influence in her development was
that of her sister Emeline, who inspired her with
love for knowledge, and instilled in her the highest
ideals of girlhood. This sister supplied her, as she
grew older, with books, and guided her reading.
Referring to this, she once said:—</p>
<p>“I wish to give due credit to my earliest educators,—those
time-stained, thumb-worn books,
that made me aware of living in a world of natural
grandeur, of lofty visions, of heroic achievements,
of human faithfulness, and sacrifice. I always feel<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span>
like entering a protest when I hear people say that
there was very little for children to read fifty years
ago. There was very little of the cake and confectionery
style of literature, which is so abundant
now; but we had the genuine thing,—solid food,
in small quantities, to suit our capacity,—and I
think we were better off for not having too much
of the lighter sort. What we had ‘stayed by.’”</p>
<p>The books that she read were “Pilgrim’s Progress,”
“Paul and Virginia,” “Gulliver’s Travels,”
Sir Walter Scott’s novels; and in poetry, Spenser,
Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge. She knew
these volumes almost by heart.</p>
<p>Lucy’s first love for poetry was fostered by the
hymns she used to read in church, during sermon
time, when the minister from his lofty pulpit
entered upon a series of “finallys,” which did not
seem to be meant for her. Her fondness for
hymns was so great that at one time she learned a
hundred. The rhythm of the musical accompaniment
and the flow of the words taught her the
measured feet of verse before she ever heard of an
iambus or a choriambus. Finding that her own
thoughts naturally expressed themselves in rhyme,
she used frequently to write little verses, and stuff
them down the crack in the floor of the attic. The
first poem that she read to the family was long
remembered by them, as, wriggling with embarrassment,
she sat on a stool. Referring to her poetry
at this time, she says, “I wrote little verses, to be
sure, but that was nothing; they just grew. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>
were the same as breathing or singing. I could
not help writing them. They seemed to fly into
my mind like birds going with a carol through the
air.”</p>
<p>There is an incident worth repeating, that illustrates
her sweetness and thoughtfulness of others.
When her father died, she tried to comfort her
mother: “I felt like preaching to her, but I was
too small a child to do that; so I did the next best
thing I could think of,—I sang hymns, as if singing
to myself, while I meant them for her.”</p>
<p>These happy days in the country village came
to an end in the year 1835, when necessity forced
Mrs. Larcom, after the death of her husband, to
seek a home in the manufacturing community of
Lowell, where there were more opportunities for
the various members of her family to assist in the
general maintenance of the home.</p>
<p>In Lowell, there were corporation boarding-houses
for the operatives, requiring respectable
matrons as housekeepers, and positions in the mills
offered a means of livelihood to young girls. Attracted
by these inducements, many New England
families left their homes, in the mountains of New
Hampshire and along the seacoast, and went to
Lowell. The class of the employees in the mills
was consequently different from the ordinary factory
hand of to-day. Girls of education and refinement,
who had no idea of remaining in a mill all
their lives, worked in them for some years with
the object, often, of helping to send a brother to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span>
college or making money enough to continue their
education, or to aid dear ones who had been left
suddenly without support:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Not always to be here among the looms,—</div>
<div class="verse">Scarcely a girl she knew expected that;</div>
<div class="verse">Means to one end, their labor was,—to put</div>
<div class="verse">Gold nest-eggs in the bank, or to redeem</div>
<div class="verse">A mortgaged homestead, or to pay the way</div>
<div class="verse">Through classic years at some academy;</div>
<div class="verse">More commonly to lay a dowry by</div>
<div class="verse">For future housekeeping.”<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></div>
</div></div>
<p>The intention of Mr. Francis Cabot Lowell and
Mr. Nathan Appleton, when they conceived the
idea of establishing the mills, was to provide conditions
of living for operatives, as different as possible
from the Old World ideals of factory labor.
They wisely decided to regard the mental and religious
education of the girls as of first importance,
and those who followed these plans aimed to secure
young women of intelligence from the surrounding
towns, and stimulate them to seek improvement in
their leisure hours.</p>
<p>Besides the free Grammar School there were innumerable
night schools; and most of the churches
provided, by means of “Social Circles,” opportunities
for improvement. So in Lowell there was a
wide-awake set of girls working for their daily
bread, with a true idea of the dignity of labor, and
with the determination to make the most of themselves.
They reasoned thus, as Miss Larcom expressed
it: “That the manufacture of cloth should,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>
as a branch of feminine industry, ever have suffered
a shadow of discredit, will doubtless appear
to future generations a most ridiculous barbarism.
To prepare the clothing of the world seems to have
been regarded as womanly work in all ages. The
spindle and the distaff, the picturesque accompaniments
of many an ancient legend—of Penelope, of
Lucretia, of the Fatal Sisters themselves—have, to
be sure, changed somewhat in their modern adaptation
to the machinery which robes the human millions;
but they are, in effect, the same instruments,
used to supply the same need, at whatever period
of the world’s history.”</p>
<p>A few facts will show the character of these
girls. One of the ministers was asked how many
teachers he thought he could furnish from among
the working-girls. He replied, “About five hundred.”
A lecturer in the Lowell Lyceum stated
that four fifths of his audience were factory girls,
that when he entered the hall most of the girls
were reading from books, and when he began his
lecture every one seemed to be taking notes.
Charles Dickens, after his visit to Lowell in 1842,
wrote: “I solemnly declare that from all the crowd
I saw in the different factories, I cannot recall one
face that gave me a painful impression; not one
young girl whom, assuming it to be a matter of necessity
that she should gain her daily bread by the
labor of her hands, I would have removed if I had
the power.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Larcom kept a boarding-house for the operatives,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span>
and Lucy was thrown in close association
with these strong young women. She had access
to the little accumulation of books that one of them
had made,—Maria Edgeworth’s “Helen,” Thomas
à Kempis, Bunyan’s “Holy War,” Locke “On
the Understanding,” and “Paradise Lost.” This
formed good reading for a girl of ten.</p>
<p>Lucy’s sister Emeline started in the boarding-house
two or three little fortnightly papers, to
which the girls contributed. Each ran a troubled
existence of a few months, and then gave place to
its successor, bearing a new name. “The Casket,”
for a time, held their jewels of thought; then “The
Bouquet” gathered their full-blown ideas into a
more pretentious collection. The most permanent
of these literary productions was one that started
with the intention of being very profound,—it was
called “The Diving Bell.” The significance of the
name was carefully set forth in the first number:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Our Diving Bell shall deep descend,</div>
<div class="indent">And bring from the immortal mind</div>
<div class="verse">Thoughts that to improve us tend,</div>
<div class="indent">Of each variety and kind.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>Lucy soon became a poetical contributor; and when
the paper was read, and the guessing as to the
author of each piece began—for they were anonymous—the
other girls were soon able to tell her
work by its music and thought. Among the yellow
and worm-eaten pages of the once popular “Diving
Bell,” we find the following specimen of her earliest
poetry:—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“I sit at my window and gaze</div>
<div class="indent">At the scenery lovely around,</div>
<div class="verse">On the water, the grass, and the trees,</div>
<div class="indent">And I hear the brook’s murmuring sound.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“The bird warbles forth his soft lays,</div>
<div class="indent">And I smell the sweet fragrance of flowers,</div>
<div class="verse">I hear the low hum of the bees,</div>
<div class="indent">As they busily pass the long hours.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“These pleasures were given to man</div>
<div class="indent">To bring him more near to his God,</div>
<div class="verse">Then let me praise God all I can,</div>
<div class="indent">Until I am laid ’neath the sod.”</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>From the interest excited by these little papers,
the desire of the girls became strong for more
dignified literary expression; and by the advice
and assistance of the Rev. Abel C. Thomas, of the
Universalist Church, the “Lowell Offering” was
started in October, 1840, and the “Operative’s
Magazine” originated in the Literary Society of
the First Congregational Church. These two magazines
were united, in 1842, in the “Lowell Offering.”
The editors of the “Offering,” Miss Hariett
Farley and Miss Hariot Curtiss, factory girls, were
women of superior culture and versatility, and made
the magazine a unique experiment in our literature.
In its pages were clever sketches of home
life, humorous and pathetic tales, charming fairy
stories, and poems. Its contributors, like the editors,
were mill-girls. It was successful for five
years, at one time having a subscription list as high
as four thousand, which the girls tried to increase by
traveling for it, as agents. This periodical attracted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>
wide attention by reason of its unusual origin. Selections
were made from it, and published in London,
in 1849, called, “Mind Among the Spindles;”
and a gentleman attending the literary lectures, in
Paris, of Philarète Chasles, was surprised to hear
one in which the significance and merit of the
“Lowell Offering” was the sole theme. Our young
author contributed to the “Offering,” over the signatures
“Rotha,” or “L. L.,” a number of poems
and short prose articles, proving herself to be of
sufficient ability to stand as a typical Lowell factory
girl.</p>
<p>The principle of the interest of manufacturers
in the lives of their operatives was illustrated in
Lowell, though it was not carried out always as
intelligently as it should have been. Children
were allowed to work too young. Lucy began to
change the bobbins on the spinning frames at eleven
years of age, and the hours of work were sometimes
from five in the morning to seven at night. But
the day passed pleasantly for her, the bobbins having
to be changed only every three quarters of an
hour; and the interval between these periods of
work was occupied by conversation with the girls
in the same room, or by sitting in the window overlooking
the river. On the sides of one of these
windows she had pasted newspaper clippings, containing
favorite poems, which she committed to
memory when she sat in this “poet’s corner.”</p>
<p>During these years of mill-work she formed some
of the ruling ideas of her life, those that we can<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span>
see influencing her later thoughts, in her poetry
and prose, and, best of all, her living. Her sympathy
for honest industry, without any regard for
its fictitious position in so-called “society,” was
developed by her acquaintance with those earnest
girls who were struggling for their own support
and education. Her capacity for friendship was
continually tested; she opened her nature to the
influence of the other lives around her.</p>
<p>The questions in relation to human life and its
meaning became part of her deepest interests. In
private conversations with her companions, in the
meetings at the churches, and in her own meditations,
these thoughts struggled for a hearing:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="indent5">“Oh, what questionings</div>
<div class="verse">Of fate, and freedom, and how evil came,</div>
<div class="verse">And what death is, and what the life to come,—</div>
<div class="verse">Passed to and fro among these girls!”<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></div>
</div></div>
<p>The answers she gave were the truest. Her thought
instinctively turned to the Invisible Power of the
Universe, not solely as an explanation of things as
they exist, or as a philosophical postulate, but as a
Spirit whose presence could be felt in nature, in
persons, and in her own heart. In other words, a
love for God as a Being of Love began to take
possession of her; it seized upon her at times like
the rushing inspiration of the prophets; her trust
was what is spoken of in theology as an experimental
knowledge. Her early training by Puritan
methods in the thought of a Sovereign Lord, deeply<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>
affected her, yet she seems to have rediscovered
God for herself, in the beauty that her poet’s eye
revealed to her—beauties of river and sea and
sky, of flowers rejoicing in their color and perfume,
and of human sympathies. Welling up in
her own soul, she felt the waters troubled by the
angel’s touch, and was confident of God.</p>
<p>With this faith as a guide, the answers to other
questions became plain. Life itself was a gift
which must be used in His service; no evil thought
or purpose should be allowed to enter and interfere
with the soul’s growth; duties were the natural
outlets of the soul; through them the soul found
its happiness. When she thought of death, there
was only one logical way of looking at it: as a
transition into a fuller life, where the immortal
spirits of men could draw nearer to each other and
to God. She seems never, from the very first, to
have had any doubts as to what the end of life
meant. There was always the portal ready to open
into the richer Kingdom of Heaven.</p>
<p>The churches in Lowell stimulated her religious
thought. At thirteen years of age, she stood up
before her beloved minister, Dr. Amos Blanchard,
and professed her belief in the Christian religion,
and for many years found refreshment in the Sunday
services. But as she grew older, she found
many of the doctrines of Calvinistic Orthodoxy difficult
for her to accept, and she regretted the step
she had taken. The worship was not always helpful
to her, especially the long prayer:—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="indent6">“That long prayer</div>
<div class="verse">Was like a toilsome journey round the world,</div>
<div class="verse">By Cathay and the Mountains of the Moon,</div>
<div class="verse">To come at our own door-stone, where He stood</div>
<div class="verse">Waiting to speak to us, the Father dear,</div>
<div class="verse">Who is not far from any one of us.”<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></div>
</div></div>
<p>She admired the picturesque Episcopal church of
St. Ann’s, with its vine-wreathed stone walls, “an
oasis amid the city’s dust.” The Church for which
this venerable edifice stood was to be her final religious
home, and in its stately services and sacred
rites she was to find the spiritual nourishment of
her later years.</p>
<p>She took an interest in the movements of politics,
especially the question of slavery; she was an
Abolitionist with the strongest feelings, from the
first. She had some scruples about working on the
cotton which was produced by slave labor:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“When I have thought what soil the cotton plant</div>
<div class="verse">We weave is rooted in, what waters it—</div>
<div class="verse">The blood of souls in bondage—I have felt</div>
<div class="verse">That I was sinning against light, to stay</div>
<div class="verse">And turn the accursèd fibre into cloth</div>
<div class="verse">For human wearing. I have hailed one name—</div>
<div class="verse">You know it—‘Garrison’—as a soul might hail</div>
<div class="verse">His soul’s deliverer.”<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></div>
</div></div>
<p>Whenever a petition for the abolition of slavery
was circulated, to be sent to Congress, it was
always sure to have the name of Lucy Larcom
upon it. The poetry of Mr. Whittier had aroused
her spirit, and though she does not seem to have
written any of her stirring anti-slavery verses until<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>
years later, she was nursing the spark that during
the Civil War blew into a flame.</p>
<p>It was in 1843, while in Lowell, that she first
met Mr. Whittier, who was editing the “Middlesex
Standard.” Being present at one of the meetings
of the “Improvement Circle,” he heard her
read one of her poems, “Sabbath Bells:”—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“List! a faint, a far-off chime!</div>
<div class="verse">’Tis the knell of holy time,</div>
<div class="verse">Chiming from the city’s spires,</div>
<div class="verse">From the hamlet’s altar fires,</div>
<div class="verse">Waking woods and lonely dells,</div>
<div class="verse">Pleasant are the Sabbath bells.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>This introduction began one of her most beautiful
friendships; it lasted for half a century. She
learned to know and love the poet’s sweet, noble
sister, Elizabeth, and Lucy was treated by her like
a sister. There was something in Miss Larcom’s
nature not unlike Mr. Whittier’s,—the same love
for the unobserved beauties of country life, the
same energy and fire, the same respect for the
honest and sturdy elements in New England life,
the same affection for the sea and mountains, and
a similar deep religious sense of the nearness of
God.</p>
<p>Having worked five years in the spinning-room,
she was transferred at her own request to the position
of book-keeper, in the cloth-room of the Lawrence
Mills. Here, having more time to herself,
she devoted to study the minutes not required by
her work, reading extracts from the best books,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>
and writing many of the poems that appeared in
the “Offering.”</p>
<p>It was her habit to carry a sort of prose sketch-book,
not unlike an artist’s, in which she would jot
down in words the exact impression made upon her
by a scene or a natural object, using both as models
from which to draw pictures in words. In this
way she would describe, for instance, an autumn
leaf, accurately giving its shape, color, number of
ribs and veins, ending with a reflection on the decay
of beauty. In turning over the leaves of this
sketch-book, one finds descriptions of the gnarled
tree with its bare branches thrusting themselves
forth in spiteful crookedness; the butterfly lying
helpless in the dust with its green robes sprinkled
with ashes; the wind in the pines singing a melancholy
tune in the summer sunlight; and other subjects
of equal beauty. As an illustration of these
prose-poems, the suggestion for which she derived
from Jean Paul Richter, the following may be of
interest: it is called, “Flowers beneath Dead
Leaves:”—</p>
<p>“Two friends were walking together beside a
picturesque mill-stream. While they walked they
talked of mortal life, its meaning and its end; and,
as is almost inevitable with such themes, the current
of their thoughts gradually lost its cheerful
flow.</p>
<p>“‘This is a miserable world,’ said one. ‘The
black shroud of sorrow overhangs everything here.’</p>
<p>“‘Not so,’ replied the other. ‘Sorrow is not a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>
shroud; it is only the covering Hope wraps about
her when she sleeps.’</p>
<p>“Just then they entered an oak grove. It was
early spring, and the trees were bare; but the
last year’s leaves lay thick as snowdrifts upon the
ground.</p>
<p>“‘The liverwort grows here, I think,—one of our
earliest flowers,’ said the last speaker. ‘There,
push away the leaves, and you will see it. How
beautiful, with its delicate shades of pink, and purple
and green, lying against the bare roots of the
oak tree! But look deeper, or you will not find
the flowers: they are under the dead leaves.’</p>
<p>“‘Now I have learned a lesson which I shall
not forget,’ said her friend. ‘This seems to me to
be a bad world; and there is no denying that there
are bad things in it. To a sweeping glance it
will sometimes seem barren and desolate; but not
one buried germ of life and beauty is lost to the
All-Seeing Eye. Having the weakness of human
vision, I must believe where I cannot see. Henceforth,
when I am tempted to despair on account
of evil, I will say to myself, Look deeper; look
under the dead leaves, and you will find flowers.’”</p>
<p>Lucy Larcom almost imperceptibly slipped into
womanhood during these Lowell years. From being
an eager and precocious child, she became an
intelligent and thoughtful woman. The one characteristic
which seemed most fully defined was her
tendency to express her thoughts in verse and prose.
As is the case with young authors, her early verses<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>
were artificial, the sentiments were often borrowed,
and the emotions were not always genuine. It is
not natural to find a healthy young girl writing
on such themes as “Earthly joys are fleeting,”
“Trust not the world, ’twill cheat thee.” “The
murderer’s request” was—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Bury me not where the breezes are sighing</div>
<div class="verse">O’er those whom I loved in my innocent days.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>But when she wrote out of her own experience,
and recorded impressions she had felt, there was a
touch of reality in her work that gave some prophecy
of her future excellence. She could write understandingly
about the boisterous March winds, or
“school days,”—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“When I read old Peter Parley,</div>
<div class="indent">Like a bookworm, through and through,</div>
<div class="verse">Vainly shunned I Lindley Murray,</div>
<div class="indent">And dull Colburn’s ‘Two and Two.’”</div>
</div></div>
<p>One cannot find any evidence that she made a
study of verse-making, not even possessing “Walker’s
Rhyming Dictionary.” Her powers were
cultivated mainly by reading the poetry of others
and unconsciously catching their spirit and metre.
Her ear for music helped her more than her knowledge
of tetrameters or hexameters.</p>
<p>The most important results of these years were
the development of her self-reliance and sweetness,
the stirring up of her ambitions to win an education,
and the dawnings of her spiritual life. She was
laying up stores of impressions and memories, also,
that were to be permanently preserved in her more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>
finished poems of later years. The imagery of her
maturer verse recalls her early days, when in the
freedom of childhood she roamed the fields and
the woods, and lived on the banks of the Merrimac.
We see her youth again through her reminiscences
of the barberry cluster sweetened by the frost; the
evening primrose; roses wet with briny spray; the
woodbine clambering up the cliff; heaps of clover
hay; breezes laden with some rare wood scent;
the varied intonations of the wind; hieroglyphic
lichens on the rocks; the mower whistling from the
land; the white feet of the children pattering on
the sand; the one aged tree on the mountain-top,
wrestling with the storm wind; the candles lighted
at sunset in the gambrel-roofed houses; the lightning
glaring in the face of the drowning sailor;
the tragedy of unconscious widowhood; the mill-wheel,
the hidden power of the mill, with its great
dripping spokes; and the mystery of meeting and
blending horizons.</p>
<p>In the spring of 1846 the scene of Lucy Larcom’s
life was changed, when her sister Emeline married,
and went to seek a home in the West, for she
shared with the new family their pioneer life in
Illinois. A few days before they started on their
journey, she wrote some lines of farewell in her
scribbling-book, which show that she was beginning
to use real experiences for the subject of her
verses.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Farewell to thee, New England!</div>
<div class="indent">Thou mother, whose kind arm</div>
<div class="verse">Hath e’er been circled round me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></div>
<div class="indent">The stern and yet the warm.</div>
<div class="verse">Farewell! thou little village,</div>
<div class="indent">My birthplace and my home,</div>
<div class="verse">Along whose rocky border</div>
<div class="indent">The morning surges come.</div>
<div class="verse">Thy name shall memory echo,</div>
<div class="indent">As exiled shell its wave.</div>
<div class="verse">Art thou my home no longer?</div>
<div class="indent">Still keep for me a grave.”</div>
</div></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II.</h2></div>
<p class="ph3">IN ILLINOIS.<br />
1846-1852.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">A journey</span> from Massachusetts to Illinois, in
1846, was long, and filled with inconveniences. A
little time-worn diary, written in pencil, kept by
Lucy Larcom on the journey, is interesting for
itself, and preserves the record of the difficulties
that beset early travelers to the West.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Monday, April 13, 1846. Returned to Boston
in the morning, and now, in the afternoon, we have
really started. Passing through Massachusetts and
Connecticut, we encountered a snowstorm, something
quite unexpected at this season! Came on
board the steamboat “Worcester,” in darkness.
And here we are, three of us, squeezed into the
queerest little cubby-hole of a state-room that could
be thought of. We all sat down on the floor and
laughed till we cried, to see ourselves in such close
companionship! We had a dispute, just for the
fun of it, as to who should occupy the highest
shelf. It was out of the question to put E. and the
baby up there, and for myself, I painted the catastrophe
which would occur, should I come down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>
with my full weight upon the rest, in such glowing
colors, that they were willing to consign me to the
second shelf; and here I lie while the rest are
asleep (if they can sleep on their first steamboat
trip) trying to write of my wonderful experiences
as a traveler.</p>
<p>Tuesday. Alas! Must I write it? The boast of
our house must cease. When it has been said with
so much pride that a Larcom was never seasick!—I
have proved the contrary. I only thought to
eat a bit of “’lasses gingerbread,” on occasion of
my departure from Yankee Land, and while I lay
to-day in my berth, I was inwardly admonished that
the angry Neptune was not pleased with my feasting,
and I was obliged to yield up the precious
morsel as a libation to him. Small sleep had I
this night.</p>
<p>In the morning, S. and I rose long before daylight,
and went out to peep at the sea by moonlight.
It was strange and new to see the path of
the great creature in the waters. After daylight
most of the passengers came on deck. It was delightful
sailing into New York by sunrise.</p>
<p>Passing through Hellgate, I was reminded of
the worthy Dutch who went this way long ago, as
Dick Knickerbocker records. Passed Blackwell’s
Island,—saw prisoners at work,—looked like
pigs. Also passed the fort on Frog’s Neck; small
beauty in the great smoky city for me; an hour’s
stay and a breakfast at the hotel were enough.
Took the cars across New Jersey. Don’t like the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>
appearance of this State at all. Reached Philadelphia
about noon. Went immediately aboard the
“Ohio”—a beautiful boat, and a lovely afternoon
it was when we sailed down the Delaware. The
city looked so pleasant with the sun shining on it,
and the green waving trees about it, while the waves
looked so smooth in their white fringes, that I could
have jumped overboard for joy! Never shall I forget
that afternoon. At evening, took the cars to—somewhere,
on the Chesapeake Bay, and thence
to Baltimore on another boat. Saw hedges, for the
first time, in Maryland. Had an unpleasant sail in
an unpleasant boat. Sister and S. wretchedly seasick;
so was nearly everybody, but I redeemed my
fame, dancing attendance from baby to the sick
ones continually. The wind blew, the boat rocked,
and the tide was against us. One poor little Irish
woman, who was going with her baby to meet her
husband, was terribly frightened. I tried to comfort
her, but she said “she would pull every curl
out of her old man’s head, for sending for her and
the baby.” All the while, a queer-looking German
couple were on deck; the man appeared as if intoxicated,
first scolding and then kissing! The wind
was cold, but the man shook his fists when one
young lady asked the woman to come inside and
get warm. She would cry when he scolded her,
and “make up” again as soon as he was disposed
to. Then they would promenade together very lovingly
and very awkwardly.</p>
<p>Came into Baltimore between ten and eleven.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>
S. had her pocket picked on the way! Stopped
at the National Hotel for the night, and left B.
again in the morning, in the cars. Glad enough,
too, for I hate cities, and B. worst of all. Rode
through Maryland. A very delightful state, but
slavery spoils it. Saw the first log-cabin; it was
quite decent-looking, in comparison with the idea I
had formed of it. Stopped at a station where there
were three little negroes sitting on a bench, sunning
themselves, and combing each other’s wool meanwhile.
They looked the picture of ignorance and
happiness.</p>
<p>Were all day Thursday riding through the State
of Maryland. Saw flowers and trees in blossom:
delightful country, quite hilly, and well watered.
Followed the course of the Potomac a long way,
and at noon stopped at Harper’s Ferry, a wild-looking
place, though I think not so romantic as
a place we passed just before it, where the waters
curve in gentle flow from between two bold hills.
Now saw the mountains around Cumberland. At
Cumberland, were squeezed into a stage, to cross
the Alleghenies. Oh, what misery did we not endure
that night! Nine, and a baby, in the little
stage! I tried to reconcile myself to my fate, but
was so cross if anybody spoke to me! When we
got out of the stage in the morning I felt more like
a snake crawling from a heap of rocks than anything
else. We stretched ourselves, and took breakfast,
such as we could get, at a poor-looking tavern.
Then into the stage again, and over the mountains<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>
to Brownsville; never imagined mountains could
be so high, when we were riding on mountains all
the time. Reached Brownsville about twelve,—a
dingy place down among the hills. Took a little
walk here. Embarked for Pittsburgh; was glad
enough to stow myself away into a berth and rest.
Didn’t trouble the Monongahela with a glance after
the boat started, for I was “used up.” Found ourselves
at Pittsburgh in the morning, a dirty city
indeed. Everything black and smoky. Should
think the sun would refuse to shine upon it.</p>
<p>Friday noon. Here we take another boat—the
“Clipper”—the prettiest one I have seen yet.
Splendidly furnished, neat, comfortable berths, and
all we could ask for. The Ohio is a beautiful
stream. I sit in my state-room with the door open,
“taking notes.” I am on the Ohio side; the banks
are steep,—now and then we pass a little town.
We have stopped at one, now; men and boys are
looking down on us from a sand-bank far above our
heads. Why the people chose a sand-bank, when
they might have had a delightful situation almost
anywhere, I wonder much! Oh, dear! nothing
looks like home! but I must not think of that, now.</p>
<p>Saturday noon. We are passing through a delightful
country. Peach-trees along the banks of
the river, in full bloom, reflected in the water
by sunrise, and surrounded by newly-leaved trees
of every shade of green,—they were beautiful
indeed. Have been perfectly charmed with the varied
prospect. Hills stretching down to the margin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>
of the river, covered with trees, and sunny little
cottages nestled at their base, surrounded with
every sort of fruit-tree,—old trees hanging over
the river, their topmost boughs crowned with the
dark green mistletoe. Think I should like to live
here a <i>little</i> while. Sat on the deck this forenoon,
and sang “Sweet Home,” and “I would not live
alway,” with Mr. C. and S. Thunder-storm this
afternoon; went on deck after tea to see the sunset—beautiful!
Water still, and reflecting gold
from motionless clouds. Went out again at dusk,
and heard the frogs singing. It seemed a little
like Saturday evening at home; but no! Passed
North Bend before sunset. Beautiful place: large
house, standing back from the road, half hid by
trees; a small green hill near the house covered
with young trees; and a fine orchard in bloom on
another hill, near by. The river bends on the
Ohio side.</p>
<p>21st. Stopped at St. Louis, about ten o’clock.
Lay here till nearly dark, waiting for canal to be
mended. Oppressively hot; could not sit still nor
sleep. Going through the canal very slowly.</p>
<p>22d. Passed through the locks in the night.
Morning,—found Illinois on the right. Dogwort
looked sweet among the light green foliage.
Stopped at Evansville in the afternoon, and took
in a freight of mosquitoes. Cabin full. Retired
early, to get out of their way.</p>
<p>23d. Played chess, forenoon. Came to the
north of the bend about ten. Went on deck to see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span>
the meeting of the waters. Grand sight. Cairo,
small town on the point, has been overflowed. So
near my new home; begin to be homesick.</p></blockquote>
<p>The new home was destined to be a log-cabin on
Looking-Glass Prairie, St. Clair County, Illinois,
with the broad rolling country all around, and a
few houses in sight. This settlement was designated
“Frogdom” by some of the residents.</p>
<p>The little family had to put up with great inconveniences,
the house not even being plastered,
and the furniture being of the most primitive kind.
Soon after their arrival, they were all ill with
malarial fever, commonly called “agey,” but their
spirits never flagged. Lucy somewhere speaks of
herself as having a cheerful disposition; it helped
her, at this time, to deal with the discomforts of the
novel surroundings. Her sister refers to her, in a
letter to Beverly, as “our merry young sister Lucy.”</p>
<p>Some of the neighbors were not as comfortable
as these new farmers. One of them, living not
very far off, had for a home a hastily constructed
shanty, with a bunk for a bed, and innumerable
rat-holes to let the smoke out when he had a fire.
Others were “right smart” folk from Pennsylvania.
Her main object, however, was not to be a
farmer, but to become a district-school teacher.
She soon secured a position; and began the itinerant
life of a teacher, spending a few months in
many different places. She received her salary
every three months. Once, when there was a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>
delay in the payment, she requested it. The forty
dollars were paid with the remark that “it was a
powerful lot of money for only three months’
teaching.”</p>
<p>The rough boys and untrained girls called forth
all her patience, and the need of holding their
attention forced her to adopt a straightforward
method of expressing herself. Sometimes her experiences
were ludicrous. One day, having to
discipline a mischievous urchin, she put him on a
stool near the fireplace, and then went on with the
lessons, not noticing him very much. Looking to
see what he was doing, she was surprised at his
disappearance from the room. The question was,
“Where has he gone?” It was answered by one
of the scholars, “He’s gone up the chimney.” He
had indeed crawled up the wide open fireplace,
and, having thus escaped, was dancing a jig in
front of the school-house.</p>
<p>Miss Larcom taught in many different places—Waterloo,
Lebanon, Sugar Creek, Woodburn—and
generally the rate of payment was fourteen
dollars a month. Board and lodging cost her one
dollar and twenty-five cents a week. She did her
own washing and ironing. The frequent change
of schools made her form attachments for the children
that had to be quickly broken. Speaking of
a farewell at one school, she said, “The children
cried bitterly when I dismissed them, whether for
joy or sorrow it isn’t for me to say.”</p>
<p>Her letters to Beverly were brimful of fun;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>
they give, in an easy style, a vivid account of the
hardships of these log-cabin days. The two following
letters were written to her sisters, Abby and
Lydia.</p>
<p class="center">TO MRS. ABBY O. HASKELL.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Looking-Glass Prairie</span>, May 19, 1846.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sister Abby</span>,—I think it is your turn to
have a letter now, so I’ve just snuffed the candle,
and got all my utensils about me, and am going to
see how quickly I can write a good long one.</p>
<p>Well, for my convenience, I beg that you will
borrow the wings of a dove, and come and sit down
here by me. There,—don’t you see what a nice
little room we are in? To be sure, one side of it
has not got any <i>side</i> to it, because the man couldn’t
afford to lath and plaster it, but that patch curtain
that Emeline has hung up makes it snug enough
for summer time, and reminds us of the days of
ancient tapestried halls, and all that. That door,
where the curtain is, goes into the entry; and there,
right opposite, is another one that goes into the
parlor, but I shall not go in there with you, because
there aren’t any chairs in there; you might sit on
Emeline’s blue trunk, or Sarah’s green one, though;
but I’m afraid you’d go behind the sheet in the
corner, and steal some of Emeline’s milk that she’s
saving to make butter of; and then, just as likely as
not, you’d want to know why that square piece of
board was put on the bottom of the window, with
the pitchfork stuck into it to keep it from falling;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>
of course, we shouldn’t like to tell you that there’s
a square of glass out, and I suppose you don’t
know about that great tom-cat’s coming in, two
nights, after we had all gone to bed, and making
that awful caterwauling. So you had better stay
here in the kitchen, and I’ll show you all the
things; it won’t take long. That door at the top
of three steps leads upstairs; the little low one close
to it is the closet door,—you needn’t go prying in
there, to see what we’ve got to eat, for you’ll certainly
bump your head if you do; pass by the parlor
door and the curtain, and look out of that window
on the front side of the house; if it was not so
dark, you might see the beautiful flower-beds that
Sarah has made,—a big diamond in the centre,
with four triangles to match it. As true as I live,
she has been making her initials right in the centre
of the diamond! There’s a great S, and an M, but
where’s the H? Oh! you don’t know how that
dog came in and scratched it all up, and laid down
there to sun himself, the other day. We tell her
there’s a sign to it,—losing her maiden name so
soon. She declares she won’t have it altered by a
puppy, though. These two windows look (through
the fence) over to our next neighbor’s; that’s our
new cooking-stove between them; isn’t it a cunning
one? the funnel goes up clear through Emeline’s
bedroom, till it gets to “outdoors.” We
keep our chimney in the parlor. Then that door
on the other side looks away across the prairie,
three or four miles; and that brings us to where
we started from.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span>As to furniture, this is the table, where I am
writing; it is a stained one, without leaves, large
enough for six to eat from, and it cost just two
dollars and a quarter. There are a half dozen
chairs, black, with yellow figures, and this is the
rocking-chair, where we get baby to sleep. That
is E.’s rag mat before the stove, and George fixed
that shelf for the water-pail in the corner. The
coffee-mill is close to it, and that’s all. Now don’t
you call us rich? I’m sure we feel grand enough.</p>
<p>Now, if you would only just come and make us
a visit in earnest, Emeline would make you some
nice corn-meal fritters, and you should have some
cream and sugar on them; and I would make you
some nice doughnuts, for I’ve learned so much;
and you should have milk or coffee, just as you
pleased; it is genteel to drink coffee for breakfast,
dinner, and supper, here. Then, if you didn’t feel
satisfied, we should say that it was because you
hadn’t lived on johnny-cakes and milk a week, as
we did.</p>
<p>I have got to begin to be very dignified, for I
am going to begin to keep school next Monday, in
a little log-cabin, all alone. One of the “committee
men” took me to Lebanon, last Saturday,
in his prairie wagon, to be examined. You’ve no
idea how frightened I was, but I answered all their
questions, and didn’t make any more mistakes than
they did. They told me I made handsome figures,
wrote a good hand, and spoke correctly, so I begin
to feel as if I knew most as much as other folks.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>Emeline does not gain any flesh, although she
has grown very handsome since she came to the
land of “hog and hominy.” Your humble servant
is as fat as a pig, as usual, though she has not
tasted any of the porkers since her emigration, for
the same reason that a certain gentleman would not
eat any of Aunt Betsey’s cucumbers,—“not fit to
eat.” That’s my opinion, and if you had seen such
specimens of the living animal as I have, since I left
home, you’d say so, too.</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Lucy.</span></p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO MRS. I. W. BAKER.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Looking-Glass Prairie</span>, June 9, 1846.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sister</span>,—Here I am, just got home from
school; all at once a notion takes me that I want
to write to you, and I’m doing it. I’m sitting in
our parlor, or at least, what we call our parlor, because
the cooking-stove is not in it, and because
Emeline has laid her pretty rag mat before the
hearth, and because the sofa is in here. There!
you didn’t think we’d get a sofa out here, did
you? Well, to be sure, it isn’t exactly like your
sofa, because it isn’t stuffed, nor covered, nor has
it any back, only the side of the house; nor any
legs, only red ones, made of brick; dear me! I’m
afraid you’ll “find out,” after all,—but it certainly
did come all the way from St. Louis, in the
wagon with the other furniture. We keep our
“cheers” in the kitchen, and we find that Becky
Wallis’s definition of them, <i>i. e.</i>, “to sit on,” don’t
tell the whole story now.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>But don’t you want to hear how we like it, out
here, in this great country? Oh, happy as clams!
and we haven’t been homesick, either, only once
in a while, when it seemed so queer getting “naturalized,”
that we couldn’t help “keepin’ up a
terrible thinkin’.” By the way, we were all sick
last week,—no, not all; Emeline and the baby
were not. George and Sarah and I all had the doctor
at once. I was taken first, and had the most
violent attack, and got well soonest. Our complaint
was remittent fever, which is only another
name for chills and fever, I suspect. I felt
ashamed to get “the chills” so soon after coming
here, and I believe the doctor was kind enough to
call it something else. I did have one regular
“chill,” though; the blood settled under my nails,
and though I didn’t shake, I shivered “like I
had the agey.” That’s our Western phraseology.
Blue pills and quinine I thought would be the
death of me; but I believe they cured me after all.
I had to leave school for a week, but yesterday I
commenced again.</p>
<p>My school! Oh, the times I do have there with
the young Suckers! I have to walk rather more
than a mile to it, and it is in just the most literal
specimen of a log-cabin that you can form any idea
of. ’Tis built of unhewn logs, laid “criss-cross,”
as we used to say down in the lane; the chinks
filled up with mud, except those which are not
filled up “at all, at all,” and the chimney is stuck
on behind the house. The floor lies as easy as it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>
can on the ground, and the benches are, some of
them (will you believe it?), very much like our
sofa. They never had a school in this district before,
and my “ideas” are beginning to “shoot”
very naturally, most of them. I asked one new
scholar yesterday how old she was. “Don’t know,”
she said, “never was inside of a school-house before.”
Another big girl got hold of my rubbers
the other day, “Ouch,” said she, “be them Ingin
robbers? I never seen any ’fore.” Some of them
are bright enough to make up for all this, and on
the whole I enjoy being “schoolma’am” very much.
I have not seen a snake since I came here, and if I
didn’t have to pass through such a sprinkling of
cattle on my way to school, I shouldn’t have a
morsel of trouble. Everybody turns his “cattle-brutes”
out on the open prairie to feed, and they
will get right into my path, and such a mooing and
bellowing as they make! George has three big
cows and two little ones, and two calves, and a
horse, and ten hens, and a big pig and a little one:
only the big pig has dug a subterranean passage,
and “runned away.” And I don’t milk the cows,
and I won’t learn to, if I can help it, because they
will be so impolite as to turn round and stare me
in the face always when I go near them.</p>
<p>Talk to me about getting married and settling
down here in the West! I don’t do that thing till
I’m a greater goose than I am now, for love nor
money. It is a common saying here, that “this is
a fine country for men and dogs, but women and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>
oxen have to take it.” The secret of it is that
farmers’ wives have to do all their work in one
room, without any help, and almost nothing to
work with. If ever I had the mind to take the
vestal vow, it has been since I “emigrated.”
You’ll see me coming back one of these years, a
“right smart” old maid, my fat sides and cheeks
shaking with “the agey,” to the tune of “Oh, take
your time, Miss Lucy!”</p>
<p>I’ve a good mind to give you a picture, for the
sun is setting, and it makes me feel “sort o’ romantic.”
Well, in the first place, make a great
wide daub of green, away off as far as the sunset;
streak it a little deeper, half-way there, for the
wheat fields. A little to the right make a smooth,
bluish green hill, as even as a potato hill,—that’s
the Blue Mound. A little one side, make a hundred
little red, black, and white specks on the
grass,—them’s the “cattle-brutes.” Right against
the sun, you may make a little bit of a house, with
one side of the roof hanging over like an umbrella,—that’s
Mr. Merritt’s. And here, right before
you, make a little whitewashed log-cabin, with a
Virginia fence all round it ever so far, and a bank
on one side sloping down to a little brook, where
honey-locust trees a-plenty grow. Make it green
in a great circle all round, just as if you were out
at sea, where it’s all blue; then put on a great
round blue sky for a cover, throw in a very few
clouds, and have a “picter,” or part of one, of our
prairie. There now, don’t you think I should have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>
been an artist, if circumstances had only developed
my natural genius? All send love. Your everlasting
sister,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The pioneer family found it necessary to move
their main headquarters, for Mr. Spaulding, the
husband of Emeline, decided to give up farming,
and become a minister. Ministers were scarce in
that region, and seeing the need, he carried out a
cherished plan of his youth by being ordained as a
preacher of the gospel. Consequently they deserted
their home, and went to Woodburn, with all their
newly acquired furniture on three wagons, each
drawn by three yoke of oxen that splashed through
the mud, until they came to a cottage possessing
more rooms than the house they had left, though
the doors were made of rough boards. These rooms
were papered by Lucy, with Boston “Journals.”
She grew to love this cottage, for it represented
home to her on the prairie.</p>
<p>In spite of cares and unpoetical methods of
living, her pen was not idle. She wrote of the
little prairie rose:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Flowers around are thick and bright,</div>
<div class="verse">The purple phlox and orchis white,</div>
<div class="verse">The orange lily, iris blue,</div>
<div class="verse">And painted cups of flaming hue.</div>
<div class="indent">Not one among them grows,</div>
<div class="indent">So lovely as the little prairie rose.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>The spirit of a jolly ride over the snow she
caught in some lines called “A Prairie Sleigh-Ride:”—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Away o’er the prairies, the wide and the free,</div>
<div class="verse">Away o’er the glistening prairies with me;</div>
<div class="verse">The last glance of day lights a blush on the snow,</div>
<div class="verse">While away through the twilight our merry steeds go.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>She also felt the awe inspired by the silence and
immensity of the land, with the blue heavens arching
over.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“But in its solemn silence,</div>
<div class="verse">Father, we feel thou art</div>
<div class="verse">Filling alike this boundless sea,</div>
<div class="verse">And every humble heart.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>When Lucy had been teaching district school
for two years, she was conscious of her deficiencies,
and longed for a chance to acquire a
more thorough education. She wished to fit herself
for promotion in her calling, and ambitions to
become a writer were not absent from her thoughts.
An opportunity for study presented itself in Monticello
Female Seminary, Alton, Illinois, which was
about twenty miles away from her home. This institution,
founded by Captain B. Godfrey, was one
of the first established in the country for the higher
education of women. The prospectus of 1845,
adorned with a stiff engraving of the grounds and
large stone building, offered in its antiquated language,
attractions which seemed to suit her needs:
“The design of the Institution, is to furnish Young
Ladies with an education, <i>substantial</i>, <i>extensive</i>
and <i>practical</i>,—that shall at the same time develop
harmoniously their physical, intellectual, and
moral powers, and prepare them for the sober realities
and duties of life.” All this was to be had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>
for a sum less than one hundred dollars, in a situation
so healthful that there “had never been a
death in the institution.”</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO MRS. I. W. BAKER.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Woodburn</span>, November 23, 1848.</p>
<p>... I have a new notion in my head, and I suppose
I may as well broach it at once. There is a
certain Seminary in the neighborhood at which I am
very anxious to pass a year or so. It is one of the
best of its kind. I want a better education than I
have. Now I am only a tolerable sort of a “schoolma’am”
for children; but if I could teach higher
branches, I could make it more profitable, with less
labor. I suppose I must call teaching my trade;
and though I don’t like it the “very best kind,” I
want to understand it as well as possible. And
then if I don’t always keep school I may be able to
depend on my pen for a living....</p>
</blockquote>
<p>As Lucy was not able to pay the full tuition, the
principal, Miss Fobes, arranged that she should
be both student and teacher, thus helping to defray
her expenses. She entered the school in September,
1849, and studied, in earnest, history, metaphysics,
English literature, and higher mathematics,
and laid the foundation for a thorough education.</p>
<p>Her schoolmates remember with pleasure the
beauty of her lite at Monticello. They speak of
the gentleness and peculiar sweetness of her character.
Nothing coarse or mean could be associated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>
with her. Being older than the other girls she was
looked up to with reverence by them. Her singular
purity of mind was illustrated by a remark to one
of her companions, when they were talking about
the Christian life,—“I never knew there was any
other way to live.” One of her schoolmates writes:
“I felt homesick, until one day I was introduced
to a large, fair-faced woman, and looked up to meet
a pair of happy blue eyes smiling down upon me,
so full of sweet human kindness that the clouds
fell straight away. And from that day the kindness
never failed me—I think it never failed anyone.
‘The sunshine of her face’ were words that
went out in many of my letters in those days.”</p>
<p>She studied industriously each subject of the
course. Her note-books contain full extracts from
the authors she was reading, with long comments
by herself. Those on philosophy indicate a mind
naturally delighting in speculative questions; and
when her reasoning touches upon theology, she
seems especially in earnest. History appealed to
her imagination, and she seized upon the more dramatic
incidents for comment. English literature
opened a new world of thought to her, and she
studied enthusiastically the origin and growth of
poetry. In these studies of English it was first
suggested to her that there was an art of versification,
which could be cultivated. From this time
her lines conform more to poetic rules, her ear for
music being supplemented by a knowledge of metre.</p>
<p>There was one subject she could not master,—mathematics:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>
“I am working on spherical trigonometry,
just now. I don’t fancy it much; it
needs a clearer head than mine to take in such abstract
matters as the sides and angles of the triangle
that can be imagined, but not seen.” She
would exclaim, when studying Conic Sections, that
she could see all the beauty, and feel all the poetry,
but could not take the steps. When, however,
after great work, she did understand a proposition,
she accepted it as an eternal fact which God used
for infinite purposes.</p>
<p>The girls at Monticello had a debating society.
They gained confidence in speaking on such questions
as,—“The blind man has more enjoyment
in life, than the dumb man,” or, “Does the development
of science depend more upon genius than
industry?” Youthful wits were sharpened as a
result of affirming and denying these momentous
propositions, in arguments as strong as could be
had. Does not the following extract from one of
Lucy’s speeches present a typical picture of the
fortunes of war in debate, when members are
sometimes overcome by the weight of their own
wisdom? “The member from Otter Creek arose
and said that immigrants to this country were not
the lowest classes, that they were quite a decent
sort of people—but upon uttering these words,
she was shaken by a qualm of conscience, or some
sudden indisposition, and compelled to take her
seat.”</p>
<p>There were also compositions to be written. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>
subjects assigned for these monthly tests of literary
ability were as artificial as those for debate. The
object of the teacher in our early schools seems to
have been the selection of topics for essays as far
removed from anything usual or commonplace as
possible. One can very easily imagine what would
be the style of an essay on the topic, “It is the high
prerogative of the heroic soul to propagate its own
likeness.” Lucy managed to get a little humor
into the discussion of the question,—“Was the
building of Bunker Hill Monument a wise expenditure
of funds?” She argued: “Is there a use
in monuments? Perhaps not, literally. We have
heard of no process by which Bunker Hill Monument
might be converted into a lodging-house, and
though we are aware that our thrifty brethren of
Yankee-land have made it yield its quota of dollars
and cents, so that any aspirant may step into a
basket and be swung to the pinnacle of a nation’s
glory for ninepence, we are not in the habit of considering
this its sole productive principle, unless
gratitude and patriotism are omitted.”</p>
<p>Miss Larcom remained at Monticello Seminary
until her graduation in June, 1852. Miss Fobes
says: “When she left the institution, with her diploma,
and the benediction of her Alma Mater, we
felt sure that, with her noble equipment for service,
the result should be success in whatever field she
should find her work.” Her improvement had
been so great that it was noticeable to the members
of the family, who referred to her as “our
learned sister.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO MRS. ABBY O. HASKELL.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Monticello Seminary</span>, May 14th, 1850.</p>
<p>... But pray don’t call me your “learned sister”
any more; for if I deserved the title, it would
make me feel like a something on a pedestal, and
not plain Lucy Larcom: the sister of some half-dozen
worthy matrons.</p>
<p>I think it must be a mistake about my having
improved so <i>very</i> much; though I should be sorry
to have lived all these years and made no advancement.
Folks tell me that I am dignified, sometimes,
but I don’t know what it means. I have
never tried to be, and I seem just as natural to myself
as anything.</p>
<p>I don’t know how I could ever get along with
all your cares. I should like tending the babies
well enough, but when it came to washing, baking,
brewing, and mending, my patience would take
“French leave.” Still I don’t believe that any
married woman’s trials are much worse than a
“schoolma’am’s.”...</p>
</blockquote>
<p>There was an event in her life in the West to be
touched on. It relates to her one serious love affair.
A deep attachment sprang up between Lucy
and a young man who had accompanied her sister’s
family to Illinois, and for a time lived with them
during their log-cabin experiences, but afterwards
went to California. When he left, though they
could hardly be called engaged, there was an understanding<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>
between them that, when he returned
during the last days of her school life, they were to
decide the matter finally. After three years of separation,
they were no nearer a conclusion. Some
years after this, it became clear to Miss Larcom
that their marriage would not be for the best interests
of either.</p>
<p>In 1852, her thoughts turned again to her native
town of Beverly. Equipped with her Monticello
education, she felt prepared to support herself by
teaching in her congenial home in the East. The
memories of her childhood drew her back in thought
to her old home. She wrote to her brother Benjamin
in March, “The almanac says I am twenty-eight
years old, but really, Ben, I do believe it fibs,
for I don’t feel half so old. It seems only the
other day that Lydia and I were sitting by the
big kitchen fireplace, down the lane, and you opposite
us, puffing cigar-smoke into our hair, and
singing, ‘My name is Apollyon.’”</p>
<p>To her sister Lydia, whose birthday was on the
same day of the month as her own, she sent some
verses recalling her childhood.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“In childhood we looked gayly out,</div>
<div class="indent">To see this blustering dawn begin</div>
<div class="verse">And hailed the wind whose noisy shout</div>
<div class="indent">Our mutual birthday ushered in.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“For cakes, beneath our pillow rolled,</div>
<div class="indent">We laughing searched, and wondered, too,</div>
<div class="verse">How mother had so well foretold</div>
<div class="indent">What fairy people meant to do.”</div>
</div></div></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III.</h2></div>
<p class="ph3">LIFE AT NORTON.<br />
1853-1859.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the autumn of 1853, Miss Larcom, having
returned to Beverly, lived for a year with her
sister, Mrs. Baker, in the pretty old-fashioned
house on Cabot Street. Securing a few rooms in
an unoccupied house not far away, she fitted them
up as schoolroom and studio. Here she taught
a little school with ten scholars. Most of these
young girls were as far advanced as the second
class at Monticello, and having already been instructed
in the fundamental studies, they were not
so difficult to teach as her untrained pupils in the
West. The impression she made upon each of
these young lives was strong, for, as a little family,
she not only taught them the lessons, but gave
them generously from her enthusiasm and faith.
She imparted to them her love for all things true
and beautiful. When the school year closed, she
asked each girl to choose her favorite flower, upon
which she wrote a few lines of verse,—on the hyacinth,
signifying jealousy,—on the lily of the valley,
meaning innocence.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“The fragrance Sarah would inhale</div>
<div class="verse">Is the lily of the vale:</div>
<div class="verse">‘Humility,’ it whispers low;</div>
<div class="verse">Ah! let that gentle breathing flow</div>
<div class="verse">Deep within, and then will you</div>
<div class="verse">Be a lily of the valley too.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>One of these pupils wrote to her years after:
“Among the teachers of my girlhood, you are
the one who stands out as my model of womanhood.”</p>
<p>While teaching, she still considered herself a
scholar. Nor did she ever in after life overcome
this feeling, for she was always eager to learn.
When she was imparting her best instruction, and
writing her most noteworthy books, she studied
with great fidelity. At this time she took lessons
in French and drawing; her love for color and
form was always great. Often she had attempted
in crude ways to preserve the spirit of a landscape,
and so reproduce the color of the green ferns and
variegated flowers; but now she set about the task
in earnest. She had no special talent for painting,
so she did nothing worthy of special notice, but some
water-color sketches of autumn leaves, the golden-rod’s
“rooted sunshine,” woodland violets, and the
coral of the barberry, and apple-blossoms, “flakes
of fragrance drifting everywhere,” are very pretty.
This study of painting, however, trained her observation,
and prepared her to appreciate works of
art by giving her some knowledge of the use of
the palette. This early attempt at artist’s work
strengthened her love for pictures; and it was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>
special treat to her to visit the different galleries
in Boston, where she was sure to be one of the
first to see a celebrated painting.</p>
<p>It was a pleasure to her to be once more with
her family, for the members of which she had the
deepest affection. Writing to Miss Fobes, she expressed
herself thus: “I am glad I came home,
for I never realized before what a treasure my
family circle was, nor how much I loved them.
Then why do I not wish to stay? Simply because
it does not seem to me that I can here develop the
utmost that is in me. Ought I to be contented
while that feeling remains?”</p>
<p>The feeling that she must develop “the utmost
that is in me,” impelled her through life, as a duty
that she must regard. She was not without opportunities
for cultivation in Beverly. There were
the two weekly Lyceum lectures, with good speakers—Miss
Lucy Stone had advocated woman’s
rights so ably that “even in this conservative town
many became converts.” However, she longed for
a larger work, and was ready to accept the call to
be a teacher in Wheaton Seminary, Norton, Massachusetts.</p>
<p>In the early winter of 1854, she began her work
at Wheaton Seminary, the large school for girls,
founded through the generosity of Judge Wheaton,
in memory of his daughter. The subjects given
her to teach were history, moral philosophy, literature,
and rhetoric, including the duty of overlooking
the greater part of the compositions.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>Her spirit on entering upon this new work, is
indicated by this letter:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO MISS P. FOBES.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Wheaton Seminary, Norton, Mass.</span>,<br />
January 10, 1855.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Miss Fobes</span>:—When I look back upon
my life I think I see it divided into epochs similar
to geological ages, when, by slow or sudden upheavings,
I have found myself the wondering possessor
of a new life in a new world. My years at
Monticello formed such an epoch, and it is no flattery
to say that to you I owe much of the richness
and beauty of the landscape over which I now
exult. For your teaching gave me intellectually a
broader scope and firmer footing than I ever had
ventured upon.</p>
<p>I know that I have done almost nothing as yet
to show that I have received so much good. Life
here seems to me not much more than “a getting
ready to do.” But in the consciousness of what it
is to be a human being, created in the image of the
divine,—in the gradual developing of new inner
powers like unfolding wings,—in the joy of entering
into the secrets of beauty in God’s universe,—in
the hopefulness of constant struggling and aspiring,
I am rich.</p>
<p>I have been in this place only a few weeks and
suppose the length of my stay will depend upon
the satisfaction I give and receive. It is a pleasant
school.</p>
<p class="right">Yours truly,<span class="gap"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span></span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>The length of her stay in Norton extended over
eight important years of her life, from 1854 to
1862. These years were full of intellectual and
religious struggles, of hard student life, of sweet
companionships, of the beginnings of literary success,
and of deep friendships. Earnestness and
sincerity here became her characteristic traits;
while her gentleness and patience, though sorely
tried at times by the misconduct or failure of her
scholars, became habitual with her.</p>
<p>One cannot think of the quiet life she led under
the Norton elms, without picturing the tall graceful
woman with her sweet face, low broad forehead,
and soft blue eyes, moving about among the girls
as a continual inspiration, always leading them by
her presence and words into some region of sentiment,
or beauty, or religion. In the schoolroom,
ever dignified, she spoke in a low voice with the
emphasis of real interest. In her own room, with
its green carpet and white curtains, where she liked
to retire for thought and work, surrounded by her
books, a few pictures, and shells and pressed sea-weed,
she would prepare her lectures, and write her
letters to her friends. There were sure to be flowers
on her table, sent either by some loving scholar,
or plucked by her own hand,—“I have some
pretty things in my room; and flowers, so alive!
As I look into their deep cups, I am filled with the
harmonies of color and form. How warm a bright
rose-pink carnation makes the room on a wintry
day!” A scholar tells how, venturing into this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span>
retreat, she saw Miss Larcom quietly sitting in a
rocking-chair, knitting stockings for the soldiers,
during the War.</p>
<p>She was a conscientious student in preparing
her lessons; she read the best books she could find
in the school library, or could borrow from her
friends. The notes of her lectures show great labor
by their exhaustiveness. As a teacher, some of her
power was derived from the clearness with which
she presented the theme, and her picturesque style
of expression. She invested the most lifeless topics
with interest by the use of original and appropriate
illustrations,—as will be seen in the following
passage from a lecture on Anglo-Saxon poetry, in
which she describes the minstrels:—</p>
<p>“The minstrels would sing, and the people would
listen; and if the monks had listened too, they
would sometimes have heard the irregularities of
their lives chanted for the derision of the populace.
For the bards assumed perfect independence in
their choice of themes; liberty of the lyre seems
to have been what liberty of the press is in these
days. We can imagine the excitement in some
quaint village, when the harp of one of these
strollers was heard; how men and women would
leave their work, and listen to these ballads.
Those who have seen the magnetic effect of a hand-organ
on village children, may have some idea of
it; if the organ-grinder were also a famous story-teller,
the effect would be greater. And this is
something like what these ballad singers were to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>
our elder brethren of Angle-land, in the childhood
of civilization.”</p>
<p>What excellent advice this is to girls, on the
subject of their compositions,—“Get rid, if you
can, of that formal idea of a composition to write,
that stalks like a ghost through your holiday hours.
Interest yourself in something, and just say your
simple say about it. One mistake with beginners
in writing is, that they think it important to spin
out something long. It is a great deal better not
to write more than a page or two, unless you have
something to say, and can write it correctly.”</p>
<p>The recitations in her class-room were of an unconventional
character. Dealing with topics in the
largest and most interesting way, she often used up
the time in discussion, so that the girls who did not
know their lessons sometimes took advantage of
this peculiarity by asking questions, for the sole
purpose of needlessly prolonging her explanation.
It was often a joke among the scholars that she
did not know where the lesson was; but so soon as
she found the place, she made clear the portion
assigned, and brought all her knowledge to bear
so fully on the subject, that the scholars caught
glimpses of unexplored fields of thought, which
were made to contribute something to illustrate the
theme in hand.</p>
<p>She did more for the girls than by simply teaching
them in the class-room. She enlarged their
intellectual life by founding a paper, called “The
Rushlight,” by which they not only gained confidence,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>
but centralized the literary ability of the
school. She explained the origin of the paper
thus: “I said to myself, as I glanced over the
bright things from the pile of compositions that
rose before me semi-weekly, ‘Why cannot we have
a paper?’ I said it to the girls, and to the teachers
also, and everybody was pleased with the idea.”
She also founded the Psyche Literary Society, to
stimulate the girls’ studies in literature and art.</p>
<p>Another element in her power as a teacher was
her personal interest in the girls. It was not
solely an intellectual or literary interest, but she
thought of their characters and religious training.
To one of the girls she wrote, “I never felt it an
interruption for you to come into my room; how
we used to talk about everything!” When they
were in trouble, they came naturally to her with
their confidences. She was sometimes called
“Mother Larcom,” and she earned the title, for
she acted like a mother to the homesick girl, and
quieted by her gentle persuasiveness the tears of
repentance, or bitter weeping of sorrow, of some
of the more unfortunate of her pupils. Writing
about one of the girls whose religious development
she had watched, she said, “She is unfolding from
the heart to God most openly, now. I am sure
there is a deep life opening in her. I have rejoiced
over her.”</p>
<p>She discovered, through their moods—as in the
case of one who was crying a great deal—or by
the frequency of a permitted correspondence, their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>
real or fancied love-affairs. After winning their
confidence she could wisely advise them. Thus in
one instance she wrote: “If such intimacy is true
friendship, it will be a benefit to both; yet it is not
without danger. I have seen the severest sufferings
from the struggle between duty and feeling in such
relations. I have seen life embittered by reason
of the liberty allowed to a cousinly love, left unwatched.
It is hard to keep the affections right in
quantity and quality. But I need not say that a
true love needs no limits; it is only falsehood that
embitters every sweet and pure cup.”</p>
<p>When the girls left school, they carried her love
with them; and by correspondence and visits to
their homes, where she was always a welcome guest,
she followed them through the deepest experiences
of their lives. One of her scholars said, “If I were
to sum up the strong impression she made upon me,
I should say it all in ‘I loved her.’” Another
wrote, “Miss Larcom was to me a peerless star,
unattainable in the excellence and purity of her
character. She stood as the ideal woman, whom I
wished to be like.”</p>
<p>When death invaded a home, she knew how to
write:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Norton</span>, October 7, 1855.</p>
<p>... Why is it we dread the brief parting of death
so much? Do we really doubt meeting them again?
Will they have lost themselves in the great crowd
of immortals, so that when our time comes to follow
them we cannot find them? I am just reading<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span>
for the first time, “In Memoriam,” and it fills
my mind with these questions. I think I should
be homesick in a mansion filled with angels, if my
own precious friends whom I loved were not within
call....</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The following letter shows her intimacy with the
girls:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO MISS SUSAN HAYES WARD.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Norton</span>, April 2, 1855.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Susie</span>,—I find it almost impossible to
feel at home in a boarding-school; and then I know
I never was made for a teacher,—a schoolmistress
I mean. Still, among so many, one feels an inspiration
in trying to do what is to be done, though the
feeling that others would do it better is a drawback.
And then, at such a place, I always find
somebody to remember forever. For that I am
thankful for my winter’s experience. There are
buds opening in the great human garden, which
are not to be found at our own hearthstone: and
it is a blessed task to watch them unfolding, and
shield them from blight. And yet what can one
mortal do for another? There is no such thing as
helping, or blessing, except by becoming a medium
for the divine light, and that is blessedness in itself.</p>
<p>It seems to me that to be a Christian is just to
look up to God, and be blessed by his love, and
then move through the world quietly, radiating as
we go....</p>
</blockquote>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>The development of her own religious life was
marked by many radical changes. She was no
longer satisfied by the theology in which she had
been reared. She sought new foundations for her
belief. Her classes in philosophy led her into the
world of controversy. Plato was constantly by her
side, and she refreshed herself by reading Coleridge’s
“Aids to Reflection,” from which she gained more
nutriment than from any other religious book, except
the Bible. Swedenborg taught her that “to
grow old in heaven is to grow young.” Sears’s
“Foregleams and Foreshadows” made her feel
the joy of living, as presented in the chapter on
“Home.” She also read “Tauler’s Sermons,” and
Hare’s “Mission of the Comforter.”</p>
<p>Interwoven with her religious thought were the
life and influence of one of the dearest friends she
ever knew, Miss Esther S. Humiston of Waterbury,
Connecticut, a woman of rare powers, and wonderful
sweetness of character. The two women were
not unlike. They had the same spiritual longings,
similar views of life, and equal intellectual attainments.
Miss Larcom looked up to Esther for
guidance, and such was the perfect accord between
them, that she wrote to her fully about her deepest
thoughts, and most sacred experiences.</p>
<p>In the spring of 1858, she wrote thus to Esther:—“You
do not realize how very unorthodox I am.
I do not think a bond of church-membership ought
to be based upon intellectual belief at all, but that
it should simply be a union in the divine love and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>
life. Now I do not formally belong to any particular
church,—that is, I have a letter from a
little Congregational church on the prairies, which
I have never used, and I know not how, honestly I
can. For should I not be required virtually to say
I believe certain things? I believe the Bible, but
not just as any church I know explains it, and so I
think I must keep aloof until I can find some band,
united simply as Christian, without any ‘ism’ attached.
We all do belong to Christ’s Church who
love Him, so I do not feel lost or a wanderer, even
though I cannot externally satisfy others.”</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO ESTHER S. HUMISTON.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly, Mass.</span>, August 2d, 1858.</p>
<p>... I regard Christianity as having to do with
the heart and life, and not with the opinions; and
my own opinions are not definite on many points.
The disputed doctrines of total depravity, predestination,
etc., with some of those distinctly called
“evangelical,” such as the atonement, and the
duration of suffering after death, I find more and
more difficulty in thinking about; so that I cannot
yet say what “views” I “hold.” There,—will you
be my “sister confessor”? As I see things now,
the “atonement” is to me, literally, the “at-one-ment,”—our
fallen natures lifted from the earthly
by redeeming love, and brought into harmony with
God; Jesus, the Mediator, is doing it now, in
every heart that receives Him, and I think our
faith should look up to Him as He is, the living<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>
Redeemer, and not merely back to the dead Christ,—for
“He is not dead.” Then, as to the future
state of those who die unrepentant: after probing
my heart, I find that it utterly refuses to believe
that there is any corner in God’s universe where
“hope never comes.” There must be suffering,
anguish, for those who choose sin, so long as they
choose it; but can a soul, made in the image
of God, who is Light, choose darkness forever?
There is but one God, whose is the “kingdom,
the power, and the glory, forever and ever;” is
there any depth of darkness, which this sovereign
radiance shall not at last pierce? I know the
Bible testimony, and it seems to me that the inmost
meaning, even of those fearfully denunciatory passages,
would confirm this truth. Now, you can
imagine how these sentiments would be received
by an Orthodox Church....</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO THE SAME.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Norton</span>, September 2, 1860.</p>
<p>... I enjoyed being with my friends. I told you
that they were Universalists, but theirs is a better-toned
piety than that of some Orthodox friends.
Still, there was a want in it, a something that left
me longing; it was as if they were looking at the
sunlit side of a mountain, and never thought of
the shadows which must be beyond. The mystery
of life is in its shadows, and its beauty, in great
part, too. There isn’t shadow enough in Universalism
to make a comprehensible belief for me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>
And yet I believe there is no corner of God’s universe
where His love is not brooding, and seeking
to penetrate the darkest abyss....</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The question about her marriage was definitely
settled while she was at Norton. She decided, in
the first place, on general grounds, that it would be
best for her not to marry. There were various
reasons for this. She had many premonitions of
the breaking down of her health, which finally
came in 1862, when she had to give up teaching;
and owing to some exaggeration of her symptoms—for
at times she felt that her mind might give
way—she thought it unwise for her to take up
the responsibilities of matrimony. In addition to
this, she grew fond of her independence, and as
her ability asserted itself, she seemed to see before
her a career as an authoress, which she felt it her
duty to pursue. Special reasons, of course, one
cannot go into fully, though there are some features
of them that may be mentioned; to Esther
she stated an abundantly sufficient one,—“I am
almost sure there are chambers in my heart that
he could not unlock.” She also differed radically
from her lover on the subject of slavery. Her
feelings as an abolitionist were so strong that she
knew where there was such a division of sentiments
a household could not be at peace within
itself. This difference of opinion concerning all
the questions that culminated in the Civil War
resulted in a final refusal, which afterwards found<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>
public expression in her noted poem, “A Loyal
Woman’s No,” an energetic refusal of a loyal
woman to a lover who upheld slavery:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Not yours,—because you are not man enough</div>
<div class="indent">To grasp your country’s measure of a man,</div>
<div class="verse">If such as you, when Freedom’s ways are rough,</div>
<div class="indent">Cannot walk in them,—learn that women can!”</div>
</div></div>
<p>The poem was not written entirely out of her
own experience. In making a confession about
it to a friend, she says, “I have had a thousand
tremblings about its going into print, because I feel
that some others might feel hurt by the part that
is not from my own experience. If it is better for
the cause, let me and those old associations be sacrificed.”
The publication of the poem was justified
by the way it was received everywhere. It
was quoted in the newspapers all over the North.
An answer was printed in “The Courier,” called
“A Young Man’s Reply.” This interested Miss
Larcom, and she referred to it as “quite satisfactory,
inasmuch as it shows that somebody whom
the coat fitted put it on! If it does make unmanly
and disloyal men wince, I am glad I wrote it.”</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO ESTHER S. HUMISTON.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Norton</span>, June 1, 1858.</p>
<p>... I shall probably never marry. I can see
reasons why it would be unwise for me; and yet I
will freely tell you that I believe I should have
been very happy, “if it might have been.” A
true marriage (<i>the</i> is the word I should have used)<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>
is the highest state of earthly happiness,—the flowing
of the deepest life of the soul into a kindred
soul, two spirits made one,—to be a double light
and blessing to other souls has, I doubt not, been
sometimes, though seldom, realized on earth....</p>
</blockquote>
<p>This touch of real romance in her life shows
that she had a woman’s true nature, and that she
did not escape the gentle grasping of the divine
passion, though she shook herself free from it,
deciding that it was better for her to walk alone.
Some lines of her poem, “Unwedded,” suggest the
reasons for her decision:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“And here is a woman who understood</div>
<div class="indent">Herself, her work, and God’s will with her,</div>
<div class="verse">To gather and scatter His sheaves of good,</div>
<div class="indent">And was meekly thankful, though men demur.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“Would she have walked more nobly, think,</div>
<div class="indent">With a man beside her, to point the way,</div>
<div class="verse">Hand joining hand in the marriage link?</div>
<div class="indent">Possibly, Yes: it is likelier, Nay.”</div>
</div></div></div>
<blockquote>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO MISS ESTHER S. HUMISTON.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Norton</span>, January 15, 1859.</p>
<p>... The books came through the post-office,
with the note separate; they were brought to me
while I was having a class recite logic in my room,—the
dryest and most distasteful of all subjects to
me, but it is a select class, and that makes up for
the study. The young ladies who compose it are
on quite familiar terms with me, and when the
messenger said, “Three books and two letters for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>
Miss Larcom,” their curiosity was greatly excited,
and there was so much sly peeping at corners and
picking at strings that they were not, on the whole,
very <i>logical</i>. They asked to hold them for me till
I was ready to open them, and I believe in letting
“young ladies” act like children while they can....
I was thinking how much I should enjoy a
quiet forenoon writing to you, when the words,
“Study hour out”—accompanied the clang of the
bell, and a Babel of voices broke into the hall outside
my door.</p>
<p>I am trying not to hear—to get back into the
quiet places of thought where your letters, open
before me, were leading me, but I cannot; there is
a jar, a discord,—and I suppose it is selfish in me
not to be willing to be thus disturbed. How I long
for a quiet place to live in! I never found a place
still enough yet. But all kinds of natural sounds,
as winds, waters, and even the crying of a baby, if
not <i>too</i> loud and protracted, are not noises to me.
Is it right to feel the sound of human voices a
great annoyance? One who loved everybody would
always enjoy the “music of speech,” I suppose,
and would find music where I hear only discord.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO THE SAME.</p>
<p class="right">Sabbath evening.</p>
<p>... I read in school yesterday morning, something
from the “Sympathy of Christ.” We have
had some very naughty girls here, and have had to
think of expulsion; but one of them ran away, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span>
so saved us the trouble. How hard it is to judge
the erring rightly—Christianly. I am always
inclined to be too severe, for the sake of the rest;
one corrupt heart that loves to roll its corruption
about does so much evil. I do not think that a
school like this is the place for evil natures—the
family is the place, it seems to me, or even something
more solitary. And yet there have been
such reforms here, that sometimes I am in doubt.
When there is a Christian, sympathizing heart to
take the erring home, and care for her as a mother
would, that is well. But we are all so busy here,
with the <i>everythings</i>. I am convinced that I have
too much head-employment altogether; I get hardly
breathing time for heart and home life....</p>
</blockquote>
<p>In 1854, Miss Larcom published her first book,—“Similitudes
from the Ocean and the Prairie.”
It was a little volume of not more than one hundred
pages, containing brief prose parables drawn from
nature, with the purpose of illustrating some moral
truth. The titles of the Similitudes suggest their
meaning: “The Song before the Storm;” “The
Veiled Star;” “The Wasted Flower;” and “The
Lost Gem.” Though the conception was somewhat
crude, yet her desire to find in all things a message
of a higher life and a greater beauty, showed the
serious beginnings of the poet’s insight, which in
after years was to reveal to her so many hidden
truths. She characterized the book as “a very immature
affair, often entirely childish.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>Her first distinct literary success was the writing
of the Kansas Prize Song, in 1855. When
Kansas was being settled, the New England Emigrant
Aid Company offered a prize of fifty dollars
for the best song, written with the object of inspiring
in the emigrants the sentiments of freedom.
The power of a popular melody was to be used in
maintaining a free soil. She gained this prize;
and her stirring words were sung all through the
West. They were printed, with the appropriate
music of Mr. E. Norman, on cotton handkerchiefs,
which were given away by the thousand.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“Yeomen strong, hither throng,</div>
<div class="indent">Nature’s honest men;</div>
<div class="verse">We will make the wilderness</div>
<div class="indent">Bud and bloom again;</div>
<div class="verse">Bring the sickle, speed the plough,</div>
<div class="indent">Turn the ready soil;</div>
<div class="verse">Freedom is the noblest pay</div>
<div class="indent">For a true man’s toil.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“Ho, brothers! come, brothers!</div>
<div class="indent">Hasten all with me;</div>
<div class="verse">We’ll sing upon the Kansas plains</div>
<div class="indent">A song of liberty.”</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>Her next little book, “Lottie’s Thought-book,”
was published by the American Sunday School
Union, Philadelphia, in 1858. Not unlike the
Similitudes in its method of teaching by parables,
it gave the thoughts of a clever child, as they
would be suggested by such scenes as a beautiful
spring morning in the country, “when glad thoughts
praise God;” the first snow, typifying the purity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>
of the earth; or the thought of the joy of living,
in the chapter “Glad to be alive” that recalls an
exclamation she uses in one of her letters, “Oh!
how happy I am, that I did not die in childhood!”
These little books are like the inner biography of
her youth, a pure crystal stream of love, reflecting
the sunlight in every ripple and eddy.</p>
<p>She also wrote for various magazines, notably
“The Crayon,” in which appeared some criticisms
of poetry, especially Miss Muloch’s, and some of
her poems, like “Chriemhild,” a legend of Norse
romance. The only payment she received was the
subscription to the magazine. Her famous poem,
“Hannah Binding Shoes,” was first printed in the
“Knickerbocker,” without her knowledge,—then
a few months later, in “The Crayon.” This fact
gave rise to the accusation of plagiarism which,
though it greatly annoyed her, brought her poem
into general notice. Having sent the poem to the
“Knickerbocker,” but not receiving any answer
about its acceptance, she concluded that it had been
rejected. She then sent it to “The Crayon,” where
it appeared, but in the mean time it had been
printed in the “Knickerbocker.” The editor of
the last-named paper wrote a letter to the “New
York Tribune,” in which he accused Lucy Larcom
of being “a literary thiefess,” and claimed the
“stolen goods.” In answer to this, Miss Larcom
wrote immediately a reply to the “Tribune.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p>
<blockquote>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Norton. Mass.</span>, February 13, 1858.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">To the Editor of the New York Tribune</span>:</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—Will you please say to “Old Nick” that
he does not tell the truth. His statements regarding
me, in your paper, February 10, are not correct.
Lucy Larcom is not a “literary thiefess;”
“Hannah Binding Shoes” was not written “five
or six years,” but about four years since. I have
only to blush that I wrote it, and that I sent it to
the editor of the “Knickerbocker.”</p>
<p>The latter was done at a time when it seemed
desirable for me to attempt writing for pecuniary
profit,—a very ridiculous idea, of course,—and I
enclosed the poem in a letter, intimating such a
desire to that gentleman, and supposing that courtesy
would suggest that the letter should be answered,
or the poem returned. As neither of these things
was done, I innocently considered it my own property,
and sent it to “The Crayon,” as an original
composition.</p>
<p>I hereby reclaim from “Old Nick,” my “stolen
goods,” which he has inadvertently advertised.</p>
<p class="right">Yours truly,<span class="gap"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</span></p>
</blockquote>
<p>She wrote rather a severe letter to the “most
honorable Old Nick” himself, in which she says,
“In my ignorance, I supposed that editors were as
polite as other people, in such matters as answering
letters, and acknowledging even small favors.
I am sure I never would have sent you a poem, if I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>
had supposed you would one day have accused me of
stealing it, and I hereby promise with sincere penitence,
never to do so again. I suppose I can hardly
look for the courtesy of an explanation as public
as your accusation has been.”</p>
<p>She also wrote an explanation to Mr. John Durand,
the editor of “The Crayon.”</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO JOHN DURAND.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Norton</span>, February 12, 1858.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Durand</span>,—“Hannah Binding Shoes”
I may truly say is “a poor thing, sir, but mine own.”
I should hardly have supposed that the identity of
so humble an individual would be thought worth
calling in question. The poem was written four
years since, and was sent to the editor of the
“Knickerbocker” in my own name, but as I received
no acknowledgment from him, and have
never seen a copy of the paper since, I supposed
it either failed to reach him, or was not accepted.
Was I not justifiable in sending it to you? I had
no idea that it had been published before.</p>
<p class="right">Yours truly,<span class="gap"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</span></p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Hannah Binding Shoes” was set to music, and
became very popular. Rev. Samuel Longfellow
wrote her, “I wish you could have heard, as I did
the other evening, ‘Hannah’ sung by Adelaide
Phillips.” Together with its sequel, “Skipper
Ben,” it recalled an incident very common in a
New England sea-town, where ships were lost and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>
lovers never returned, where every home had in it
hearts that beat for those out at sea, and where
women stood on the shore and strained their eyes
looking for a sail. In these verses, as in all her
poetry of the sea, she has caught the dirge in the
wind, and the lonesome sound of beating waves when
the skipper “faced his fate in a furious night.”</p>
<p>In 1859 Miss Larcom tried, at the suggestion of
many friends, to find a publisher for a volume of
verses, but she was unsuccessful. A letter from
Mr. Whittier accompanying the manuscript did
not win Ticknor and Fields to her side. She took
a very sensible view of her discomfiture.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO JOHN DURAND.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Norton</span>, October 29, 1860.</p>
<p>... I should have regarded the thought of publishing
as premature; but most of my friends are
not artistic, and do not look upon my unripe fruits
as I do. What I have written is at least genuine,
sincere. I believe it is in me to do better things
than I have done, and I shall work on in the faith
of leaving something that will find its true place in
the right time, because of the life there is in it.
To live out, to express in some way the best there
is in us, seems to me to be about all of life....</p>
</blockquote>
<p>After Miss Larcom’s return from the West, the
friendship with the Whittiers ripened and became
a factor in her life. The gentle sweetness of the
poet’s sister Elizabeth soon won its way to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>
heart, and the strength of the man greatly impressed
her. They grew very fond of her, and took an interest
in her literary work. The attachment that
Elizabeth formed for her was based on a most
genuine love. In one of her letters she wrote,
“Dear, dear Lucy,—Let me thank thee for all
thy love. I can never tell thee how sweet it has
been to me. I could have cried to think of thy
loving care for me.” Again:—“I wish I could
see thee oftener. I need thee. I feel a little more
rest with thee than with most. Thou hast done
me good since I first knew thee.” The two lives
mingled and blended in the contact of companionship,
for refinement of feeling, delicacy of thought,
and strength of moral purpose, were characteristic
of both. Mr. Whittier found her companionable,
and admired her sincerity and poetical ability,
which he recognized very early. It was one of
Miss Larcom’s greatest pleasures, while at Norton,
to run off and spend a few days at Amesbury in
the household that she loved. What Mr. Whittier
said, she knew to be true,—“Thee will always find
the latchstring out;” and when away, she knew she
was remembered, for Elizabeth sent her word that
“Greenleaf has just filled thy blue and gold vase
with the yellowest of flowers.”</p>
<p>Here is a letter to her, from Mr. Whittier, as
early as 1853.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="right">September 3, 1853.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Friend</span>,—I thank thee for thy note.
The personal allusion would be flattering enough,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span>
did I not know that it originated in a sad misconception
and overestimate of one who knows himself
to be “no better than he should be.” It is a way
we have. We are continually investing somebody
or other with whatever is best in ourselves. It
does not follow that the objects themselves are
worth much. The vines of our fancy often drape
the ugliest stumps in the whole forest.</p>
<p>I am anxious to see thy little book in print.<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a>
Whatever may be its fate with the public at large,
I feel quite sure it will give thee a place in the best
minds and hearts. The best kind of fame, after
all.</p>
<p class="right">Thy friend,<span class="gap"><span class="smcap">J. G. Whittier</span>.</span></p>
</blockquote>
<p>At Mr. Whittier’s suggestion, she used to submit
her work to him for criticism; and he always
indicated what he considered faulty, in rhyme or
metre. This practical training in the art of verse-making
was valuable to her. She continued it for
many years until she felt that she ought to be more
self-reliant. Then she printed without consulting
him, and, at first, he reproved her for it. “But,”
she said, “you have taught me all that I ought to
ask: why should I remain a burden on you? Why
should I always write with you holding my hand?
My conscience and my pride rebel. I will be myself,
faults and all.”</p>
<p>In 1855, he wrote, “I have said in my heart, I
wonder if Lucy Larcom will write to me, as she
proposed? I should love to have her.” Their correspondence
continued until the time of his death.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV.</h2></div>
<p class="ph3">REFLECTIONS OF A TEACHER.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was not Miss Larcom’s regular habit to keep
a diary, but at certain times she recorded her
thoughts in private note-books. Her object in
doing this was to cultivate clearness of expression
by frequently writing, and to give definiteness to
her ideas by putting them down in black and white,
thus preserving them, either for immediate use as
material for letters to her friends, or for her own
inspection years afterwards. Long intervals of
time elapsed between the periods when she wrote
in her diaries; so they have not the value of a continuous
life-history, but are interesting as records
of phases of her thought which often reflect vividly
the conditions in which she lived.</p>
<p>The following extracts from her diary have been
made with the purpose of showing how she was influenced
by the circumstances of her life, and how
deeply she entered into the spirit of her intellectual
and political surroundings.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Norton, May 4, 1860. Our talk has been of
the mystics again to-day. With all the vagaries
into which some of them wandered, I cannot help<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>
feeling that these men had more of the truth than
any of those more strictly styled philosophers.
Cousin has a cool, patronizing way with all systems
that rather amuses me at times. What he says of
the relation of philosophy to religion seems very
conceited: that, while they have been separated,
philosophy must now take religion by the hand,
and gently guide her steps to the light. The history
of philosophy would rather show that he was
making a guide of the one who needed to be led!
Certainly it must be so, if God is wiser than man.</p>
<p>May 21. Out of door studies, these past days,
among goldfinches, orioles, larks, brown thrushes,
and all the singing brotherhood; and a course of
lectures on natural history, to help out the classifying
and naming. Better living than among philosophers.</p>
<p>June 13. These weeks that have been spent
over a discussion of Eastern and Western mythologies,
have allowed little time for reading or thinking
of anything else. I have learned to value the
thoughts of thinkers, and to perceive the difference
between them and pleasant surface-writers. I expected
to gain much from Mrs. Child’s “History
of Religious Ideas,” and I have found it full of
entertaining and instructive facts, told in a very
kind and impartial way; but hers is not the philosophic
depth of Carlyle, nor the broad and deep
spiritual insight of Maurice,—the latter always
pours light into the windows of my soul, and makes
truth seem all near and clear. Mrs. C.’s work is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span>
still a most valuable one, because it makes so much
comprehensible that had been shut up for the general
reader, and such a spirit as hers makes everything
that she writes good to read. This reading
and writing have impressed me more fully than
ever before with the certainty that truth is one,
radiating from one source through all manner of
mediums, colored and distorted by all sorts of error;
yet wherever a good word has been spoken, there
is the voice of God, whether the speaker were
Christian or Pagan.</p>
<p>June 20. After reading the addresses at the
Music Hall, in memory of Theodore Parker, and
what is said of him in the religious papers, it seems
to me a great relief that there is a perfect Judge
of human character and human life above. Neither
friends nor foes could know this man truly; his
works will follow him, right or wrong, for he wrote
himself in innumerable hearts, with all the energy
of confidence in his own views. I did not like the
tone of his preaching and lecturing,—it seemed
to me often dogmatic, and abusive of other beliefs;
certainly never very patient with what he did not
like. Yet the noble impulses he communicated,
the perfect freedom of thought which he advised,
cannot be without their good results. The fire will
try his work, as it does and will that of all human
workers, to prove of what sort it is.</p>
<p>August 12, Gardiner, Maine. Now in the seclusion
of this little bird’s nest in the woods, I feel
easy and free, like the winds that sweep through<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>
pine and hemlock, and the birds that go singing or
silent from the glen to the orchard. Heartsease
grows here, best of all blossoms; I surely did not
bring it with me, for I was very uneasy at home.</p>
<p>August 14. Leisure,—is it anything to be
thankful for, or not? I never do what I mean to
do, nor so much, as when I think my time all occupied.
This vacation is almost gone, and not one of
the achievements I had planned, in the way of writing,
is executed. It is something to rest, but not
so much, if one feels that it is not exactly right or
necessary to rest!</p>
<p>August 18. The prospect of a journey to the
mountains to-day. There is a thick fog from the
river, but the birds are singing through it. I can
scarcely let the summer go without giving me a
glimpse of the mountains.</p>
<p>August 22. Returned last night after a very
pleasant visit of three days. It rained on the way,
but it was only the cooler and more comfortable
traveling for that; and when the sun came out in
the west just as we reached the top of a ridge
from which the whole long mountain chain was
visible on the horizon, I felt that that one view
was enough compensation for going, and that first
glimpse I shall never forget. The round summit
of Blue, and the bolder ridges of Saddle-back and
Abraham, lifted themselves above the lower elevations
that would be mountains anywhere but among
mountains, far off and solemn with the deepening
purple of sunset, and over them the sky hung, fiery<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span>
gold, intermingled with shadow. The first glimpse
was finer than anything afterward, though I rode
up the lovely valley of the Sandy River, which is
<i>like</i> a paradise, if not one, recalling ever the old
words of the hymn:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Sweet fields arrayed in living green,</div>
<div class="indent">And rivers of delight.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>What can be more beautiful than green meadow-lands,
bordered by forest-covered slopes, that ever
rise and rise, till they fade into dim blue mountain-distances?</p>
<p>I climbed one mountain half-way,—the bluest
of the blue,—and so called, by emphasis, Mount
Blue. It was a grand view,—the great distant
mountain wall, and the valleys slumbering safe in
its shadow. Yet the distant view is always more
impressive, more full of suggestions for me; and
coming back to the first point of observation, I
hoped for a repetition of the first delight. But
the far-off ridges were closely veiled with mist and
rain, and a thunder-shower swept toward us from
them, across the wide valley. Yet as we turned to
leave, Mount Blue just lifted off his mist-cap for a
few minutes, as if to say good-by!</p>
<p>Altogether, it is a most charming and comforting
picture for future remembrance: flowery mountain-slopes,
little garden patches of golden-rod,
white everlasting and purple willow-herb, under
the shade of maples, and firs, and graceful hemlocks;
and glimpses of cottagers’ homes on hillsides
and by running streams. My eyes are rested, and
my heart is glad.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>August 24. Beverly. The sail down the Kennebec
River was delightful, and I took a wicked sort
of pleasure in shutting myself up from the crowd
and enjoying it!</p>
<p>August 26. Sabbath day memories and regrets—how
unlike everything else they are! One thing
to be grateful for, in a Puritan training, is that it
makes one day in the week a thoughtful one, at
least. The old customs we may not keep up,—may
even regard them as foolish,—still, there is a
questioning as to right and wrong on this day, which
we must be hardened to get wholly rid of. If I
have lived unworthily for a week, the Sabbath
quietly shows me myself in her mirror.</p>
<p>Lately I have heard some discussion as to the
name and manner of keeping the day. “The
Sabbath,” they say, “was a Jewish institution, not
a Christian festival, such as we should keep.”
But I believe that <i>rest</i> is still the noblest idea of
the day; the old Sabbath was a type of Christian
rest; not constrained, but free, full, peaceful; so I
like not anything that disturbs the <i>quiet</i> of the day.</p>
<p>September 17. Whether such a record as this is
a useful thing, or entirely useless, I begin to question.
I don’t want to feel interested in anything which is
only to benefit myself, and I don’t want to write
these trifles for other people’s eyes. A journal of
the “subjective” kind I have always thought foolish,
as nurturing a morbid self-consciousness in the
writer; and yet, alone so much as I am, it is well
to have some sort of a ventilator from the interior.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>
Letter-writing is a better safety valve than a journal,
when we write to those we can trust, and this
I meant to be a sort of prolonged letter, a mirror
of my occupations and progress, for my old friend,
Esther. But she, I fear will never read it; she is
on her way to a place of better occupation, and I
feel that the first stimulus is gone.</p>
<p>Shall I stop in the middle of my book? No, I
believe not; for I think it will be indirectly a useful
thing, and I shall write just when I feel like it,
often enough to keep track of myself, and give
account of myself to myself.</p>
<p>Since I returned to school I have read—well,
not much; two little works on natural history; I
have begun Ruskin’s fifth volume, with great interest,
and Trench on the Parables for my Sunday
class. “The Limits of Religious Thought” I am
reading with a pupil, and with it Maurice’s reply,
“What is Revelation?” My impression of these
two writers, so far, is that Maurice is a much more
deeply religious man than Mansel; and that the
latter’s logic will not always sustain his footing.
I do not like logic in religion,—reason is not always
logic; reason seems to me to be the mind wide
open—no faculty numb or asleep; and to that state
of inner being, truth must come like sunshine, and
the mysteries which cannot be explained will be harmonized
with our certain knowledge, in such light.</p>
<p>September 22. Morris’s Poems have come to me
to-day, by mail. I have just glanced through the
book, and find myself attracted by the clearness<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>
and simplicity of the songs; the most beautiful the
most familiar, as songs should be. It does not
strike me that any of them came from the very deep
places of the heart,—many of them sound as if
written only to please, and as if the highest aim of
the author was to have them pretty and unobjectionable.
I’ve written things in that way myself
sometimes, and I don’t like it.</p>
<p>September 26. I know I haven’t regarded ministers
as others do, yet it seems to me that there
are few “ministers” or “pastors” nowadays,—real
ones,—such as the apostolic times knew. A
“preacher” does not mean the thing, for he may
preach himself only. I wonder whether the relations
between pastor and people can ever be again
as they have been? People are becoming their
own judges and guides in religious things; this is
a necessity of Protestantism, I think. And yet my
“liberal” Mr. Maurice says that the “right of
private judgment” only makes every man his own
pope. The true idea of a church has not yet been
shown the world,—a visible Church, I mean,—unless
it was in the very earliest times; yes, the twelve
disciples bound to their Lord in love, to do his work
forever,—that was a church,—a Christian family.
But then they had no system of theology to which
all were expected to conform; love was all their theology.
And then, afterwards, while they took the
wisest and best as teachers, and called no one Master
or Head but Christ, they were a true Church.</p>
<p>I don’t believe we can look upon our ministers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>
as the early disciples did upon Paul and John, unless
they have the spirit of Paul and John. The
ministry is trifled with too much by ministers
themselves, and it sometimes seems to me as if this
was so, because it is made a <i>business</i>.</p>
<p>September 29. “Blessed are your eyes, for they
see, and your ears, for they hear.” This is the blessing
of life: to be in the light and harmony of the love
of God and reveal it. To “know the mysteries”
of the kingdom of Heaven,—what is it, but to be
in God’s universe with a soul opened, by love, to
truth; unto such only “it is given.” Yet we have
hearing and vision and the spiritual sense, all of
us, and for the use of each, or misuse, or neglect,
and consequent loss, every one is to blame. Oh,
for a heart always opened; to read all parables in
the light in which they were born!</p>
<p>November 10. I have actually forgotten to
write for months in this book. I fear me, “my
heart is nae here.” I have lived a good deal in
the past week, and the world has been doing a great
business,—our country in particular. The Prince
has turned the heads of our democratic people, and
Republicans have chosen a President at last. That
is glorious! Freedom takes long strides in these
better days. The millennium is not so far off as we
feared. While there is so much to be lived outside,
who cares for the little self-life of a journal? But I
never meant it to be a “subjective” one, and when
it has been so, it has been so because I was living
below my ideal. Yet this shall be just the book<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span>
my thoughts shape from their various moods; when
the thought is for myself, I will write it, and when
it is for another, I will write it too.</p>
<p class="center">“Whose window opened towards the rising sun.”</p>
<p>So the happy pilgrim rested, knowing that as soon
as there was light anywhere, he should have the
first ray. Strange, that every Christian sojourner
should not seek a room with windows opening to
the dawn! Some of them seem afraid of the sun;
they choose a chamber having only a black, northerly
outlook, and lie down saying, “What a dreary,
miserable world!” And what wonder that they
should grow thin and sickly—plants of the shade
must ever be so; the soul, as well as the body,
needs large draughts of sunshine for vigorous life.</p>
<p>November 27. Since I came to Beverly I have
been looking over “Wilhelm Meister” for the first
time. I am disappointed in it, and have little respect
for Goethe as a man, great as was his genius.
Great thoughts he had, and they shine like constellations
through the book; artistic, no doubt he
was, but everything that relates to principle or
right feeling is terribly chaotic, it seems to me.
And <i>Wilhelm</i> is an embodiment of high-strung
selfishness, under a cloak of generosity and spontaneous
good feeling. If I could despise any man,
it would be such a one as he.</p>
<p>December 9. God be thanked for the thinkers
of good and noble thoughts! It wakes up all the
best in ourselves, to come into close contact with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>
others greater and better in every way than we are.
Having just made myself the possessor of “Guesses
at Truth,” I feel as if I had struck a new mine, or
were a privileged traveler into regions hitherto unknown,
where there is every variety of natural and
cultivated growth, where there are ever recurring
contrasts of scenery, and where even the rocks are
not barren, but glittering with veins of precious
ore. How much better these “thinking books” are
than any “sensation books” of any kind, prose or
poetry! They are the true intellectual companions.
One does not read them, and put them by
on the shelf, to be read again one of these days,
perhaps,—but they are wanted close at hand, and
often.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“No spring nor summer beauty has such grace</div>
<div class="verse">As I have seen in an Autumnal face.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>The poet Donne wrote so of the mother of “holy
George Herbert.” It is so true! and I have seen
the same. It would be worth while to live long,
to suffer much, to struggle and to endure, if one
might have such spiritual beauty blossom out of
furrows and wrinkles as has been made visible in
aged human faces. Such countenances do not
preach,—they are poetry, and music, and irresistible
eloquence.</p>
<p>Christmas, 1860. Two or three books I have
read lately. Mrs. Jameson’s “Legends of the
Madonna” is full of that fine appreciation of the
deepest beauty, even in the imperfect creations of
art, where the creation had in it the breath of spirit<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>
life, so peculiar to this gifted woman. If I were
going to travel in Europe, I should want, next to a
large historical knowledge, an intimate acquaintance
with the writings of Mrs. Jameson, to appreciate
the treasures of mediæval art.</p>
<p>Whittier’s “Home Ballads,” dear for friendship’s
sake, though not directly a gift from him, as were
some of the former volumes. I wonder if that is
what makes me like the songs in the “Panorama,”—some
of them—better than anything in this new
volume, although I know that this is more perfect
as poetry. I doubt if he will ever write anything
that I shall like so well as the “Summer by the
Lakeside,” in that volume: it is so full of my first
acquaintance with the mountains, and the ripening
of my acquaintance with him, my poet-friend.
How many blessings that friendship has brought
me!—among them, a glimpse into a true home, a
realizing of such brotherly and sisterly love as is
seldom seen outside of books,—and best of all, the
friendship of dear Lizzie, his sole home-flower, the
meek lily blossom that cheers and beautifies his
life. Heaven spare them long to each other, and
their friendship to me!</p>
<p>But the “Ballads” are full of beauty and of a
strong and steady trust, which grows more firmly
into his character and poetry, as the years pass
over him. “My Psalm,” with its reality, its earnest
depth of feeling, makes other like poems,
Longfellow’s “Psalm of Life,” for instance, seem
weak and affected. I like, too, the keenness and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>
kindness of the Whitefield poem, in which he has
preserved the memory of a Sabbath evening walk
I took with him.</p>
<p>Dr. Croswell’s poems contain many possibilities
of poetry, and some realities; but there always
seems to me a close air, as if the church windows
were shut, in reading anything written by a devout
Episcopalian. Still, there was true Christianity in
the man, and it is also in the book.</p>
<p>December 27. To-night the telegraph reports
the evacuation of Fort Moultrie by the Federal
troops by order of the Executive, and the burning
of the fort. There’s something of the “spirit of
’76” in the army, surely; South Carolina having
declared herself a foe to the Union, how could those
soldiers quietly give up one of the old strongholds
to the enemy, even at the President’s command?</p>
<p>But what will the end be? Is this secession-farce
to end with a tragedy? The South will suffer,
by insurrection and famine; there is every
prospect of it; the way of transgressors is hard,
and we must expect it to be so. God grant that,
whatever must be the separate or mutual sufferings
of North and South, these convulsions may prove
to be the dying struggles of slavery, and the birth-throes
of liberty.</p>
<p>It is just about a year since “Brown of Ossawatomie”
was hung in the South, for unwise interference
with slavery. He was not wholly a martyr;
there were blood-stains on his hands, though no
murder was in his heart. He was a brave man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>
and a Christian, and his blood, unrighteously shed,
still cries to heaven from the ground. Who knows
but this is the beginning of the answer? But
that judicial murder was not the only wrong for
which the slaveholding South is now bringing herself
before the bar of judgment, before earth and
heaven. The secret things of darkness are coming
to light, and the question will be decided rightly, I
firmly believe. And the South is to be pitied, as
all hardened and blinded wrong-doers should be!
I believe the North will show herself a noble foe,
if foe the South determines to make her.</p></blockquote>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V.</h2></div>
<p class="ph3">THE BEGINNING OF THE WAR.</p>
<blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">January</span> 20, 1861. I have run over the birth-histories
of the nations of Europe, in their chaotic
rise from barbarism; and have just completed a
bird’s-eye view of Italian mediæval history, with
Koeppen’s aid. The present history of Italy interests
me greatly, and I would like to be able to link
the present with the past. But what a debatable
ground it has always been, and how unsparingly it
has always been made mince-meat of, by all in
authority there!</p>
<p>But all that history has revealed shows no more
important epoch than the one in which we are living
at this moment, in our unsettled and discordant
Union. I hope it will come out plain and positive,
as a question of right or wrong for every man to
decide. It is so already, yet all will not see. So
I hope that the demon of slavery, that “mystery
of iniquity,” will make his evil way evident, that
we may return to no vile compact with sin.</p>
<p>February 28. The bluebirds have come! and
the meadow-lark has sung over in the fields behind
the garden, these two or three mornings. I have
dreamed of spring these many nights, and now it
is coming—coming!</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>What a blessing dreams are! I have heard
birds sing, in bluer skies than May could show;
doves have alighted on my head; violets, such as
cannot be matched in any meadows for perfect tints
and fragrance, have blossomed at my feet; have
wept for joy at the sublime beauty of Alps grander
than any real Alps,—which I would yet fain see,
though I shall not, with these eyes,—all this in
my winter dreams. Through dreams, we must
always believe in a deeper and more perfect beauty
than we know. The world is lovely, but there is a
lovelier, else we could not see what we do in sleep.
The glory of living is that life <i>is</i> glorious beyond
all our possible imaginations,—the eternal life,—the
“glory that shall be revealed” in us.</p>
<p>March 2. What does cause depression of spirits?
Heavy head and heavy heart, and no sufficient reason
for either, that I know of. I am out of doors
every day, and have nothing unusual to trouble me;
yet every interval of thought is clouded; there is no
rebound, no rejoicing as it is my nature to rejoice,
and as all things teach me to do. We are strange
phenomena to ourselves, when we will stop to gaze
at ourselves; but that I do not believe in; there
are pleasanter subjects, and self is a mere speck on
the great horizon of life.</p>
<p>A new volume of poems by T. B. Aldrich, just
read, impresses me especially with its daintiness
and studied beauty. There are true flashes of
poetry, but most carefully trimmed and subdued,
so as to shine artistically. I believe the best poetry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>
of our times is growing too artistic; the study is
too visible. If freedom and naturalness are lost out
of poetry, everything worth having is lost.</p>
<p>March 3. Eternal life and eternal death; what
do these words mean? This is the question that
comes up again and again. It has recently been
brought up by those whom I am appointed to
instruct; and the question with its answer, brings
new and fearful responsibility with every return.
I am more and more convinced that the idea
of <i>duration</i> is not the one that affects us most:
for here it has proved that those who are least
careful about what they are in heart and life, are
trying hardest to convince themselves and others
that the “doctrine of eternal punishment” is not
true. By making themselves believe that to be
the all-important question, they draw off their own
and others’ attention from the really momentous
one,—“Am I living the eternal life? Is it begun
in me now?”</p>
<p>And now I see why I have questioned whether
it was right in me to express my own doubts of this
very doctrine. The final renovation of all souls,
their restoration to life in holiness and love, is certainly
a hope of mine that is not without a strong
infusion of confidence; but I dare not say it is a
belief; because both reason and revelation have
left it in deep mystery; and the expression of any
such belief does not seem to me likely to help
others much; certainly not those who are indolent
or indifferent regarding the true Christian life.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>Then the “loss of the soul” is in plain language
spoken of by our Lord as possible. What can
that mean, but the loss of life in Him? the loss of
ennobling aspirations, of the love of all good, of
the power of seeing and seeking truth? And if
this is possible to us now, by our own choice, why
not forever?—since, as free beings, our choice
must always be in our own power?</p>
<p>The truth that we must all keep before us, in
order to be growing better forever, is that life
is love and holiness; death, selfishness and sin;
then it is a question of life and death to be grappled
with in the deep places of every soul.</p>
<p>March 5. I cannot let this birthday pass without
a memorial of its sun’s rising and setting on
flower-gifts from these my girl-friends: a wreath
hung on my door in the morning, and a bouquet
left in my room at night. It brings spring to my
spirit earlier than I expected; pleasant it is to
receive any token of love; and gifts like these
come so seldom, that when they do come, I am sure
they mean love. And with them comes the assurance
of a deeper summer-warmth,—the arousing
of all high and holy feelings in the deep places of
the soul yet winter-sealed. “My shriveled heart”
shall yet “recover greenness.” I could not feel
this “deadly cold” that sometimes pierces me, if
incapable of warmth. It may not be in an earthly
clime that my nature shall blossom out freely and
fully into heavenly light; but the time will come.</p>
<p>Yesterday was the inauguration: we have a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>
President, a country: and we are “the Union”
still, and shall so remain, our President thinks.
But I doubt whether the pride of slavery will ever
bow to simple freedom, as it must, if the self-constituted
aliens return. There is a strange new
chapter in the world’s history unfolding to-day;
we have not half read it yet.</p>
<p>Sabbath, April 14, 1861. This day broke upon
our country in gloom; for the sounds of war came
up to us from the South,—war between brethren;
civil war; well may “all faces gather blackness.”
And yet the gloom we feel ought to be the result
of sorrow for the erring, for the violators of national
unity, for those who are in black rebellion
against truth, freedom, and peace. The rebels
have struck the first blow, and what ruin they are
pulling down on their heads may be guessed,
though not yet fully foretold; but it is plain to see
that a dark prospect is before them, since they have
no high principle at the heart of their cause.</p>
<p>It will be no pleasure to any American to remember
that he lived in this revolution, when brother
lifted his hand against brother; and the fear is,
that we shall forget that we are brethren still,
though some are so unreasonable and wander so
far from the true principles of national prosperity.
Though the clouds of this morning have cleared
away into brightness, it seems as if we could feel
the thunder of those deadly echoes passing to and
from Fort Sumter. But there is a right, and God
always defends it. War is not according to His<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>
wish; though it seems one of the permitted evils
yet. He will scatter those who delight in it, and
it is not too much to hope and expect that He will
uphold the government which has so long been
trying to avert bloodshed.</p>
<p>Another unpleasant association with this day.
I went to the meeting expecting and needing spiritual
food, and received only burning coals and ashes.
There was a sermon (not by our minister, I am
glad to say) to prove that Satan will be tormented
forever and ever; and the stress of the argument
was to prove the <i>endlessness</i> of his punishment.
The text was taken from the twentieth of Revelation,
a chapter which few have the audacity to
explain; but the object was to show that “eternal,”
in its highest sense, is not so plainly taught in the
Bible, as “eternal” in its lowest sense, that of
duration. Truly, “The wisdom of men is foolishness
with God!”—the deep and sacred truth of
eternal life lies hidden yet in the words of Christ,
for him who will understand. It seems to me
wrong to preach a theoretical sermon like this to
those who are hungering for the bread of life; who
are longing to come nearer to the Saviour, and
receive His spirit. I think none but a young minister
would have preached so; certainly, a warm-hearted
Christian could not have treated the subject
in that cold argumentative way. As it was, I could
only pity one who could so misinterpret his Master’s
words; he must be yet on the outer threshold of
the heart of Christ, if so near as that, and not,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>
like the Beloved John, leaning on His bosom. And
I grieved for the “hungry sheep,” who looked up
and were not fed. But if such sermons drive all
hearers to the word itself, refusing human interpretations,
they may do good. Alas! We grope
in darkness yet! Man is blinded to God’s deep
meaning everywhere, in thought and in life, in religion
and in government. The dark ages are not
wholly past; nor will they be, until all fetters of
thought and limb are broken.</p>
<p>Yet, through all, the birds are singing with the
joy of sunshine after April rain; and earth is beautiful
and bright, beneath the promises of spring,—written
on soft skies and sweet west winds. The
good God sits yet upon His throne of love!</p>
<p>April 21. The conflict is deepening; but thanks
to God, there is no wavering, no division, now, at
the North! All are united, as one man; and from
a peaceful, unwarlike people, we are transformed
into an army, ready for the battle at a moment’s
warning.</p>
<p>The few days I have passed in Boston this week
are the only days in which I ever carried my heart
into a crowd, or hung around a company of soldiers
with anything like pleasure. But I felt a soldier-spirit
rising within me, when I saw the men of my
native town armed and going to risk their lives for
their country’s sake; and the dear old flag of our
Union is a thousand times more dear than ever
before. The streets of Boston were almost canopied
with the stars and stripes, and the merchants<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span>
festooned their shops with the richest goods of the
national colors.</p>
<p>And now there are rumors of mobs attacking
our troops, of bridges burnt, and arsenals exploded,
and many lives lost. The floodgates of war are
opened, and when the tide of blood will cease none
can tell.</p>
<p>May 6. Through the dark and lurid atmosphere
of war the light of “Nature’s own exceeding peace”
still softly falls on the earth. The violets have
opened their blue eyes by the roadside; the saxifrage
fringes the ledges with white; and the arbutus,
the Pilgrim’s mayflower, blossoms on the hills
away from here; we have no hillsides for it to grow
upon, but I had some on May-day, from the hills
of Taunton. How strange the contrast between
these delicate blossoms and the flaring red flower
of war that has burst into bloom with the opening
of spring!</p>
<p>Every day brings something to stir the deep
places of the soul, and in the general awakening of
life and liberty it may be that every heart feels
its own peculiar sorrow and happiness more keenly.
There is a deeper life in every breath I draw; and
messages from distant friends seem more near and
touching. One day, from one of the most beloved
and honored, comes a kind word for my poor efforts
at poetry; almost a prophecy of some blessed days
of summer life among the mountains by and by,—and
a holy benediction, “God bless thee, and
keep thee!” that fell upon my heart like the first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>
ray of some new and unknown morning. All life
seemed green and glowing with a freshened trust.
God is, and goodness is; and true hearts are, forever!
There is nothing to doubt, even in these
dark days!</p>
<p>Then, the next day, a message from dear Esther
(she could not write it herself) to say that she is
dying, and wants to hear from me again. And to
think that she had been drooping all these spring
days, while I have been too full of occupation
with the stir of the times to write! But she says
my words have always been good for her, and
surely few have blessed me by life and thought as
she has. Heaven will have one bond for my
heart, closer than any yet. I am glad that she can
lie down in peace, before the horrible scenes of
bloodshed, which only a miracle can now avert,
shall be enacted.</p>
<p>May 9. I had set myself to reading Maury’s
“Physical Geography of the Sea,” after a long deferring;
but now that he has come out as a rank
rebel against his country, I cannot feel any interest
in his theories, ingenious as they are said to be.
Like poor, wise, fallen Bacon, his ideas may prove
something to the world, “after some years have
passed over,” but one is not fond of being taught
by traitors.</p>
<p>May 15. A glimpse into a heart which has always
been closed, both to God and man,—what
a chaos it discloses! Yet with all the elements of
order there, it is like the promise of a new creation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>
Such a glimpse, such a half-unveiling, one has given
me to-day, out of a soul-deep, long-repressed longing
for “something to love!” Ah, that sorrowful
need of every woman’s heart, especially; yet more
joyful than sorrowful, because the longing shows the
fulfillment possible,—yes, certain. In the heavenly
life, which such aspirations prophesy, there is love
abounding, to give and to receive. And I am
thankful for one more to love.</p>
<p>May 20. Esther dead! Gone home two days
before I heard or dreamed of it! But since she
has gone home,—since it is only a glorious release
for her,—I will not let a thought of repining sully
the gladness I ought to share with her. It is only
that one who has always lived near the Holiest One
is now called nearer still. I have known her only
in Him, and there I know her and love her still.</p>
<p>May 22. They write to me of her funeral, of
the white flowers beside her head, and of her own
lilies of the valley strewn over her in the grave
by one who knew how she loved them. Everything
that would have made her happy, had her eyes been
open to see, and her ears to hear. They sang the
hymns she loved, “Rock of Ages,” and “I would
not live alway,” and “Thy will be done.” And
my dear friend is free!—her soul has blossomed
into heavenly light! I told her once that this book
was for only her to see; I do not like my thoughts
when I think them for myself alone; and there is
no other friend who would care as she cared. Will
she read them now?</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>May 27. This is the gala week of spring. None
of the early flowers have quite faded, and the apple-trees
are in full bloom, while elms and maples are
just wearing their lightest drapery of green, so
tardily put on. Soft breezes, sweet melody from
many birds, clear sunshine, not yet too warm,—all
things are just in that state, when, if we could
wish for a standstill in nature, we should.</p>
<p>And Esther has been one week in heaven! It
seems to me, sometimes, as if some new charm was
added to cloud and sunshine, and spring blossoms,
since she went away; as if it were given me to see
all things clearer for her clearer vision; she would
speak to me, if she could.</p>
<p>Lectures these few days on historical women.
Paula, Queen Elizabeth, and Madame de Maintenon,
thus far. Paula, the friend of St. Jerome, and
the woman whom the speaker made to illustrate
friendship, pleased me most, as presenting a higher
ideal than either of the others. Christianity gave
woman the privilege of a pure friendship with man;
before unknown, we are told. It is one of the noblest
gifts of religion, and I wish people believed in
it more thoroughly. But only a truly elevated and
chastened nature can understand real friendship,—not
a Platonic ideal only, though that is elevated,
let who will sneer at it: but a drawing of the noblest
souls together, and to the Soul of souls, for
the highest ends. This is Christian friendship;
union in Christ for all beauty, all purity, all true
and noble life, which He illustrated in His own<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>
glorious life and death, and of which He is now
the inspiring power. “We are complete in Him.”</p>
<p>Yes, I am sure that it is in drawing near to Him
that I feel the loveliness of such beauty as that
into which the world now blossoms; for is not He
the Lord of nature, and also my Lord and Friend?
And through His great love for us, I see the ideal
of all true human love. “As I have loved you,”
He said, “so must we love each other, with tenderness,
forbearance, generosity, and self-sacrifice.”</p>
<p>Such friendship is possible, is eternal; and it is
almost the most precious thing in the soul’s inheritance.</p>
<p>June 12. I have been free for a few days, and
have taken a journey,—a flying tour among some
of my friends. How it quieted me, to be with my
peace-loving friends in these wild times of war!</p>
<p>There are some friends whose presence is encouragement
in all that is good, whom to look upon is
to grow stronger for the truth. There are homes,
too, over which saintly memories hang, making all
within and around them sacred, blending earth
with heaven by holy sympathies. How blessed I
am, to know such friends, to enter such homes as
these! Sometimes I can truly say, “My cup runneth
over!”</p>
<p>June 14. Still the same old weariness of study;
“weariness of the flesh.” Books are treasures, but
one may work among treasures even, digging and
delving, till there is little enjoyment in them.
And the greater pain is, that, by becoming numb<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span>
to the beautiful and true, in any form, one does
not feel its power entirely, anywhere. So I felt
this morning, which I stole from my books. I sat
on a ledge in a distant field, all around me beautiful
with June, and no sight or sound of human
care in sight. I sat there like a prisoner, whose
chains had dropped for the moment, but the
weight and pain of them lingered still. Yet I
began to feel what it is to be free, and how sweet
and soothing nature always is, before I rose to
return. I think it would not take me long to get
accustomed to freedom, and to rejoice in it with
exceeding joy.</p>
<p>June 23. Weary, weary, too weary to listen
patiently to the heavy Sabbath bells; far too
weary to sit in the church and listen to loud words
and loud singing. And my brain is too tired to
let my heart feel the beauty of this quiet day. I
only know that the balm and beauty of June are
around me, without realizing it much. But rest
will come soon, up among the mountains with
friends who love noise and confusion as little as I
do. I shall be at peace. A blessing will come to
us, among the hills.</p>
<p>July 4. Crackers all around the house at night.
Fire-crackers, torpedoes, pistols, and bell-ringing,
are enough to make one sick of one’s country, if
this is the only way of showing one’s patriotism.
I am sure, as I lay last night, nervously wide
awake, with every shot startling and paining me
as if it had really gone through my brain, I felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span>
more belligerently disposed toward the young patriots
than toward the Southern rebels! But if
there is no other way of nursing an interest in
free institutions among these juvenile republicans,
there’s nothing to be done but to endure the
“Fourth of July” once a year, for the general
good.</p>
<p>August 1. Yesterday I visited the residence
of the late Hon. Daniel Webster, at Marshfield.
There was much that was interesting to see in the
great man’s home; I think the two things that
pleased me most were the portraits of his mother,
and his black cook, or housekeeper. The latter
was a fine painting, the face so full of intelligence,
gratitude, and all good feelings; and there was an
evidence of the true sympathy and home comfort
between master and servant, if it is well to use
those words, in the picture itself, the care with
which it was painted, as well as the speaking face.
The other was simply an old-fashioned cut profile,
in black outline, and underneath it the words, “My
excellent mother—D. Webster.”</p>
<p>Out of doors, the wonderful old elm was the
greatest attraction, with its branches sweeping the
ground, and making an arbor and a cathedral at
once, before the threshold. Webster himself—but
it is not well to call up anything but pleasant
memories of the dead; and these do linger about
the home he loved. What the nation thinks of
him may be recorded elsewhere.</p>
<p>August 2. I visited Plymouth, placed my foot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span>
on the memorable “Plymouth Rock,” of the Pilgrims
(now so enclosed and covered as to leave
scarcely space sufficient for my large foot to rest
upon), looked at Mayflower curiosities in the hall,
books, shoes, and fans of the olden time, and more
especially pewter platters, which, judging from
some ancient will I looked over in the Court
House, were the most important personal property
of the Puritans. John Alden’s well-worn Bible
was open at the date of publication, 1620, so he
had it new for his westward voyage; I wondered
whether it was the gift of some friend left behind,
or his own purchase. Miles Standish’s long rapier
was scarcely more interesting to me than the big
kettle labeled with his name, which might have
supplied the colony with dinner, judging from its
size. Some old documents relating to the Quakers
caught my attention; one especially, wherein Winthrop
demurred from signing his name to a report
of Commissioners, wherein this troublesome sect
were adjudged worthy to be put to death for their
“cursed opinions and devilish tennets,”—Winthrop
signed, leaving testimony beside his name,
that it was “as a querry, not as an act.” Coming
back to George Fox’s journal, which I had borrowed
for vacation reading, I could not but smile
at the difference a hundred or two years will make;
I can admire both Puritan and Quaker for their
sincerity, and only wish they could have understood
each other better. There is no defense for
the persecution of the “Fathers,” except the imperfection<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>
of human nature, and there is only this
for the misguided ways into which the Quakers
were led, by mistaking their own fancies for the
“inner light.” Better death on both sides (for
what each held to be truth) than indifference to
truth. And, stepping among the bones of the Pilgrims,
on Burying Hill, and looking away over the
waves which brought them and freedom to New
England, and so to the Union, I could not but
contrast the struggle of that day with the present
war for liberty against oppression. It is, in reality,
the “Old Colony” against the “Old Dominion,”
or rather, the latter against the former, aristocracy
against the republic. God will prosper us
now as then; but perhaps we are to be brought as
low before Him as they were, before our cause can
be victorious.</p>
<p>August 3. Fishing on the “Indian Pond” in
Pembroke half the day, catching sunfish and
shiners, red perch and white; my first exploits of
the kind. It is a pleasant day to remember, for
the green trees and the blue waters, for lilies wide
awake on the bosom of the waters in the morning
sunshine, for fresh breezes, and for pleasant company.</p>
<p>August 11. At Amesbury,—with two of the
dearest friends my life is blessed with,—dear
quiet-loving Lizzie, and her poet brother. I love
to sit with them in the still Quaker worship, and
they love the free air and all the beautiful things
as much as they do all the good and spiritual.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span>
The harebells nodding in shade and shine on the
steep banks of the Merrimac, the sparkle of the
waters, the blue of the sky, the balm of the air,
and the atmosphere of grave sweet friendliness
which I breathed for one calm “First-day” are
never to be forgotten.</p>
<p>August 20. One of the stillest moonlight evenings,—not
a sound heard but the bleat of a lamb,
and the murmur of the river; all the rest a cool,
broad, friendly mountainous silence. Peace comes
down with the soft clouds and mists that veil the
hills; the Pemigewasset sings all night in the
moonshine, and I lie and dream of the beauty of
those hill-outlines around Winnipiseogee, that I
looked upon with so satisfied a greeting from the
car window on my way hither. The mountains do
not know their own beauty anywhere but by a lakeside.
So it is: beauty sets us longing for other
beauty; the clouds moving above their summits
suggest possibilities that earthly summits, at their
grandest, can never attain. And no dream can
suggest the possibilities of the beautiful that “shall
be revealed.”</p>
<p>August 24. “The eye is not satisfied with seeing,
and the ear with hearing,” and one can never
tire of the vision of mountain landscapes, and the
quiet song of summer rivers. Every day since I
have been here in this beautiful village of Campton,
I have driven through some new region;
sometimes into the very heart of the hills, where
nothing is to be seen but swelling slopes on every<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>
side, hills which have not quite attained mountainhood,
but which would be mountains anywhere but
in the “Granite State;” and sometimes out into
the interval openings of the river; with new views
of “Alps on Alps” on the northern horizon, the
gate of the Franconia Notch opening dimly afar
with its mountain haystacks piled beside it. It is
rest to soul and body to be among these mountains;
one thing only is lacking; the friends I had hoped
to see here are not with me. But too much joy
is not to be looked for; let me hope that they
are among scenes more beautiful, and with dearer
friends than I. Yet how delightful it would have
been, to be with the best friends, among the most
beautiful scenes.</p>
<p>August 25. I am enjoying the society of my
old friend and former associate teacher. She is
more gifted than I, in most ways, and it is pleasant
to talk to some one who, you take it for granted,
has a clearer understanding, and deeper insight,
and more adequate expression than yourself.</p>
<p>August 28. Yesterday a rare treat; a ride to
Waterville (to the “end of the wood” as they
speak of it here) in a three-seated open wagon.
I wish they would have only open ones for mountain
travel.</p>
<p>September 5. Why do I not love to be near the
sea better than among the mountains? Here is
my home, if birthplace makes home. But no, it
is not my natural preference; I believe I was born
longing after the mountains. And rivers and lakes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>
are better to me than the ocean. I remember how
beautiful the Merrimac looked to me in childhood,
the first true river I ever knew; it opened upon my
sight and wound its way through my heart like
a dream realized; its harebells, its rocks, and its
rapids, are far more fixed in my memory than anything
about the sea. Yet the vastness and depth
and the changes of mist and sunshine are gloriously
beautiful; I know and feel their beauty. Still, I
admire it most in glimpses; a bit of blue between
the hills, only a little more substantial than the sky,
and a white sail flitting across it; or when it is high-tide
calm,—one broad, boundless stillness,—then
there is rest in the sea, but it never rests me like
the strong silent hills; they bear me up on their
summits into heaven’s own blue eternity of peace.
But is it right to wrap one’s own being in this
mantle of peace, while the country is ravaged by
war?—its garments rolled in blood, brother fighting
against brother to the death? The tide of
rebellion surges higher and higher, and there is no
sadder proof that we are not the liberty-loving
people that we used to call ourselves, than to learn
that there are traitors in the secret councils of the
nation, in forts defended by our own bravest men;
among women, too: “Sisters! oh, Sisters! Shame
o’ ladies!” A disloyal woman at the North, with
everything woman ought to hold dear at stake in
the possible fall of this government,—it is too
shameful! I hope every one such will be held in
“durance vile” until the war is over.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>But will it end until the question is brought to
its true issue,—liberty or slavery? I doubt it:
and I would rather the war should last fifty years,
than ever again make the least compromise with
slavery, that arch-enemy of all true prosperity, that
eating sin of our nation. Rather divide at once,
rather split into a thousand pieces, than sink back
into this sin!</p>
<p>The latest news is of the capture of the Hatteras
Forts, a great gain for us, and a blight to
privateering at the South;—with a rumor of “Jeff
Davis’s” death, which nobody believes because it is
so much wished. Yet to his friends he is a man,
and no rebel. War is a bitter curse,—it forbids
sympathy, and makes us look upon our enemies as
scarcely human; and we cannot help it, when our
foes are the foes of right.</p>
<p>Norton, September 8. Am I glad for trials, for
disappointments, for opportunities for self-sacrifice,
for everything God sends? Ah! indeed I do not
know! How many times, when we say, “Try me,
and know my heart,” the answer is, “Ye know
not what ye ask!” And I know not why, in some
states of mind and body, what <i>seems</i> a very little
trouble (or would, if told another), should be so
oppressive.</p>
<p>But “little,” and “great,” in the world’s vocabulary,
are very different terms from what they
are in individual experience; and submission, and
grateful acquiescing obedience to divine will, are
to be learned by each in his own capacity. Two<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span>
weeks ago, I was saying over to myself, every day,
as if it were a new thought, Keble’s lines,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“New treasures still, of countless price,</div>
<div class="verse">God will provide for sacrifice.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>And as those words kept recurring, as if whispered
by a spirit, I thought I should be glad to have my
best treasures to give for sacrifice, to make others
happy with what was most precious to me. And
as my way seemed uncertain, and for a day or two
I knew not whether to move or to sit still, I said,
“Lead me! Behold the handmaid of the Lord;
let it be unto me according to Thy will,—only let
me do nothing selfishly.” And the answer came
in the withdrawal of a blessing from me; no doubt
with purposes of greater blessing to some one, somewhere
and somehow; and I am only half reconciled
as yet. Shall I ever believe that God knows
best, and does what is best for me, and for us all?
It is easy enough in theory, but these great and
little trials tell us the truth about ourselves,—show
us our insincerity. And now I close this
record, which has been my nearest companion for
so many months. Esther is gone. Is there any
friend who cares enough for me just as I am, to
keep it in memory of me? Or had I better bury
it from my own eyes and all others’? It may be
good for me to read the record of myself as I have
been,—cheerful or morbid,—and of what I have
read, thought, and done, wisely or unwisely. The
“Country Parson” thinks a diary a good thing;
and I do too, in many ways, but I would rather<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span>
write for a friend’s kindly eyes than for my own:
even about myself. Therefore letters are to me a
more genial utterance than a journal, and I would
write any journal as if for some one who could understand
me fully, love me, and have patience with
me through all. I do not know if now there is any
such friend for me; yet dear friends I have, and
more and more precious to me, every year. If
these were my last words, I would set them down
as a testimony to the preciousness of human friendships;
dearer and richer than anything else on
earth. By them is the revelation of the divine in
the human; by them heaven is opened, truth is
made clear, and life is worth the living. So have
I been blessed, drawn heavenward by saintly messengers
in the garb of mortality. So shall it be
forever, for true love is—eternal, it is life itself.</p>
<p>September 12. Is it always selfish to yield to
depression? Can one help it, if the perspective of
a coming year of lonely labor seems very long? No.
I shall not be alone; I shall feel the sympathy of
all the good and true, though apart from them; and
though I cannot come very near to any under this
roof, yet to all I can come nearer than I think I
can. And by and by these strange restless yearnings
will be stilled; I shall quiet my soul in the
peace of God. He has said, “I will never leave
thee nor forsake thee!” Oh! what is any woman’s
life worth without the friendship of the One
ever near, the only divine?</p>
<p>Yes, I will make my work my friend. My trials,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span>
my vexations, my cares, shall speak good words to
me, and I will not blind my eyes to the beauty
close at hand, because of the lost glory of my
dreams. I wish I could be more to all these young
glad beings,—it is not in me to touch the chords
of many souls at once, but I will enlarge my sympathies.</p>
<p>October 5, 1861. This first week of October,
this month of months, shall not pass without some
record of its beauty. Norton woods and Norton
sunsets are the two redeeming features of the place;
as its levelness is its bane. What is it in us that
refuses to love levels? Is it that there is no searching
and toiling for anything, up cool heights and
down in sheltered hollows?</p>
<p>These splendidly tinted maples before my window
would be a hundred-fold more splendid if lifted
up among the hemlocks and pines of the mountainsides.
Oh! how magnificent those New Hampshire
hills must be now, in the sunset of the year!</p>
<p>The place is a level, and boarding-school life is
a most wearisome level to me, yet flowers spring
up, and fruits grow in both. We are to welcome
“all that makes and keeps us low;” yet it seems to
me as if it would be good for me to ascend oftener
to the heights of being; I fear losing the power and
the wish to climb.</p>
<p>Let us say we are struggling to put down slavery,
and we shall be strong.</p>
<p>October 8. Yesterday two letters came to me,
each from a friend I have never seen, yet each with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>
a flower-like glow and perfume that made my heart
glad. And at evening a graceful little basket of
fruit was left in my room, and this morning a
bunch of fringed gentians, blue with the thoughtfulness
of the sky that hangs over the far solitary
meadows, the last answer from earth to heaven
from the frosty fields.</p>
<p>October 11. Rain: and just one of those dreary
drizzling rains which turn one in from the outer
world upon one’s own consciousness,—a most unhealthy
pasture land for thought, in certain states
of mind and body. Just how far we should live in
self-consciousness, and how far live an outside life,
or rather, live in the life of others, is a puzzle.
Without something of an inner experience, it is not
easy to enter into other lives, to their advantage;
some self-knowledge is necessary, to keep us from
intruding upon others; but it is never good to make
self the centre of thought.</p>
<p>October 13. George Fox’s journal is a leaf from
a strange chapter of the world’s history: from the
history of religion. If a plain man should come
among us now, asking leave of none to speak, but
“testifying” in religious assemblies to the reality
of the inward life of light and peace in Christ, his
blunt and simple ways might be unpleasing to
many, but every scoffer would look on, more with
wonder than with anger. Many, I am sure, would
welcome such a voice of sincerity and “livingness,”
sounding through the outward services of religion.
The days of religious persecution can scarcely return<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>
again; nor, it is to be hoped, the days of those
strange phenomena which so irritated our ancestors;
men walking as “signs” to the people, declaring
their dreams to be visions from God, and uttering
wild, unmeaning prophecies for inspiration. How
hard it is to learn what “true religion and undefiled”
is! <i>Life</i> is a better word for this universal
bond than <i>religion</i>. And we shall see, sometime,
that it is only by the redemption of all our
powers, all that is in us and in the outward world,
that we are truly “saved.” We must receive the
true light through and through, we must keep our
common sense, our talents, our genius, just the
same;—only that light must glow through all, to
make all alive. And when home, and friendships,
and amusements, and all useful and beautiful
thoughts and things are really made transparent
with that divine light, when nothing that God has
given us is rejected as “common or unclean,” the
“new heaven and the new earth” will have been
created, and we shall live in our Creator and Redeemer.</p>
<p>The great difference between the early Quakers
and the Puritans seems to me to be that the former
had larger ideas of truth, deeper and broader
revelations, yet mixed with greater eccentricities,
as might be expected. The Puritans were most
anxious for a place where they could worship undisturbed,
as their consciences dictated; the Quakers
were most desirous that the Word of Life should
be spoken everywhere,—the Light be revealed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span>
to all. Each made serious mistakes,—what else
could we expect, from the best that is human?
And the errors of both were, in great part, the
errors of the age,—intolerance and fanaticism.</p>
<p>October 12. How refreshing the clear cold air
is, after the summer-like fogs and rains we have
had! I love the cold; the northern air is strengthening;
it has the breath of the hills in it, the
glow of Auroral lights, and the purity of the eternal
snows. There is little of the south in my
nature; the north is my home; Italy and the tropics
will do for dream excursions; I should long
for the sweeping winds of the hillsides, if I were
there.</p>
<p>October 15. The beauty of this morning was
wonderful; something in the air made me feel like
singing. I thought my weariness was all gone; but
leaning over books brought it back. After school
four of us rode off in the wagon through the woods;
and delighted ourselves with the sunset, the katydids,
and the moonlight.</p>
<p>October 22. I heard Charles Sumner on the
Rebellion: my first sight and hearing of the great
anti-slavery statesman. He was greeted with tremendous
applause, and every expression of opposition
to slavery was met with new cheers. He does
not seem to me like a man made to awaken enthusiasm;
a great part of his address was statistical, and
something we all knew before,—the long preparation
of this uprising of the rebels; and his manner
was not that of a man surcharged with his subject,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>
but of one who had thoroughly and elegantly prepared
himself to address the people. At this time
we are all expecting orators to speak as we feel,—intensely;
perhaps it is as well that all do not
meet our expectations. One idea which he presented
seemed to me to be worth all the rest, and
worth all the frothy spoutings for “Union” that
we hear every day; it was that our battalions must
be strengthened by <i>ideas</i>, by <i>the</i> idea of freedom.
That is it. Our men do not know what they are
fighting for; freedom is greater than the Union,
and a Union, old or new, with slavery, no true
patriot will now ask for. May we be saved from
that, whatever calamities we may endure!</p>
<p>The ride to and from Boston has a new picture
since summer: the camp at Readville, just under
the shadow of the Milton hills. It is a striking
picture, the long array of white tents, the soldiers
marching and countermarching, and the hills,
tinted with sunset and autumn at once, looking
down upon the camping ground. Little enough
can one realize what war is, who sees it only in its
picturesque aspect, who knows of it only by the
newspapers, by knitting socks for soldiers, and
sewing bed-quilts for the hospitals. I should give
myself in some more adequate way, if we were definitely
struggling for freedom; for there is more for
women to do than to be lookers-on.</p>
<p>October 27. Looking out on the clouds at sunset,
the thought of God as constantly evolving
beauty from His own being into all created forms,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>
struck me forcibly, as the right idea of our lives;
that, like Him, we should be full of all truth and
love, and so grow into beauty ourselves, and impart
loveliness to all we breathe upon, or touch. Inspiration
from Him is all we have to impart in blessing
to others.</p>
<p>What is the meaning of these moods and states
that fetter some of us so? I have seen life just as
I see it now, and been glad in it, while for many
months all things have brought me a nightmare-feeling
that I could not shake off. I know it is the
same world, the same life, the same God; I do not
doubt Him, nor the great and good ends that He
is working out for all; yet nothing wears its old
delight.</p>
<p>October 30. “And with a child’s delight in
simple things.” That I have not lost all this, I
felt to-day, in receiving a note from an unknown
person,—from one who had read some poems of
mine in childhood, and now, a woman, bears something
not unworthy the name of poet; to hear some
new voice speaking to me in this way, as a friend,
is pleasant to me. I have written as I have felt,
in my verses; they have been true words from my
deepest life, often; and I am glad whenever they
call forth a sincere answer, as now;—one word
of real appreciation repays me for pages of mere
fault-finding. Yet a kind fault-finder is the best
of friends.</p>
<p>What is the meaning of “gossip?” Doesn’t it
originate with sympathy, an interest in one’s neighbor,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>
degenerating into idle curiosity and love of
tattling? Which is worse, this habit, or keeping
one’s self so absorbed intellectually as to forget the
sufferings and cares of others, to lose sympathy
through having too much to think about?</p>
<p>October 31. I must hurry my mind, when I
have to press ancient history into a three-months’
course, and keep in advance of my class in study,
with rhetoric and mental philosophy requiring a
due share of attention besides, and the whole school
to be criticised in composition and furnished with
themes.</p>
<p>November 5. Governor Andrew’s proclamation
was a very touching one. Thanksgiving will be a
sad day this year, yet a more sacred day than ever.
I read his allusion to the Potomac, as now a sacred
river to us, since the blood of our soldiers had
mingled with its waters; and we felt that one
throb of patriotism unites us all, however we must
suffer.</p>
<p>November 7. Frémont is removed! It seems
too bad, for none could awaken enthusiasm as he
did, everywhere. And yet military law is all that
holds us up now, and we have to trust blindly that
the rulers are right. It may prove to be so, but
to withdraw him when within a few miles of the
enemy seems too hard. We shall respect him all
the more, to see him bearing it nobly for his country’s
sake.</p>
<p>November 14. The best news for us since the
war began has come within a day or two; and it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span>
confirmed. Beaufort, S. C., is taken by a federal
fleet, and the secessionists are in real consternation.
All agree that this is a decisive blow, and if we
can maintain our position, the war will end speedily.
But after that, there will be the same question
to settle—“Are we one country or not?”
We shall not be any more agreed than we were
before, until slavery is abolished. The idea that
the negroes are attached to the “institution” is
well shown up now, when two hundred slaves, the
property of one man in the very heart of slavedom,
hasten at once to board our war steamers for protection;
and when their masters vainly try to whip
them before them in their retreat. If now our
government undertakes to cultivate cotton by free
labor of colored men, it will be a grand step towards
the general liberation. And if thus the South can
be made to honor labor, we may by and by be
reunited in spirit; for that is the element of separation.
We are carried onward in a way we little
know, and it is impossible not to rejoice when we
feel ourselves borne by a mighty and loving Power
towards a glorious goal.</p>
<p>November 18. Much of our Christianity is not
of a sufficiently enlarged type to satisfy an educated
Hindoo; not that Unitarianism is necessary, for
that system has but a surface-liberalism which can
become very hard, and finally very narrow, as its
history among us has often proved. It is not a
system at all that we want: it is Christ, the “wisdom
of God and the power of God,” Christ, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>
loving, creating, and redeeming friend of the world,
Christ, whose large, free being enfolds all that
is beautiful in nature and in social life; and all
that is strong and deep and noble in the sanctuary
of every living soul. When Christians have truly
learned Christ, they can be true teachers.</p>
<p>November 24. Thanksgiving is over; I have
been to Beverly and returned. I am glad they
wanted me so much, for I should not have gone
without; and in this place there is little in harmony
with our best home festival. Our governor’s proclamation
was of the true Puritan stamp; and the
day was one to be kept religiously, in view of our
present national troubles, and of the strong Power
that is bearing us through and over them. We
are sure that God is on our side; and one of the
things to be most thankful for is that the desire
for the liberation of the slave is becoming universal.
Our armies, that began to fight for Union
alone, now see that Union is nothing without freedom,
and when this Northern heart is fully inspired
with that sentiment the Northern hand will strike
a decisive blow; such a blow as only the might of
right can direct.</p>
<p>November 25. The first snow! Light and thick
as swan’s-down, it wraps the shivering bosom of
mother earth. Last night I went to sleep with an
uncurtained window before me, and the still, bright
stars looking in; I awoke to find the air dim and
heavy with snow, and all the treetops bending in
graceful gratitude; and to think aloud the lines,—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Oh! if our souls were but half as white</div>
<div class="verse">As the beautiful snow that fell last night!”</div>
</div></div>
<p>I do not like this vague kind of unrest, and this
dissatisfaction with myself which returns so often.
I am willing to be dissatisfied, but I want to know
exactly with what, that I may mend. I believe the
trouble partly is that I do not, cannot, love very
much the people that I see oftenest. Their
thoughts and ways are so different from mine I
cannot comfortably walk with them. It seems to
me as if we were like travelers on the same journey,
but in paths wide apart; and we can only
make one another hear by effort and shouting.
Whether this is wrong, or simply one of the things
that cannot be helped, I cannot clearly see; but I
am afraid that I am too willing to excuse myself
for so doing.</p>
<p>November 26. The last day of school; my classes
all examined, and to-morrow we scatter, to gather
ourselves together again in two weeks. I am not
sure whether I like or dislike these frequent
changes; on the whole I think I like them; for
they break up the monotony, and then one does get
so totally glued to the manner of school life: there
is no better name for the cohesive power that makes
us one household for the time. I do not believe it
possible (for me, at least, and I doubt whether it
is for any woman) to have quite a home feeling,
among the many living together, in a place like
this. There is not expansive power enough in me
to take in all.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>Beverly, December. The two weeks of vacation
are nearly over, and I have done nothing but sew.
I had planned to read, and paint, and walk, and
rest; but things are as they are, and one cannot
go in tatters. I like to be somewhat troubled and
absorbed in the necessities of life, <i>once in a while</i>;
it is rather pleasant than otherwise to feel that
something urgently requires my attention; and then
this is the way to realize how three fourths of the
inhabitants of this world live to eat, drink, and
wear clothes.</p>
<p>December 13. Vacation is over; and here I am
at Norton again, not so fully awake and in earnest
about school work as I wish I was.</p>
<p>My whole life has lost the feeling of reality; I
cannot tell why. Alike in the city, by the seashore,
and here on the levels of this now leafless
flat-land, I feel as if I were “moving about in
worlds unrealized.” I know well enough the theory
of life; what principles must sustain me; what
great objects there are to live for; and still there
remains the same emptiness, the same wonder in
everything I do. I feel as I imagine the world
might have felt, when going through some of its
slow transitions from chaos into habitable earth,—waiting
for sunshine, and bursting buds, and running
rivers. I suppose I am not ready for full life
yet.</p>
<p>December 16. To-day there are rumors of a possible
war with England, on account of the affair of
Mason and Slidell, now prisoners in Boston harbor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>
It will be an outrage on humanity, a proof that
England’s pompous declamations against slavery
are all hypocritical, if this should be done; for all
good authorities have declared that a war on this
account would never be, unless a pretext for war
was wanted. Perhaps Providence intends that this
shall be brought out definitely as a struggle for
principles; I think the nation and the army need
some such lesson, and they will not learn it unless
it is made very plain.</p>
<p>December 22. I have found what are to be my
two books of Bible study,—my two Sabbath books
for the term. They are Neander’s “History of the
Church,” and Conybeare and Howson’s “Life of
St. Paul.” I have commenced them both, and find
that satisfaction in them that is only met with by
coming in contact with a character,—gifted, scholarly
and Christian.</p>
<p>How I should like to live a free life with nature
one year through! out in the bracing winds, the
keen frosty air, and over the crackling snowcrust,
wherever I would; and then in summer, seek the
mountains or the sea, as I chose; no study, no
thoughts, but what came as a thing of course; no
system, except nature’s wild ways, which have always
their own harmony, evident enough when one
enters into them, though understood by no mere
observer.</p>
<p>December 28. A pretty table found its way into
my room Christmas morning, a gift contributed
from two classes: I was half sorry and half glad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>
to receive it; I don’t think I appreciate this kind
of a present—it represents so many persons, some
vaguely and some clearly fixed in memory—so
much as a simpler token from the heart of one
friend. And yet I feel the kindness which prompted
the gift, and am grateful for it, I am sure.</p>
<p>How ashamed one is obliged to be just now
of the “mother country”! <i>Step-mother Country</i>
England ought to be called, for her treatment of us
in our trouble. It is hard to believe that all she has
said against slavery was insincere, and that she
would really like to see the slave-power established
and flourishing on the ruins of our free Republic;
but her actions say so.</p>
<p>Yet we are not guiltless; not wholly purged from
the curse yet. The army is not entirely anti-slavery
in principles; and we cannot look for success,
nor wish it, but for the sake of freedom.</p></blockquote>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI.</h2></div>
<p class="ph3">INTELLECTUAL EXPERIENCES.</p>
<blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">January</span> 19, 1862. How hard it is to know
anything of history, to learn enough to feel at all
competent to teach! I said I would look through
Gibbon, but I had hardly reached the times of
Julian, before my class must be hurrying beyond
Charlemagne, and I must turn to French histories
to help them along. Then, between de Bonnechose
and Sir James Stephen, with the various writers on
the Middle Ages, which must be consulted for the
history of the feudal system, free cities, and the
Papacy, comes in the remembrance of my Bible
class in the early history of the church, and I must
give some hours to Neander! Meanwhile, another
class is reading Shakespeare, and I want them to be
somewhat critical, and must therefore read, myself;
while yet another class in Metaphysics are beginning
the history of philosophy, and I want them to
know something about Plato, and the Alexandrian
schools, and knowing very little myself I must find
out something first. So I bring to my room the
volumes containing the “Timæus” and the “Republic;”
but in the midst of it, I remember that
there are some compositions to be corrected, that I
may be ready for the new ones Monday morning.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>
This is pretty much where Saturday night finds
me, and so the weeks go on, this winter. I am glad
to be busy, but I dislike to be superficial. Now,
if I could teach only history, I should feel as
though I might hope to do something. Girls will
be ill-educated, until their teachers are allowed the
time and thought which teachers of men are expected
to take.</p>
<p>January 22. I am trying to get an idea which is
rolling in grand chaos through my mind into shape
for a composition theme for my first class this
afternoon. It is the power of the soul in moulding
form,—from the great Soul of the universe, down
to lower natures,—down to animal and vegetable
life. Plato’s doctrine of ideas is the only starting-point
I can think of; some thoughts of Swedenborg’s
will help; then Lavater and the Physiologists
and Psychologists. But I want them to use it
practically; to take particular persons, features,
shape, gait, manner, voice, life; and then observe
closely how beauty develops itself in flowers,
leaves, pebbles, into infinite variety, yet according
to invariable laws. It is a hard thing to bring such
subjects into shape which young girls can grasp;
yet they are the best things for opening the mind
upon a broad horizon.</p>
<p>For a review of the week I must think of Plato;
the “Republic,” and “Timæus,” and “Critias,” I
have succeeded in looking through; I have heard
my “Mental” class read some of the rest. In the
“Republic,” I remember it is decided that youths<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>
should be taught in music,—no enfeebling melodies,
but those which strengthen and build up the
soul in all that is vast and true. Plato’s idea of
music comprehends more than we read in the word;
and I see how it is that an education should be
musical,—the spiritual fabric rising like the walls
of Troy to the Orphean strains of noble thoughts
and impulses.</p>
<p>I remember, too, that he would forbid some of the
stories of the Gods to be told to children; those which
should needlessly alarm them, or weaken their reverence.
In that corrupt and yet beautiful system, it
was necessary indeed; the same idea might be not
injuriously carried out in a system of Christian education.
In the Hebrew Scriptures there is much
that puzzles the maturest minds, sincere and earnest
in their search for truth; yet these narratives
are the first knowledge that children often have of
the Bible. I would have them learn only the New
Testament, until they have learned something of
the real nature of the world they are ushered into.
When they study other history, they will be better
able to understand this; and the history of the
Jews is, it seems to me, a wonderful part of the
world’s record, so connected with that of other nations
as to make them plainer, revealing the handwriting
of an Almighty Providence everywhere.</p>
<p>I would not have the child begin life with the
terror which hung over my childhood: told that
I was a sinner before I knew what sin meant,
and fearful pictures of eternal punishment which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>
awaited all sinners at death haunting my dreams,
so that I was afraid to sleep, and more afraid to
die. I know they say (a good man has just said
it to me) that there is less vigor of mind and character
because these things are less taught as a part
of religion than formerly; yet I am sure that blind
fear cannot invigorate,—it must degrade. I believe
that I went far down from my earliest ideals
of life after hearing these things; and it was a long
straying amid shadowy half-truths, and glooms of
doubt, and stagnations of indifference, before I came
back to the first thought of my childhood. No:
let a child’s life be beautiful as God meant it to be,
by keeping it near Him, by showing to its simplicity
the things which are lovely, and true, and pure,
and of good report. The knowledge of evil comes
rapidly enough, in the petty experiences of life;
but a child will soon love evil and grow old in it,
if driven away from the divine light of love; if not
allowed to think of God chiefly as a friend. And
just here is where Christ speaks to the hearts of
little children; they know Him as soon as He is
permitted to speak, and are known of Him.</p>
<p>January 29. I believe that letter-writing is
more of a reality to me now than conversation;
short though my notes are, I can speak thus to
those who need me, and whom I need.</p>
<p>Repose of character, and the power of forgetting,
are great compensations for a tried, hurried, and
worried life. And there is, in all but the most
unusual lives, something like this, which enables<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span>
people to laugh at care, and triumph over grief;
though it is never perfectly done, except by a
thorough trust in the goodness of God,—a faith
in the watching love.</p>
<p>February 5. I did have the sleigh-ride with my
young friends, as I expected, and a merry one
it was. We just whirled through Attleboro, and
back again. All I remember of the ride is the
icicles that hung on the orchard trees and, just at
sunset, the tints that fell on a slope of unstained
snow. They were the softest, coolest shades of
blue and violet, with here and there a suggestion
of rose or crimson, a perfectly magical combination
of shadow colors, only half escaped from their
white light-prison of the snow. It was a hint of
the beauty of an Alpine or a Polar landscape, such
as travelers tell about. The young moon followed
one queenly star down the west, as we returned,
with a song of “Glory Hallelujah,” and “Homeward
Bound.”</p>
<p>February 6. The clear blue of this morning’s
sky has melted into a mass of snowy clouds, and
now earth and sky are of the same hue,—white—white,—the
purest crystalline snow is on the
ground, and more is coming. The violet hues in
the north at sunrise and sunset are very beautiful.</p>
<p>I am glad I took my walk in the woods this
morning while the sky was bright; there are fine
tints there always on the trees, various browns of
withered oaks and beech-leaves, still persistent,
and leaning against the stout pine trunks, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>
hold up their constant green to the sky. Two trees
I noticed for the first time, a pine and a maple,
which have grown up with their trunks in close
union, almost one from infancy. One keeps his
dark green mantle on, the other has lost her light
summer robe, but is covered all over with the softest
clinging lichens, that contrast their pale green
tints with the white-gray bark in a charming way.
When snow falls on these lichen-draped boughs,
the softness of the white above and the white below
is wonderful. I think Neck-woods is a grand
studio; when weary of my own white walls I can
always find refreshment there.</p>
<p>February 7. The news of Sarah Paine’s death
overwhelms me,—so young, so sensitive, so genial
and accomplished; she seemed made to enter deeply
into the reality and beauty of an earthly life. No
pupil of mine has ever yet come near me in so
many ways to sympathize and gladden as she.
Only a few weeks since, we walked together in
the woods, so full of life and hope she was; and
now, in a moment,—but why this sorrow, since
she is but suddenly called home to deeper love and
purer life?</p>
<p>How every failure of tenderness and perfect
appreciation on my part comes back to pain me
now! Why have I not written to her? Why have
I waited for her to write to me? Oh, what is
worse than to fail of loving truly?</p>
<p>February 13. I had decided to go to her funeral,
and went to Boston for the purpose, but a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>
sleepless night left me too wretched to undertake
the journey, and I spent the days in Boston feeling
too miserable to come back here, or to stay there.
How much of my life is gone with this friend!—gone?
no; translated, lifted up with her to her
new estate! Yet much <i>is</i> gone from the world:
the beauty of the walks about here, of the studies
we have loved and pursued together,—I hardly
knew how much this young life had woven itself
into mine. And it was the deeper, spiritual sympathies
fusing all love into one deep harmony of
life,—it was the love of the all-loving One that
brought us closest together; and that makes “<i>was</i>”
the wrong word to use, in speaking of her; she <i>is</i>
my friend still, and the light of her new life will
enter into mine.</p>
<p>One after another, those who have come nearest
to me to love, to sympathize, to guide, pass on into
purer air, and make me feel that my life is not
here; my <i>home</i> is with the beloved.</p>
<p>February 17. There is news to-day of great
victories in progress for us. Fort Donelson is surrounded;
there has been a deadly fight, and our
flag waves upon the outer fortifications. It is said
that the rebels must yield, as all approaches are
cut off, but it is the struggle of desperation with
them, as this is the key to the whole Southwest.
There are victories in Missouri and in North Carolina
also; more prisoners taken than our generals
know what to do with; but all this is purchased
at <i>such</i> a price of blood!</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>In the days I stayed in Boston last week I visited
two galleries of paintings, ancient and modern.
The old paintings are chiefly curious, not
beautiful, often very coarse in conception. I should
like to see something really great by the “old masters;”
but I suppose such things are only to be
seen in Europe.</p>
<p>I believe I love landscape more than figures,
unless these latter are touched by a master’s hand.
To be commonplace in dealing with nature does
not seem quite so bad as in dealing with human
beings.</p>
<p>I heard Ralph Waldo Emerson speak too. “Civilization”
was his subject; nobly treated, except
that the part of Hamlet was left out of Hamlet.
What is civilization without Christianity? There
was a kind of religion in what he said; an acknowledging
of all those elements which are the result
of Christianity; indeed, Emerson’s life and character
are such as Christianity would shape. He
only refuses to call his inspiration by its right
name. The source of all great and good thought
is in Christ; so I could listen to the Sage of Concord
and recognize the voice of the Master he
will not own in words.</p>
<p>“<i>Hitch</i> your wagon to a star!” was his way of
telling his hearers to live nobly, according to the
high principles which are at the heart of all life.
The easiest way to live, he said, was to follow the
order of the Universe. So it is. “The stars in
their courses fought against Sisera;” but it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>
because Sisera would go the opposite way to the
stars. This is the secret of our struggle, and of
our victory that will be. We have entangled ourselves
with wrong, have gone contrary to the Divine
Order; now, if we come out plainly and
strongly on the right side, we triumph; for Right
cannot fail. This war will make a nation of great
and true souls; if we fight for freedom. And what
else is worth the conflict, the loss of life? The
Union, a Country—a home? Yes, if these may
be preserved in honor and humanity, not otherwise.
Better be parceled out among the nations than
keep the stigma of inhumanity upon our great domain.
Freedom for slavery is no freedom to a
noble soul.</p>
<p>February 21. I have often wondered what is
the meaning of these dim forebodings, that, without
any apparent cause, will sometimes make us so
uneasy. The air is bright, cold, and clear; everything
without says, “Rejoice and be strong!” everything
within is darkened by vague, unaccountable
flutterings of anticipated ill. No sorrow can come
to <i>me</i> which will not involve some greater grief of
other hearts, so I dread the more what I have to
dread. I think I cannot say of anything that is
dear to me, that it is all my own; can any one?
Mothers, lovers, husbands, wives—these have exclusive
joys, and exclusive losses to risk. I can
lose much, for I love much; yet there is nothing
on earth that I can feel myself holding firmly as
mine. So I seek to live in others’ joy and sorrow.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>
A life large and deep in its love, is the privilege
of those placed as I am; it must be either that, or
quite unloving, shut up in its own small case of
selfishness. “When Thou shalt enlarge my heart,”
this large feeling of rest will be found.</p>
<p>I have plans floating in my mind for the education
of my nieces. I could not afford to have them
<i>here</i> without a salary much increased.</p>
<p>I think I could conduct their education myself,
in some small school, better than here, more according
to my own ideas; whether that is really better
or not, only the results would show. But some of
their studies I know I could make more valuable
to them than those to whom they might be trusted.
Then I have an idea of moral, religious, and mental
development going on at the same time, which I
do not often see carried out; perhaps I should not
do it, but I should like to try. Having no children
of my own I feel a responsibility for those who are
nearest me. How much of an effort one should
make for such a purpose as this, I do not know.
So far, I have been evidently <i>led</i> into the way I
ought to take; may it be so still!</p>
<p>It was a new sight to me, to see a long line of
cavalry, extending far out of sight down the street,
a forest of bayonets at first, and then an army of
horses. It was our National Guard; and it looked
like a strong defense, that bristling line of bayonets;
but it made me very sad to think that men
must leave home, and peaceful occupations, and
moral influences, to punish rebellious brethren, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>
keep them in awe. War, as a business, is one that
I cannot learn to believe in, although I must realize
it as a necessity.</p>
<p>February 26. For any of us to comprehend
thoroughly Kant, Fichte, Schelling, Hegel—to say
nothing of the plainer sensualistic systems—in
the little time we can give to the study, is quite
out of the question. And yet it does these young
girls good to know that there is a region of thought
above and beyond their daily track, and if they
should ever have time, they may enjoy exploring
it. Besides, the habit of looking upon life in a
large way comes through philosophy Christianized.
The right use of our faculties in a reverent search
for truth is certainly worth much thought and
painstaking from man or woman.</p>
<p>To live a child-like, religious life in all things is
what I would do; simply receiving light and life
from the love revealed within, and so, as a child,
claiming the inheritance of the world without,
which was created by the same Love for loving
souls; but the earthly cleaves to me; I lose simplicity
of soul in the world’s windings.</p>
<p>Yet I own but one Life, one Lord and Redeemer;
in Him only shall I find for myself the simplicity of
the child and the wisdom of the Seraph. In Him
all things are mine. Beautiful ideals may deceive
one. Because we see and can talk about noble
things, does it follow that we can live them? I
fear not always.</p>
<p>March 5. My birthday,—and I am as much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>
gratified as any child to find fragrant and beautiful
flowers in my room, placed there by loving
hands. And, what was very beautiful to me, the
trim-berry vine which I have kept in a dish of moss
all winter, this morning put forth one hesitating,
snow white blossom, another followed before noon,
and to-night there are four, as delicate in perfume
as in color; it is so sweet, that the woods give me
this pretty memento of their love to-day; it is a
promise of spring, too; of the multitudes of just
such white blossoms that are waiting patiently
under the snow-banks to give themselves away in
beauty and fragrance by and by.—To-night, for
the first time, I met some of our scholars to talk
with them of deep and sacred truths. I hardly
know how I did it; it seemed hard at first, and yet
it <i>was</i> easy, for the words seemed to be spoken
through me. I will try not to shrink from it again.
And I will endeavor to keep it before myself and
others, that Christianity is simply a receiving and
living out the life of Christ; not a thing of theories
and emotions, but a <i>life</i>.</p>
<p>I will say it to these pages, because I feel it so
bitterly sometimes, and cannot speak it out here
without offense, that there is too much of the “tearing
open of the rosebud” in talking with those who
are seeking the truth. Some are thought to be indifferent
or untrue, because they will not speak of
their deepest feelings to anybody who asks them.
It is a shameful mistake; it must accompany a low
standard of delicacy, to say the least. Let me not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span>
call that pride or obstinacy, which is the heart’s natural
reserve! The deeper depths of the soul are
sacred to one Eye alone, and so much as a shrinking
soul may reveal to a friend, it will. I would
discourage too free a conversation about one’s own
feelings; it is dissipating, except where a burdened
soul <i>must</i> pour out itself to another for sympathy.
Why cannot we leave our friends to find God in
the silence of the soul, since there is His abode?</p>
<p>March 11. We have had victories by sea and
land. To-night the news comes that Manassas is occupied
by our troops. The “Merrimac” has made
a dash from Norfolk, and destroyed two of our war
vessels; but the little iron-clad “Monitor” appeared
and drove her back. The coast of Florida is forsaken
by the rebels, and our troops are taking possession.
Everything is working for us now; and
it seems as if the rebellion must soon be strangled.
Sometimes it seems to me as if these events were
happening in a foreign country, they touch me and
mine so little in a way that we immediately feel.</p>
<p>This has been a day of “clearing up,” and domestic
reforms are never poetical. Taking down
pictures and books, and finding one’s self reminded
of neglected favorites by heaps of dust, lost mementos
coming up from forgotten corners,—after all,
there is some sentiment in it; and, in the midst
of it, three letters, two of them touching my heart-strings
right powerfully.</p>
<p>I have learned to live with a trusting heart and
a willing hand from day to day, and I have not a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>
wish for more, except that I might be able to help
others as I am not now able. If it is rest that is
before me, I dare not take it until I am more
weary than now;—a <i>home</i> would withdraw me
from the opportunity of educating my nieces, perhaps.
No! there can be nothing but single-handed
work for others before me; anything else would be
but a temptation, and perhaps one that I should not
be able to bear. I would be kept safe from everything
but a plain opening to the life of self-sacrifice
in the footsteps of our one true Guide! I will
trust Him for all, and be at rest from the dread of
too much sunshine, as well as from fear of storms.
He knows what I need.</p>
<p>There is heart-heaviness for souls astray, such as
I have seldom felt, weighing me down even now.
There is one poor girl, half ruined, and not knowing
how to escape destruction, for whom there seems
no outlet but into the very jaws of death. None
but a Divine Power can help her; yet He may do
it by making human helpers appear for her. How
fearful a thing it is to be placed where there are
brands to be plucked from burning.</p>
<p>And this is not the only one I know, for whom
all human efforts <i>seem</i> unavailing. Near and far
away are those to whom my heart reaches out with
nameless fears, and hope unquenched and unquenchable,
till the lamp of life shall go out. God save
us all from shipwreck of soul! for these drifting
lives but show us the possibilities of our own.</p>
<p>With poor little Prince Arthur, I can sometimes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span>
say heartily, “Would I were out of prison, and
kept sheep.”</p>
<p>One long summer all out of doors, what new life
it would give me! Yet I would not have this
winter’s memory left out of my life for much.
Some new openings into true life, here and beyond,
come with every season.</p>
<p>March 16. I have been trying to hold some plain
converse with myself, and I am more and more
convinced that sincerity is not the thorough spirit
of my life, as I would have it. It is so easy to
take one’s fine theories, and the frequent expression
of them, in the place of the realities they
stand for. I really fear that I have been trying to
impose these fine theories upon Him who knows
my heart, in the place of true love. I believe in
self-forgetfulness, in constant thought for others,
in humility, in following the light of the unseen
Presence within the soul, but I do not live out
these ideas, except in languid and faltering efforts.</p>
<p>Now in this way, is not my life going to be a
false one, false to man and God? Discouraging
indeed it is, to think much of self; and it is well
that we need not do it. There is life, there is truth
to be had for the asking. Only the Christ-life
within can make me true before heaven and earth
and my own heart. Yet even here I feel myself so
apt to dwell upon the beautiful theory of a present
Redeemer as to forget that in the trifles of a daily
intercourse with human beings, this life is to be
manifested, if at all. Thoroughly unselfish—shall
I ever be that?</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>I was glad to talk with my Bible scholars about
the resurrection to-day. It has come to be the
most real of all revealed truths to me.</p>
<p>Our Lord is risen, and we have a Redeemer to
stand by our souls in the struggles of this human
life. He is risen, and we shall arise from the dead,
and go home to Him, “and so be forever with the
Lord.” He is risen, and all His and our beloved
are risen with Him; they are “alive from the
dead forevermore.” He is risen, and we rise with
Him from the death of sin, into the new life of
holiness which he has brought into the world. He
said, “Because I live, ye shall live also.”</p>
<p>Beverly, April 5. Two, almost three, weeks of
the vacation are gone. It is Saturday night, and
after a week of fine spring weather, there is another
driving snowstorm, which makes us all anxious, as
our good brother Isaac has just sailed from Boston;
but perhaps he is at anchor in the Roads; they
would not start with the signs of a north-east storm
at hand. Bound for Sumatra, to be gone a year,
perhaps two. How we shall all miss him! He is
one of the really kind-hearted, genial men, who
know how to make home and friends happy, just
by being what they are; no effort, no show about
it, genuine goodness of heart making itself always
felt.</p>
<p>I have had a week of visiting, also. Curious
contrasts one finds, in passing from family to family;
each has its own peculiar essence or flavor,
its home element, or lack of the same; sometimes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>
its painful peculiarity, which it seems almost dishonorable
for a guest to notice, or ever even to
think of, afterwards. One thing is plain,—the
worldly-prosperous learn with most difficulty the
secret of home-rest; whoever loves show has not
the true home-love in him.</p>
<p>Those are the happiest family circles which are
bound together by intangible, spiritual ties, in the
midst of care, poverty, and hard work, it may
be. Whether rich or poor, a home is not a home
unless the roots of love are ever striking deeper
through the crust of the earthly and the conventional,
into the very realities of being,—not consciously
always; seldom, perhaps; the simplicity of
loving grows by living simply near nature and God.</p>
<p>And I have looked into some pleasant homes
during this brief visit. Homes where little children
are, are always beautiful to me, for the children’s
sake, if for nothing more. Cherub-like or
impish, the little folks fascinate me always. If I
were a mother, I am afraid I should never want
my baby to grow up; and who knows whether the
babies that die do not keep the charm of infancy
upon them forever? So many little children I
have loved have gone home with tiny life-torches
just filling some small domestic world with light,
a light that could not go out, and which perhaps
heaven needs to make it perfect heaven.</p>
<p>But the best visit of all is always to Amesbury,
to the friendly poet, and my loving Lizzie, his
sister; dearer and dearer she seems to me, now so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span>
alone, without her mother. Since Esther went
away, my longing love goes after this friend, my
own Elizabeth, as if, when Heaven opened to
receive one friend, a golden cord were flung down
to us two, to bring us nearer each other and nearer
the beloved ones up there. But theirs is a home
in each other’s love which makes earth a place to
cling to for its beauty yet. If I could not think of
them together there, of the quiet light which bathes
everything within and around their cottage under
the shadow of the hill, of the care repaid by gentle
trust, of the dependence so blessed in its shelter of
tenderness and strength, the world would seem to
me a much drearier place; for I have never seen
anything like this brother’s and sister’s love, and
the home-atmosphere it creates, the trust in human
goodness and the Divine Love it diffuses into all
who enter the charmed circle.</p>
<p>I love to sit with my friends in the still Quaker
worship; there is something very soothing in the
silence of the place to me, and in glancing upon
the faces around me, where “the dove of peace sits
brooding.” Then and there, I have often felt the
union of all hearts in the truth, where there is no
thought of opinion, or sect, or creed, but the one
wide communion of trust in one Father and Redeemer
which is His church; the gathering of all
souls in Him.</p>
<p>April 17. I feel better prepared to write than
I ever have, and I feel a greater desire to say what
I am able to say, if I may. I do not know what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span>
my greatest use in life is yet, whether I can do
more by teaching or by writing; I wait to be shown
and to be guided, and I believe I shall be.</p>
<p>April 22.... The best preparation for death is
to be alive as fully as one is capable of being; for
the transition is not from life to death, but from
life to life; <i>more</i> life always. And the time when
we are to be called hence need not trouble us, or
the way: it is in the heart of the Father to do the
best thing for us forever.</p>
<p>May 4. I have been to Esther’s grave, and
found Spring there, a glimpse of the immortal sunshine
and blossoming in which she lives. I have
found love growing for me in her home, in one
young, glad heart; and in one life-worn and sorrow-worn.
I have felt <i>her</i> spirit living and breathing
yet in her earthly home; from her flowers, her
books, her domestic life, in all the atmosphere of
the places haunted by her footsteps,—the home
where she lived and loved and suffered, the lovely
resting-place of her dust by the river side. Of such
lives as hers new life is born, and I have brought
back with me a deeper reality to live in, heaven
bends nearer over me, earth is lifted up to heaven.
I only needed to breathe in another, freer atmosphere
than this; and the dear Lord sent me just
where it was best for me to go. Scarcely could I
have found anything so good for my soul’s health,
this side of the “fields beyond the swelling flood,”
where Esther, my heart’s sister, walks with the Angels
in the bloom of immortal health and loveliness.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>It is strange, but I seem to know her more <i>humanly</i>
now than when she was here. I saw her
but once or twice; she was to me as a spirit, a voice
in the wilderness, to guide and to cheer. Now I
feel how she wore the same robes of flesh, wearily
and painfully, yet cheering and blessing household
and friends by her patient, tender love. I never
thought before how beautiful it would be to visit
the Holy Land—to tread in the Lord’s footsteps.
I had thought that the spirit-love might be dimmed
by traces of the earthly; but it is not so; I have
tracked the footsteps of this loving pilgrim through
the Gethsemane and Olivet of her Holy Land of
home, and I know her and hers more truly; I am
hers, and she is mine more surely now forever.</p>
<p>May 10. Heaven is a <i>place</i>, a home, a rest: but
it is a Spiritual habitation, Truth and Love and
Peace are the pillars that support it; and it is the
truthful, the loving, and the holy only who may
enter in. How then, O beloved Guide, may such
as I? Because Thou hast drawn me by love
to Love,—hast given an “earnest” of that life
even here, imparting new sympathies, hopes, and
aspirations, infusing Thine own life into mine, and
Thou wilt never forsake Thine own work, Thine
own home! Yet so imperfectly I hear and follow
Thee, so slow, so cold, so hard my nature yet,—when
the summons comes, will it not find me lagging
on the heavenly road, hardly at home within
the beautiful gates? So many die with noble purposes
half-grown into achievement, so many live<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>
but half in the light, and yet the Light is in them,—how
will it be with them, and with me; how
shall the stains of the mortal be put off? Death
has no cleansing power, and defilement may not
enter heaven. There is a mystery here which is
too painful; yet we know not what that other life is,
nor how hereafter, more than here, the Shepherd
leads His own.</p>
<p>Always it is by paths they have not known; and
what new and wonderful ministries may be prepared
for us there, who have sought Him through
all our faltering and waywardness here, He knows;
and it is good to trust Him always, and for all
things.</p>
<p>Sabbath, May 11. Esther’s letters are a constant
comfort to me; they say more to me now,
about some things, than they did while she was
alive. I love to keep them near me—in sight.
Does she know how happy she makes me every
day I live, how rich I am in the inheritance of
love she has left me? Ah! how little can I tell
what she is doing for me now! But the “idea of
her life” seems growing into all my thoughts. I
could not have known her as I do if she had not
gone away, to return in spirit; and I can see her,
too, moulding the lives of others she loved most
dearly. There is more of heaven in this Spring’s
sunshine than I have seen for years.</p>
<p>I owe my acquaintance with Robertson to her;
a gift she sent me out of deepest pain, when she
was passing through the fires, and none but Jesus<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>
knew. I use his thoughts on the epistle to the
Corinthians with my class these Sunday mornings;
that is, I read the Apostle’s words, then Robertson’s,
then the Apostle’s again, and afterward talk
with the scholars from the things which I have,
in both ways, received. And by the kindling eyes
and earnest looks of all, especially of some whose
natures have seemed indolent and unspiritual, I
feel assured that the living thought is sometimes
found and received mutually. A soul must drink
the truth, bathe in it, glow with its life, in order to
impart it to another soul; and it is to me a source
of gratitude which I can never exhaust, that such
as Robertson and my Esther “have lived and died.”</p>
<p>May 13. Yesterday morning the news came of
the surrender of Norfolk, and, in a sudden burst of
patriotism, the school went out and marched round
the Liberty pole, under the Stars and Stripes, singing
“Hail Columbia,” and cheering most heartily.</p>
<p>The defeat of the rebels—happily bloodless—was
attended with the usual amount of vandalism,
burning of buildings, ships, etc. The stolen ship
“Merrimac,” transformed into an iron-fanged rebel
war steamer, was blown up; we are all glad her
race is run. And the vandalism of the rebels is
but another proof to the world of the worth of their
cause, the desperate situation in which they find
themselves, and on which side of the contest barbarism
lingers. All hearts are lighter now. The
doom of this demoniac rebellion is sealed. There is
no longer any slavery in the District of Columbia,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>
and doubtless the whole infamous “system” shall
be drowned out in the blood of this war. If not, it
will seem to have been shed in vain.</p>
<p>May 21. C—— has gone into the army; but
first he has “joined the army of the Lord,” as he
expresses it in his letter to his mother. If ever
mortals could hear the angels rejoicing “over one
that repenteth,” I should think I had heard them
to-day, while I read this news. So much anxiety
lest here should be a shipwrecked soul, so many
have been pained about him, and burdened for him,—so
little faith or hope some of us had, as to the
possibility of his rising out of his old self into a
better life,—all these memories come back, and
make it seem like a miracle; and indeed it is the
greatest of all miracles.</p>
<p>And when he writes, “Aunt Lucy may feel as
if her prayers were being answered,” it seems to
me as if I had nothing but unbelief to remember.
It is the mighty hand of God, if he is saved! He
goes into temptation, but he goes hopeful, and longing
to prove himself a “good soldier of the Cross.”
And now he needs to be followed with faith and
prayer more than ever. It seems to me as if this
were realizing for the first time, what “conversion”
means; that it is a reality, and not a term which
custom has made mere cant. He speaks of himself
in a free, simple way, as <i>I</i> never could have
spoken; and yet it <i>is</i> genuine. Oh, if it might
unloose more hearts and tongues!</p>
<p>May 23.... I am so glad to be <i>needed</i>, as I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span>
seem to be now, by several of my friends: my
thoughts, my care, my suggestions seem of some
value. It is a woman’s want, and I feel a woman’s
gratification in being allowed to think a little for
others. For a great school like this, I never feel
that I can do much; I want to know just the especial
need of somebody that I can help.</p>
<p>So human nature goes: absorbed by petty miseries
quite as much as by grand and beautiful ideas;
who would think, sometimes, that such as we could
be immortal beings?</p>
<p>I have felt myself growing very skeptical for a
little while, of late. A cold thrill creeps insidiously
through me when I go among people; there
is so little apparent reality in human lives, loves,
friendships. “All seek their own;” and when
there is a gleam of unselfishness, it is but a passing
gleam. And, worst of all, when I am with those
whose lives are pitched in a low key, I find myself
taking it for granted that it is life.</p>
<p>June 7. Two trials came to me this week, trials
to patience which I seldom have, yet both very
trifling. One came from a selfish woman, who
<i>would</i> misunderstand me, and imagine that I was
troubling her, when I was trying to do just the opposite;
this I must bear in silence, for it is a case
when doing and letting alone are accounted alike
grievous. Another was from the whims of school-girls,
which they would persevere in, though to
their own serious discomfort. How to meet such
things with simple meekness, and not with a desire<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>
to let people suffer the consequences of their own
mistakes, is something, which, old as I am, I have
not yet learned. The constant frets of this kind
that some have to bear, I have been saved from;
people are generally too generous and thoughtful
of me. How miserable some families must be!
and what a wretched life it must be, just to be left
to the indulgence of one’s own foolish and selfish
whims!</p>
<p>June 11. This week I wrote letters which decide
my going to Connecticut, to Esther’s mother,
next year. It is strange that it seemed so hard for
me to decide upon so pleasant a thing; but somehow
it is as if this were altogether a different thing
from my usual plans; as if there were hidden links
in spiritual chains influencing my decision, and to
result from it. I do not know whether I have decided
right, but I believe some good will come out
of it, in some way. If I can make a desolate home
a little happier, it will be worth going for; but that
is just the thing I fear I shall not do.</p>
<p>June 22. ... I was most wretchedly tried, to-day,
by a bungler in dentistry, and then worried
and vexed by two hours’ hurried and dissatisfied
shopping.</p>
<p>... I know that I am loved and valued here,
and yet I want to go away. I do not think of any
place where I long to go, but only somewhere into
a different life: into more trials I am sure it will
be, when I do go, but that does not frighten me. I
am growing callous with the constant repetition of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>
the same blessings. I need to suffer, to be shaken
sorely through all my life, then perhaps I shall
learn not to be so ungrateful or indifferent to anything
God sends.</p>
<p>July 9. If Atlas had undertaken to keep a
journal of his state of mind, while holding the world
on his shoulders, he might have been successful and
he might not; and it might or might not have been
worth while. I don’t want to “keep a journal”
exactly, but I want to try the effect of writing every
day, as much to keep up the habit as anything else.
But how to catch the moments from between the
busy hours? I am to be here another anniversary,—no
help for it, though greatly against my wishes:
the work that comes with it does not seem to me
very profitable to anybody in particular, and the
hardest of it comes upon me. I dislike shows and
preparation for shows; but there is no escaping.
There is an interest in helping the girls do their
parts well, only they and I both fear I help them
too much sometimes.</p>
<p>... At night a most kind letter from my editor
friend with a most liberal enclosure for services
rendered. The nobleness and genial spirit of the
man is more to me even than his liberality. It is
a comfort to write for those who receive in the
spirit of one’s giving.</p>
<p>And to-day a letter from a young nephew, confiding
to me his longings for a better life, and asking
for suggestions and advice. This is a joy that
brought tears to my eyes; not that I can do much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span>
for him, except by helping him to keep those aspirations
alive; by sympathy and by living such a life
as he seeks. It is like a miracle, in these days,
when a young man like him really is interested in
such things! An upright, moral one too, with few
bad habits, and the promise of a successful worldly
career.</p>
<p>Beverly, last of July. The war moves on, but
slowly. The “rallying” meetings to raise the President
three hundred thousand men seem like an
attempt at galvanizing patriotism into life. Blindness
is come upon the people in some way, for some
reason: it is not as in the old Revolutionary days;
and yet this cause is greater. But we will not dare
to say that we are fighting for anything but the
Government. We leave God out, and all becomes
confused.</p>
<p>July 29. Another death; C——, the stray lamb
so long, has been called into the upper fold. His
was a wonderful change, as marked as St. Paul’s,
almost, and his last letter from the camp was one
that will be a lifelong comfort to his friends, so
full of faith in God, submission to His will, an entire
readiness to die, and yet a wish to live that the
past might be redeemed. He died on the 25th of
June, while his division of the army was passing
from Corinth to Memphis, after having suffered
much from fever, and other complaints incident to
a weakened constitution in a new climate, and
among the hardships of war. He had his wish;
his long desire to be a soldier was gratified; once<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>
he was under fire; the air full of bullets around
him, and one striking within two feet of his head.
But he was not to die in battle; disease, that he
dreaded more, laid him low; he longed for civilization,
was weary of the great Southern forests; but
there he was to lay his weary head for his last sleep.
And now his mother is all alone in the world, and
almost broken-hearted. One after another, husband
and four children have gone, and she is a
widow and childless.</p>
<p>But to think of the thousands of homes that this
war has desolated, the thousands of hearts well-nigh
broken! Is it not enough?</p>
<p>No, for the purification of the nation has not
yet been wrought out; the scourge is needed yet;
the gulf yet yawns for that which is dearest in all
the land, and the war will not cease until it is
closed. Not to a proud, self-confident people will
the victory be given, but to the humble, the trustful,
the nation that stays itself upon God, and lives
only for the highest principles, and the highest love.</p>
<p>August 10. This week has been a more remarkable
one than any in my life, I believe, in the way
of seeing people I have heard of, and had some
little curiosity about. Last Thursday was spent at
Andover, and one of the golden days it was. The
day itself was one of shine and shadow just rightly
blended; and the place, the well-known Hill of the
students, was in its glory. After sitting awhile in
church, where the learned Professors, Park, Phelps,
and Stowe, sat in state (I wonder if Professors dread<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>
anniversaries and conspicuous positions as we boarding-school
teachers do!) we went up the hill to
accept an invitation to lunch with Mrs. Harriet
Beecher Stowe. It was beautiful as a page from
one of her own story books.</p>
<p>Mrs. Stowe herself I liked, and her house and
garden were just such as an authoress like her
ought to have. It all had what I imagine to be an
English look, the old stone house, with its wild
vines and trees brought into shape in picturesque
walks, and its cool refreshment-room looking off
over the river, the city, and the far hills, to the
mountains; the arrangement of the table, too,
showing so much of the poetess. I could not have
called upon Mrs. Stowe formally; as it was, nothing
could have been much pleasanter, of that
kind.</p>
<p>Then before I left I called upon some old friends;
a call which finished the day very delightfully; for
there, besides the cordiality of really well-bred
people, I saw one of the sweetest specimens of girlhood
that can be shown in New England, I fancy.
Beauty does not often fascinate me, in its common
acceptation; but where there is soul in a young,
sweet face—modesty and intelligence that greet
you like the fragrance of a rosebud before it is well
opened—it is so rare a thing in these “Young
America” days that it makes me a little extravagant
in admiration, perhaps.</p>
<p>Saturday I spent at Amesbury; it was not quite
like other visits, for two other visitors were there;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span>
yet I enjoyed one of them especially; an educated
mulatto girl, refined, lady-like in every respect, and
a standing reply to those who talk of the “inferiority
of the colored race.” It is seldom that I see any
one who attracts me so much, whose acquaintance
I so much desire, just from first sight. She would
like to teach at Port Royal, but the <i>government</i>
will not permit. Ah, well! my book ends with no
prospect of the war’s end. Three hundred thousand
recruits have just been raised, and as many
more are to be drafted.</p>
<p>Many talk as if there never was a darker time
than now. We have no unity of purpose; the
watchword is “Fight for the Government!” but
that is an abstraction the many cannot comprehend.
If they would say, “Fight for Liberty—your own
liberty, and that of every American,” there would
be an impetus given to the contest that, on our
side, “drags its slow length along.” This is an
extreme opinion, our law-abiding people say, but I
believe we shall come to worse extremes before the
war ends.</p></blockquote>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII.</h2></div>
<p class="ph3">LETTERS AND WORK.<br />
1861-1868.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> regular routine of school-life was varied for
Miss Larcom by charming invitations to Boston
where she met many literary friends, and by her
pleasant summer vacations, which she always spent
among the mountains. The two following letters,
one to Mr. James T. Fields and one to Mr. Whittier,
are interesting:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Norton</span>, April 4, 1861.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Fields</span>,—My thoughts ran into a
kind of rhapsody, all to themselves, after that evening
of pleasant surprises at your house. I did not
know it was fairy-land at 37 Charles Street, nor
did I dream of meeting so many of the Genii,—if
I had foredreamed or foreknown, I suppose I
should have thought it even more of an impossibility
for me to go than I did.</p>
<p>I wasn’t going to be so foolish as to send you
this rhapsody, but I have just got back to my own
room after the wanderings of vacation, and have
hung up my ruined arch. It is Dolabella’s, on the
Cœlian Hill, and it brings back so many pleasant
reminiscences of those few hours among the treasures<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>
of your home-grotto that I am just in the
mood for inflicting this out-of-date expression of
my enjoyment upon Mrs. Fields and you. I don’t
pretend that it is poetry, and if you are ashamed of
me, for running on so, please remember that you
shouldn’t have shown me so many curious and
beautiful things;—I am not used to them.</p>
<p>I have heard that Miss Cushman is to play next
week. Is it true? If it is, and if you know before-hand
what evenings she will appear as Lady Macbeth
or Meg Merrilies, will you be so kind as to
tell Mr. Robinson, who will let me know, and who
has promised to accompany me to the theatre? I
have always wanted to see her in some of her great
<i>rôles</i>, and now more than ever, since I have seen
her as a noble woman.</p>
<p>What a wonderful statue that “Lotus Eater”
is! I was never so “carried away” with anything
in marble!</p>
<p>With remembrances to Mrs. Fields,</p>
<p class="center">Gratefully yours,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>This poem was enclosed in the above letter:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="indent">Was it a dream</div>
<div class="verse">Or waking vision of the gracious night?</div>
<div class="verse">Did I on that enchanted isle alight,</div>
<div class="verse">Aye blossoming in Shakespeare’s line,</div>
<div class="verse">With forms and melodies divine,—</div>
<div class="indent">Where all things seem</div>
<div class="verse">Ancient yet ever new beneath the hand</div>
<div class="verse">Of Prospero and his aërial band?</div>
<div class="indent">At every turn a change<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></div>
<div class="indent">To something rich and strange,—</div>
<div class="verse">Embodied shapes of poets’ fantasies:</div>
<div class="indent">Glimpses of ruins old</div>
<div class="verse">Slow fading from the blue Italian skies;</div>
<div class="indent">And runes of wizards bold;</div>
<div class="indent">Or beautiful or quaint</div>
<div class="verse">Memorials of bard, and sage, and saint,</div>
<div class="indent">In many an antique tome.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">There was some necromancy in the place:</div>
<div class="verse">The air was full of voices wondrous sweet;</div>
<div class="verse">Crowned shadows of past ages came to greet</div>
<div class="verse">Their living peers, who lately lent new grace</div>
<div class="indent">To genius-haunted Rome;</div>
<div class="verse">And when the lady of the grotto spoke,</div>
<div class="verse">’Twas like Miranda, when at first she woke</div>
<div class="verse">To Love, lighting the wild sea with her smile</div>
<div class="verse">Star of her beautiful and haunted isle;</div>
<div class="indent">And the magician, who</div>
<div class="verse">Such harmony and beauty round him drew,—</div>
<div class="verse">He was her Ariel and Ferdinand</div>
<div class="indent">Blended in one,</div>
<div class="verse">And heir to Prosper’s wonder-working wand.</div>
<div class="indent">He charmed the sprites of power</div>
<div class="indent">For one familiar hour,</div>
<div class="verse">And Story-land and Dream-land deftly won</div>
<div class="verse">To his home-nook the moonlit stream beside:</div>
<div class="indent">Hushed and apart</div>
<div class="indent">Though in the city’s heart,</div>
<div class="verse">There dwell they long, the poet and his bride!</div>
</div></div></div>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO J. G. WHITTIER.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Norton</span>, Mass., September 8, 1861.</p>
<p>Why is it that I always miss thy visits? Why
of all things should I have lost sight of thee at the
mountains? and when I was so near thee too! I
cannot think why so pleasant a thing should be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>
withheld from me, unless because I enjoy it too
much. I have no other such friends as thee and
Elizabeth, and when anything like this happens it
is a great disappointment. But I said all the time
that seeing the hills with you could only be a beautiful
dream.</p>
<p>I felt the beauty of those mountains around the
Lake, as I floated among them, but I wished for
thee all the while; because I have always associated
thee with my first glimpse of them, and somehow
it seems as if they belonged to thee or thee to them,
or both. They would not speak to me much; I
needed an interpreter: and when they grew so
dim and spectral in the noon haze, they gave me a
strange almost shuddering feeling of distance and
loneliness.</p>
<p>But I am glad thee saw the Notch Mountains, and
those grand blue hills up the river that I used to
watch through all their changes. I am glad Miss
B—— saw thee, for she was as much disappointed
as I when we gave up the hope of your coming. I
felt almost certain you would both come; I wanted
Lizzie to know the mountains.</p>
<p>Is it right to dream and plan for another year?
How I should like to go to Franconia with thee
and Elizabeth to see those great gates of the Notch
open gradually wider and wider, and then to pass
through to a vision of the vast range beyond! It
is but a vague memory to me; I long to take that
journey again.</p>
<p>But everything has wearied me this summer,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>
and I feel almost like dropping my dreams and
never expecting anything more. It is doubtless
wiser to take what a kind Providence sends, just as
it comes: yet who is always wise? Twice I rested
in the sight of your beautiful river and on that cottage
doorstep at Campton, looking off to the mountains.
But the sea tired me with its restlessness.
I wanted to tell it to be still. And I was very
willing to get back from it to the quiet of my room,
to the shelter of these friendly elms, and to the
steady cheerful music of crickets and grasshoppers.</p>
<p>I shall be very happy to try to write a hymn for
the Horticultural Association, as you request; and
will send you something as soon as I can....</p>
</blockquote>
<p>In the autumn of 1862, Miss Larcom decided
to give up teaching at Wheaton Seminary. Ill
health for some time had made her complain of a
constant sense of weariness in her head. Living
in the crowded school when she longed for quiet,
and preparing her work for extra classes, she became
nervously exhausted; so that when an invitation
came from Esther’s mother, requesting her to
spend the winter in Waterbury, Connecticut, she
readily accepted it. She longed to be in the peaceful
home made sacred by the presence of her beloved
friend, where she felt that by occupying
Esther’s room, sitting at her writing-desk, and
using her very bed, she would enter into her spirit,
and help to fill the vacant place in a mother’s
heart. At first there was something hallowed in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span>
the home of one so pure,—she “felt it was holy
ground,” and was “half afraid to live my common
life here;” but the close association with sad memories
was depressing, and the solitude, while it gave
her rest, did not refresh her. After having formed
a lifelong friendship with Franklin Carter, a half-brother
of Esther and afterwards President of Williams
College, she returned, first to Norton for a
little while,—then to Beverly, where she secured
time for her writing, which was now constantly absorbing
her attention.</p>
<p>Her poems, written chiefly for weekly papers—since
they were either on homely fireside topics or
incidents of the war, or else were religious meditations—were
widely copied, and found their way
into the scrap-books of thoughtful households all
over the land. Referring to the winter of 1863,
she said, “I have written for the newspapers this
winter. My ideas of the ‘Atlantic’ are too high
for me often to offer it anything my thoughts let
slip. My standard is so far beyond my performances,
that I am very glad to let them glide away
unnoticed, and unnamed, on the path of the weekly
tide wave of print.” Though Mr. Fields was equal
to the task of polite editorial refusal, he gladdened
her heart by occasionally accepting a poem. It was
through his literary judgment that “Hilary,” that
tender lyric of sea-sorrow, with its wistfulness and
pathos, first saw the light; and the indignant strains
of “A Loyal Woman’s No” were first heard from
the pages of the “Atlantic.” These successes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>
opened the way for poems of greater merit, like the
“Rose Enthroned.”</p>
<p>Her interest in the war was intense. She followed
eagerly the progress of the campaigns, and
rejoiced in every victory, often writing verses to
celebrate the events, as in the case of the sinking
Merrimac:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Gone down in the flood, and gone out in the flame!</div>
<div class="verse">What else could she do, with her fair Northern name?”</div>
</div></div>
<p>Her satire was ready for those able-bodied men
who, when the drafting was talked of, were suddenly
seized with many varieties of disease, or
those who went a-fishing for the season—because
mariners were exempt—or, like one man, who
cut off three fingers, hoping that the loss of these
members would be sufficient to keep him at home.
She wanted to do something herself: “I am almost
ashamed of these high sentiments in print, because
I really have done nothing for our dear country as
yet. These things sound conceited and arrogant
to me, under the circumstances, but I only write
from an ideal of patriotic womanhood, and for my
country-women.” She came near offering herself
as a teacher for the “Contrabands,” but some of her
friends thought it unwise in the state of her health
at the time, and she concluded that she was not
fitted for the work, with the rather sad confession,
“I have an unconquerable distrust of my own fitness
for these angel ministries; I fear I am not
worthy to suffer. I can think, write, and teach,
but can I live?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span>In August, 1863, she was called to the West by
the serious illness of her sister Louisa, which terminated
fatally.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO MRS. JAMES T. FIELDS.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Hammond, Wis.</span>, September 11, 1863.</p>
<p>... and with her, my pleasant dreams of home dissolve;
it was she who said she would make a home
for me, wherever I would choose. The earthly outlook
is lonelier than before; but I must not yield to
selfish regrets. She has gone home, in a sense more
real than we often say of the dead. Her whole family
had gone before her,—husband and four children
had left her one after another. Her heart
seemed broken when her youngest son died in the
army, last year; she never recovered her strength
after that blow. I cannot mourn when I think of
that glad reunion of a household in heaven, but I
cannot help the great blank that her death and my
brother’s have left in my life. These family ties,
I find, grow stronger as I grow older.</p>
<p>This prairie life does not now attract me at all.
A broad, grand world opens out on every side, but
there is no choice in it. You might as well take
one level road as another....</p>
</blockquote>
<p>With the death of this sister, in reality, did dissolve
the “pleasant dreams of a home,” for Miss
Larcom never had a home of her own, though she
longed for one, and used to delight in speaking of
the possibility of having one. “I will build my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>
long-planned home among the mountains,” she used
to say, “and my friends shall bivouac with me all
summer.” But her life was spent principally in
boarding-houses, or in the homes of others. Her
resources never permitted her to own the bed on
which she slept; however, she did own an old
wooden lounge, which was her only bed for years.
But she made the best of it, in her usual way; “I
like this old couch. I like to be independent of
things; there is a charm in Bohemian life.”</p>
<p>On her return to Beverly in 1864, she took a
few pupils again, and spent a good deal of time in
painting,—even weeds, for she “loved the very
driest old stick that had a bit of lichen or moss on
it.” She exhausted her friend’s libraries in reading,
and received from Mrs. Fields a large valise
filled with precious volumes, which she returned
only after having read them all. “I like to be
here in Beverly with my sister and the children.
I think I am more human here than at school.”</p>
<p>The following records were made with feeling in
her diary.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>April 10, 1865. Waked at five o’clock this
morning, to hear bells ringing for the surrender of
Lee’s army; robins screaming, and guns booming
from the fort. The war’s “Finis;” Glory Hallelujah!</p>
<p>April 15. Starting for Boston, the bells began
to toll. The President’s assassination is the report.
The morning papers confirm the truth. Sadness
and indignation everywhere. The Rebellion has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span>
struck its most desperate blow, but the Nation
moves calmly on.</p>
<p>April 19. The President’s funeral. Every place
of business closed. Services in all the churches.
I went to the Old South, and heard a brief and indignant
speech, which received the people’s earnest
response.</p>
<p>May 14, Sunday. Bells ringing for the capture
of Jeff Davis.</p></blockquote>
<p>In 1865, Miss Larcom became one of the editors
of the new magazine for young people, “Our Young
Folks,” and retained this position until 1872, when
“St. Nicholas” inherited the good-will and patronage
of the earlier magazine. The orange-colored
periodical bore her name, and those of Gail Hamilton
and Trowbridge, and usually contained a ballad
or prose sketch by her, or else she contributed some
of the answers in the “Letter Box.” Her work was
performed with conscientiousness and good taste;
her sympathy with child-life made her a valuable
assistant in making the magazine popular. She
was interested in its success: “‘Our Young Folks’
greatly delights grown people everywhere. I am
very glad of an occasional criticism that offers a
hint of an improvement. It must be made to distance
all competitors in value, as it does in patronage.”</p>
<p>To be in a position where she had the power to
reject or accept hundreds of manuscripts sent for
approval, interested her, but she had so much sympathy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>
for the struggling author, that, contrary to
the usual custom of the “Editorial Department,”
she often sent a personal note of explanation. She
could not help laughing over the strange letters she
received, though she usually answered them politely.
One woman wrote, asking her advice as to the sale
of three hundred barrels of apples. Musicians sent
her music, requesting her to write words to suit.
A young girl wrote that she was “young, poor,
and orphaned,” thus appealing to the editorial sympathies,
and requested her to arbitrate concerning
the merit of two poems, “The Angel Whisper”
and “One of the Chosen,” for some one had promised
to give her five dollars and a new hat, if her
own poem should be successful. Modesty was not
always a virtue with these applicants. One wrote:
“Editors, Sir and Madam,—I send you a palindrome,
which you know is a curiosity. I saw a list,
the other day, said to be the best in the language,
but this excels them all, as it represents a complete
idea of spiritual philosophy. I should like to open
a school of ideas for children. I believe this would
add to your subscription list.” Another announced
the strange theory, that “languages were originated
with references to correspondence between the
visible and invisible world.” Another facetiously
remarked, making application for a position, “Anything
but to count money, for I have not had experience
in this form of labor.”</p>
<p>Miss Larcom published, in 1866, the valuable
collection of extracts from religious writings,—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>“Breathings
of the Better Life.” It was received
with warm welcome, and reprinted in England,
without, however, being accredited to the author.
It contained the passages she had discovered in her
reading of many books, to which she wanted to give
a wider circulation among those who might not possess
the volumes. This little book represents the
development of her religious thought along deeply
spiritual lines. Her favorite authors are represented,—Robertson,
Bushnell, Tholuck, and now
and then a little poem by George Herbert, Madame
Guyon, or Mrs. Browning is given. The
subjects treated are characteristic of her thought:
“The Kingdom within the Soul,” “The Way of
Access,” “Life Eternal,” “Shadows cast over
Other Lives,” “The Bearing of the Cross,” “The
Fullness of Life,” “The Illuminated Gateway,”
and “The Glory Beyond.”</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO MR. J. T. FIELDS.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly, Mass.</span>, May 20, 1866.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Mr. Fields</span>,—Before you escape
for the summer, I want to bother you with a word
or two about the “Breathings.” I find that people
are imagining I have been very industrious this
winter, by the way they talk about my new book,
which they suppose is something original. I don’t
want to give wrong impressions in that way, as the
selections are more valuable on their own account
than on mine.</p>
<p>When it is time to announce it, can it not be described<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span>
as “a compilation of brief extracts in prose
and verse, from favorite religious writers,” or something
to that effect. And must my name appear in
full? The commonplace “Miss Larcom” I should
like better than my usual staring alliteration; as
less obtrusive, “L. L.” is better still.</p>
<p>And please let the book be as inexpensive as possible,
because it is my “little preach,” and I want
a large congregation of poor folks like myself. My
object in preparing it will be defeated, if they cannot
have it.</p>
<p>I don’t calculate upon a “paper fractional” from
it for myself, so you can leave that entirely out of
consideration. It has been altogether a labor of
love with me. I wanted the good people to know
who their best instructors are. Robertson above
all, who is the true apostle of this age, within the
Church.</p>
<p class="center">Yours sincerely,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO MRS. J. T. FIELDS.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly, Mass.</span>, May 26, 1866.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Annie</span>,—If I could only make you feel
the difference in myself coming home through
the apple-blooms last night, and going to Boston
Wednesday morning, I think you would know that
you had not lived in vain, for a few of the beautiful
May-day hours. I bring such refreshment from
you always! I wonder if you do not feel that
something is gone out from you, or are you like the
flowers, that find an infinite sweetness in their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span>
hearts, replacing constantly what they give away?
So much I must say in love and gratitude, and you
must pardon it, because it is sincere.</p>
<p>I have copied the rhyme note for you. If I did
not feel so very “stingy” (it’s the word!) about
our Mr. Whittier’s letters, I should give you the
original, for I think it belongs to you almost as
much as to me. But possession is nine tenths of
the law, you know, and I am a real miser about
the letters of a friend,—ashamed as I am to own
it to one so generous to me as you are....</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The “rhyme note” mentioned was a delightful
doggerel from Mr. Whittier.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Amesbury</span>, March 25, 1866.</p>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Believe me, Lucy Larcom, it gives me real sorrow</div>
<div class="verse">That I cannot take my carpet-bag, and go to town to-morrow;</div>
<div class="verse">But I’m “Snow-bound,” and cold on cold, like layers of an onion,</div>
<div class="verse">Have piled my back, and weighed me down, as with the pack of Bunyan.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">The north-east wind is damper, and the north-west wind is colder,</div>
<div class="verse">Or else the matter simply is that I am growing older;</div>
<div class="verse">And then, I dare not trust a moon seen over one’s left shoulder</div>
<div class="verse">As I saw this, with slender horn caught in a west hill-pine,</div>
<div class="verse">As on a Stamboul minaret curves the Arch Impostor’s sign.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">So I must stay in Amesbury, and let you go your way,</div>
<div class="verse">And guess what colors greet your eyes, what shapes your steps delay,</div>
<div class="verse">What pictured forms of heathen love, of god and goddess please you,</div>
<div class="verse">What idol graven images you bend your wicked knees to.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">But why should I of evil dream, well knowing at your head goes</div>
<div class="verse">That flower of Christian womanhood, our dear good Anna Meadows!</div>
<div class="verse">She’ll be discreet, I’m sure, although, once, in a fit romantic,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span></div>
<div class="verse">She flung the Doge’s bridal ring, and married the “Atlantic;”</div>
<div class="verse">And spite of all appearances, like the woman in the shoe,</div>
<div class="verse">She’s got so many “Young Folks” now she don’t know what to do.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">But I must say, I think it strange that thee and Mrs. Spalding,</div>
<div class="verse">Whose lives with Calvin’s five-barred creed have been so tightly walled in,</div>
<div class="verse">Should quit your Puritanic homes, and take the pains to go</div>
<div class="verse">So far, with malice aforethought, to walk in a vain show!</div>
<div class="verse">Did Emmons hunt for pictures? was Jonathan Edwards peeping</div>
<div class="verse">Into the chambers of imagery with maids for Tammuz weeping?</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Ah, well, the times are sadly changed, and I myself am feeling</div>
<div class="verse">The wicked world my Quaker coat from off my shoulders peeling;</div>
<div class="verse">God grant that, in the strange new sea of change wherein we swim,</div>
<div class="verse">We still may keep the good old plank of simple faith in Him!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">P.S. My housekeeper’s got the “tissick,” and gone away, and Lizzie</div>
<div class="verse">Is at home for the vacation, with flounce and trimmings busy;</div>
<div class="verse">The snow lies white about us, the birds again are dumb,—</div>
<div class="verse">The lying blue-frocked rascals who told us Spring had come;</div>
<div class="verse">But in the woods of Folly-Mill the sweet May-flowers are making</div>
<div class="verse">All ready for the moment of Nature’s glad awaking.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Come when they come; their welcome share:—except when at the city,</div>
<div class="verse">For months I’ve scarce seen womankind, save when, in sheerest pity,</div>
<div class="verse">Gail Hamilton came up, beside my lonely hearth to sit,</div>
<div class="verse">And make the Winter evening glad with wisdom and with wit</div>
<div class="verse">And fancy, feeling but the spur and not the curbing bit,</div>
<div class="verse">Lending a womanly charm to what before was bachelor rudeness;—</div>
<div class="verse">The Lord reward her for an act of disinterested goodness!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">And now, with love to Mrs. F., and Mrs. S. (God bless her!),</div>
<div class="verse">And hoping that my foolish rhyme may not prove a transgressor,</div>
<div class="verse">And wishing for your sake and mine, it wiser were and wittier,</div>
<div class="verse">I leave it, and subscribe myself, your old friend,</div>
</div>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">John G. Whittier.</span></p>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p>
<blockquote>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO MRS. J. T. FIELDS.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly</span>, June 21, 1866.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Annie</span>,—Here I am once more by the salt
sea, and out of the beautiful retreat of the Shakers,
where we said “Good-by.”</p>
<p>“Aunt Mary” told me I might come again, and
if it were not for the vision of that great dining-room,
and the “two settings” of brethren and sisters,
and the general wash-basin, I should almost be
tempted to go also, and steep myself in that great
quietness: only one would need a book now and
then, and literature seems to be tabooed among
them.</p>
<p>Mr. Whittier was much interested to hear of our
adventures. I think I must have been eloquent
about cider, for he said, “I wish I had some of it
this minute,” so earnestly that I wished I had my
hand upon that invisible Shaker barrel....</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO MRS. CELIA THAXTER.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly</span>, July 16, 1867.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Friend</span>,—To think that yesterday I
was among the Enchanted Isles, and to-day here,
with only the warm murmur of the west wind among
the elms! The glory of the day and the far eastern
sea lingers with me yet. How I do thank you
for those three bright days! The undercurrent of
memory would have been too much but for your
kindness.</p>
<p>I think I kept it well covered, but there was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span>
vast unrest in me, all those days. I seemed to myself
wandering over the turfy slopes, and the rocks,
and the sea, in search of a dream, a sweet, impalpable
presence that ever eluded me. I never knew
how fully dear Lizzie<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> filled my heart, until she was
gone. Is it always so? But that Island is Lizzie
to me, now. It was the refuge of her dreams, when
she could not be there in reality. Her whole being
seemed to blossom out into the immense spaces of
the sea. I am glad that I have been there once
again, and with only the dear brother, and you
whom she loved and admired so much. For you <i>are</i>
an enchantress. It is a great gift to attract and
to <i>hold</i> as you can, and rare, even among women.
To some it is a snare, but I do not believe it ever
can be to you, because the large generosity of the
sea was born into you. How can you help it, if
your waves overblow with music, and all sorts of
mysterious wealth upon others of us humans? I
hope you beguiled our friend into a stay of more
than the one day he spoke of. It was doing him so
much good to be there, in that free and easy way;
just the life he ought to lead for half the year,
at least. I shall always use my meagre arts most
earnestly to get him to the Island when you are
there. There is such a difference in human atmospheres,
you know; the petty, east-wind blighted inhabitants
of towns are not good for the health of
such as he. I esteem it one of the wonderful blessings
of my life that he does not feel uncomfortable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>
when I am about. With you, there is the added
element of exhilaration, the rarest thing to receive,
as one gets into years.</p>
<p>It is a sacred trust, the friendship of such a man.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO MISS JEAN INGELOW.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly, Mass.</span>, December 15, 1867.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Miss Ingelow</span>,—It was very kind of
you to write to me, and I can hardly tell you how
much pleasure your letter gave me, in my at present
lonely and unsettled life. I think a woman’s life
is necessarily lonely, if unsettled: the home-instinct
lies so deep in us. But I have never had a real
home since I was a little child. I have married
sisters, with whom I stay, when my work allows it,
but that is not like one’s own place. I want a
corner exclusively mine, in which to spin my own
web and ravel it again, if I wish.</p>
<p>I wish I could learn to think my own thoughts
in the thick of other people’s lives, but I never
could, and I am too old to begin now. However,
there are compensations in all things, and I would
not be out of reach of the happy children’s voices,
which echo round me, although they will break in
upon me rather suddenly, sometimes.</p>
<p>You asked about the sea,—our sea. The coast
here is not remarkable. Just here there is a deep,
sunny harbor, that sheltered the second company
of the Pilgrim settlers from the Mother-Country,
more than two centuries ago. A little river,
which has leave to be such only at the return of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>
tide, half clasps the town in its crooked arm, and
makes many an opening of beauty twice a day,
among the fields and under the hills. The harbor is
so shut in by islands, it has the effect of a lake; and
the tide comes up over the wide, weedy flats, with
a gentle and gradual flow. There are never any
dangerous “High Tides” here. But up the shore
a mile or two, the islands drift away, and the sea
opens gradually as we near the storm-beaten point
of Cape Ann, where we can see nothing but
the waves and the ships, between us and Great
Britain. The granite cliffs grow higher towards
the Cape, but their hollows are relieved by little
thickets of intensely red wild roses, and later, by
the purple twinkling asters and the golden-rod’s
embodied sunshine.</p>
<p>The east wind is bitter upon our coast. The
wild rocks along the Cape are strewn with memories
of shipwreck. Perhaps you remember Longfellow’s
“Wreck of the Hesperus.” The “Reef of
Norman’s Woe” is at Cape Ann, ten miles or so
from here. About the same distance out, there
is a group of islands,—the Isles of Shoals, which
are a favorite resort in the summer, and getting to
be somewhat too fashionable, for their charm is the
wildness which they reveal and allow. Dressed
up people spoil nature, somehow; unintentionally,
I suppose; but the human butterflies are better in
their own <i>parterres</i>. At Appledore, one of the
larger of these islands, I have spent many happy
days with the sister of our poet Whittier, now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span>
passed to the eternal shores,—and the last summer
was there again, without her, alas! I missed
her so, even though her noble brother was there!
Perhaps that only recalled the lost, lovely days too
vividly. I have seldom loved any one as I loved her.</p>
<p>These islands are full of strange gorges and
caverns, haunted with stories of pirate and ghost.
The old-world romance seems to have floated to
them. And there I first saw your English pimpernel.
It came here with the Pilgrims, I suppose,
as it is not a native. It is pleasant to meet with
these emigrant flowers. Most of them are carefully
tended in gardens, but some are healthily naturalized
in the bleakest spots. I should so like to see
the daisies—Chaucer’s daisies—in their native
fields; and the “yellow primrose,” too. Neither
of these grows readily in our gardens. I have seen
them only as petted house-plants.</p>
<p>I recognize some of our wild flowers in your
“Songs of Seven.” By the way, Mr. Niles has
sent me an illustrated copy of it, and what a gem
it is! But I hardly know what are especially ours.
Have you the tiny blue four-petaled “Houstonia
Cærulia”?—our first flower of spring, that and the
rock-saxifrage! And is October in England gladdened
with the heavenly azure of the fringed gentian?
And does the climbing bitter-sweet hang its
orange-colored fruit high in the deep green of the
pine-trees, in the autumn? The most wonderful
climber I ever saw was the trumpet-vine of the
West. It grew on the banks of the Mississippi,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span>
climbing to the top of immense primeval trees,
bursting out, there, into great red, clarion-like
flowers. It seems literally to fix a foot in the trees
as it climbs,—and it has an uncivilized way of
pulling the shingles off the roofs of the houses over
which it is trained. I am glad that violets are
common property in the world. The prairies are
blue with them. How at home they used to make
me feel! for they are New England blossoms too.</p>
<p>I wonder if you like the mountains as well as
you do the sea. I am afraid I do, and better, even.
It seems half disloyal to say so, for I was born here;
to me there is rest and strength, and aspiration
and exultation, among the mountains. They are
nearly a day’s journey from us—the White Mountains—but
I will go, and get a glimpse and a breath
of their glory, once a year, always. I was at Winnipiseogee,
a mountain-girdled lake, in New Hampshire,
when I saw your handwriting, first,—in a
letter which told of your having been in Switzerland.
We have no sky-cleaving Alps,—there is a
massiveness, a breadth, about the hill scenery here,
quite unlike them, I fancy. But such cascades,
such streams as rise in the hard granite, pure as
liquid diamonds, and with a clear little thread of
music!</p>
<p>I usually stop at a village on the banks of the
Pemigewasset, a small silvery river that flows from
the Notch Mountains,—a noble pile, that hangs
like a dream, and flits like one too, in the cloudy
air, as you follow the stream’s winding up to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>
Flume, which is a strange grotto, cut sharply down
hundreds of feet through a mountain’s heart; an
immense boulder was lodged in the cleft when it
was riven, half way down, and there it forever
hangs, over the singing stream. The sundered
rocks are dark with pines, and I never saw anything
lovelier than the green light with which the
grotto is flooded by the afternoon sun. But I
must not go on about the mountains, or I shall
never stop,—I want to say something about our
poets, but I will not do that, either.</p>
<p>Beauty drifts to us from the mother-land, across
the sea, in argosies of poetry. How rich we are
with Old England’s wealth! Our own lies yet
somewhat in the ore, but I think we have the genuine
metal.</p>
<p>How true it is, as you say, that we can never
utter the best that is in us, poets or not. And the
great true voices are so, not so much because they
can speak for themselves, but because they are the
voices of our common humanity.</p>
<p>The poets are but leaders in the chorus of souls—they
utter our pæans and our <i>misereres</i>, and so
we feel that they belong to us. It is indeed a
divine gift, the power of drawing hearts upward
through the magic of a song; and the anointed ones
must receive their chrism with a holy humility.
They receive but to give again,—“more blessed”
so. And they may also receive the gratitude of
those they bless, to give it back to God.</p>
<p>I hope you will write to me again some time,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>
though I am afraid I ought not to expect it. I
know what it is to have the day too short for the
occupations which <i>must</i> fill it,—to say nothing of
what <i>might</i>, very pleasantly, too.</p>
<p>But I shall always be sincerely and gratefully
yours,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO J. G. WHITTIER.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly</span>, February 28, 1868.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Friend</span>,—Nothing would be pleasanter
to me than a visit to Amesbury, and the cold
weather is no especial drawback. But I cannot be
away from Beverly now, my mother is so ill. She
has been suffering very much all winter, but is now
nearly helpless, and I think she is rapidly failing.
She has an experienced nurse with her, and there
is little that any of us can do for her, except to
look in now and then, and let her know that her
children are not far away. That seems to be her
principal earthly comfort. The coming rest is very
welcome to her. She lies peacefully hoping for it,
and she has suffered, and still does, such intense
pain, I cannot feel as I otherwise would about her
leaving us. But the rending of these familiar ties
is always very hard to bear. She has been a good,
kind mother to me, and it is saddest of all to see
her suffer without the power of relief; to know that
death only can end her pain.</p>
<p>I think of you often, and wish I could sit down
for an evening by the light of your cheery wood
fire, and have one of the old-time chats. I am so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span>
glad that A—— is there, to make it home-like. I
think my most delightful remembrances of Amesbury
are of that fireside, and the faces gathered
about it, upon which the soft flow of the flames
flickered and kindled, with the playful and varying
interchange of thought. Last Sunday night I
spent at Harriet Pitman’s. Cold enough it was,
too. But the greenhouse is a small edition of the
tropics, and full of blossoms and sweet odors. I
should want to live in it, if I were there.</p>
<p>I do not know what to make of the aspect of
things at Washington. It cannot be that we shall
be left to plunge into another war, and yet we may
need it. I do not see that our terrible struggle
made the deep impression it should in establishing
national principles. Only apathy to the most
vital interests could have brought us to this pass.
It seems as if A. J. must show himself an absolute
fiend, before his removal is insisted upon.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Miss Larcom’s mother died March 14, 1868.
The bereavement was great; but the long illness
had prepared her daughter for the affliction. Years
afterwards she used to say that when in trouble or
despondency, like a child she wanted to cry out for
her mother.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII.</h2></div>
<p class="ph3">WRITINGS AND LETTERS.<br />
1868-1880.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Though</span> Miss Larcom’s formal connection with
school life ended when she left Norton, she continued
to deliver occasional, and sometimes weekly,
lectures at different schools, on topics illustrating
English literature. In 1867, and at intervals for
years after, at the Ipswich Academy, at Wheaton,
at Dr. Gannett’s school, and at Bradford Academy,
the students never forgot her addresses on “Criticism,”
“Elizabethan Poetry,” “The Drama,” and
“Sidney’s ‘Arcadia.’”</p>
<p>In spite of the fact that she received a fair salary
from “Our Young Folks,” and added to her resources
by teaching and by printing poems in the
magazines, it was necessary for her to practice economy.
With the intention of being careful in her
expenditures, she took rooms in Boston, purchasing
and cooking her own food. She alluded to the plan
thus: “In my housekeeping plan, I am going to
carry out a pet notion. People generally prefer
indigestible food, I find; at least, I cannot often get
what I can digest. So I am going to teach myself
to make unleavened bread, and all sorts of coarse-grained<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>
eatables, and these, with figs and dates,
and baked apples, and a little meat now and then,
will keep me in clover.” Her friends, hearing of
the way in which she “caricatured housekeeping,”
sent her boxes full of good things. It was with
the pleasure of a school girl receiving a Thanksgiving
box, that she acknowledged the receipt of eggs,
cranberries, apples, and “such exquisitely sweet
butter.” She proved that with very little expense
one can be happy, if the spirit is cheerful. This
incident is an illustration of a lifetime of economical
living.</p>
<p>The year 1868 was an important one to her, for
in it her first volume of verse was printed. Influenced
by the wishes of her friends for a keepsake,
and feeling that, if she published, it would be a
record of work done, and from it, as a mile-stone,
she would be encouraged to do better verse-making
in the future, she launched upon the literary market
her book, entitled simply “Poems.” It contained
many of the lyrics upon which her fame as a poet
will always be based. “Hannah,” and “Skipper
Ben,” and “Hilary” have a place in it. “Hand in
Hand with Angels” keeps before one the thought
of unseen spiritual presences. “A Year in Heaven”
reminds one of the life beyond, while “At the
Beautiful Gate” expresses the longing of the soul
for greater truth:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Lord, open the door, for I falter,</div>
<div class="indent">I faint in this stifled air.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>The sweet quietude of “The Chamber called<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span>
Peace” surrounds the reader, for it merited Mr.
Whittier’s remark that “it is really one of the
sweetest poems of Christian consolation I have
read.” The rich, full notes of “A Thanksgiving”
are heard, as a human soul pours forth its earnest
gratitude:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“For the world’s exhaustless beauty,</div>
<div class="indent">I thank thee, O my God!”</div>
</div></div>
<p>About this poem, Rev. J. W. Chadwick said to her,
“Your ‘Thanksgiving’ has become ritual in my
church. If the people did not hear it every year,
they would think the times were out of joint.”</p>
<p>Miss Ingelow wrote her that she liked best “A
White Sunday,” with its hopeful lines, expressing
“the earnest expectation of the creature:”—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“The World we live in wholly is redeemed;</div>
<div class="verse">Not man alone, but all that man holds dear:</div>
<div class="verse">His orchards and his maize; forget-me-not</div>
<div class="verse">And heart’s-ease, in his garden; and the wild</div>
<div class="verse">Aerial blossoms of the untrained wood,</div>
<div class="verse">That makes its savagery so home-like; all</div>
<div class="verse">Have felt Christ’s sweet Love watering their roots</div>
<div class="verse">His Sacrifice has won both Earth and Heaven.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>The “Poems” were well received everywhere, and
the reviewers were generally most complimentary.
It was seen at once that a real poet, of true inspiration,
had taken a permanent place in American
literature. The musical modulations of the verse,
with its tender lyrical quality, its local New England
coloring, and its strong moral sentiment, soon
gained her the affections of the people.</p>
<p>The name “Lucy Larcom” was now well known;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span>
but, curiously enough, it was not associated with
her personality, for it was thought to be a fictitious
name, with “Apt alliteration’s artful aid.” A habit
common among certain authors of the day was to
have such euphonious <i>noms de plume</i> as “Minnie
Myrtle,” “Fanny Forrester,” “Grace Greenwood;”
and it was natural that “Lucy Larcom” should
be classed with them. She often had amusing
encounters with strangers about her identity. On
the cars one day, a woman changed her seat for
one in front of Miss Larcom, and, turning round,
put the question, “Are you really Lucy Larcom,
the poet? Some one said you were.”</p>
<p>“Yes, that is my name.”</p>
<p>“Then it is not a made-up name? Well, we
never thought it was real when we read your pieces;
and we thought you were younger.”</p>
<p>“I am sorry to disappoint you.”</p>
<p>“Oh! You don’t disappoint me! I like the
looks of you; only, people will have their ideas
about poets.”</p>
<p>A gentleman who had just been introduced to
her was discussing the subject of names. He asked
the derivation of her name; she told him that it
was originally “Lark-Holme,” the home of the
larks; then he said, “Is there not some one who
takes your name, and writes poetry, calling herself
‘Lucy Larcom’? I never read any of the stuff.”</p>
<p>In 1872, she did her first work of collaboration
with Mr. Whittier. Conceiving the plan of printing
a volume of poems dealing with the life of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>
children, he secured her aid, and “Child-Life”
was the first book which they produced in this way.
He deferred to her judgment in the selection of
the material, and, when doubtful, he always accepted
her opinion. In sending her some poems
for the collection, he wrote, “I leave thee to thy
judgment; I think they will do, but I defer to thy
wisdom.” Her name is thus associated with the
happy hours of many children, who were, and are,
brought up on the wholesome verses of this nursery
book. “The Owl and the Pussycat,” “The Spider
and the Fly,” and “Philip, my King,” with appropriate
pictures, first became known to thousands of
children, from this green-covered daily companion.</p>
<p>“Child-Life in Prose” came as a natural sequel
to child-life in poetry; and Hawthorne’s “Little
Annie’s Ramble,” Lamb’s “Dream Children,”
“The Ugly Duckling” of Hans Andersen, and
“The Story without End,” were made familiar
through the medium of its pages.</p>
<p>Doubtless influenced by these publications, Miss
Larcom decided to print, in a volume of her own,
the children’s poems she had written, especially
those for “Our Young Folks;” so in 1873 her
“Childhood Songs” appeared.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Amesbury</span>, November 25, 1874.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Friend</span>,—I have just been looking over
the beautiful book of “Childhood Songs,” and my
judgment is, that it is the best book of the kind I
have ever seen. It has many poems, which, beside<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span>
their adaptation to children, have a merit as lyrics,
which I do not know where to look for in other collections
of this sort. The heart is generally right
in such books, but here head and heart are both satisfactory.</p>
<p>We did not get up so good a book as this in our
“Child-Life.”</p>
<p class="center">Thy friend,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">J. G. Whittier</span>.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO MRS. MARY MAPES DODGE.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly Farms</span>, December 3, 1874.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mrs. Dodge</span>,—The publishers assure
me that they sent you a copy of “Childhood’s
Songs,” as I requested. I hope you received it, at
last. I care to have you like it, as a lover of children,
quite as much as to have it spoken of in the
magazine.</p>
<p>Your own little book must be nice; I hope to see
it when I go to Boston.</p>
<p>Doubtless you are right about the verses. I always
accept an editor’s decision, without objecting,
as I know the difficulties of the position. I will
write when I can. For a month or two, I shall be
specially busy, and possibly may not have time for
“St. Nicholas,” for which it is a pleasure to write.</p>
<p class="right">Yours most truly,<span class="gap"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</span></p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO THE SAME.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly Farms</span>, December 30, 1874.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Mrs. Dodge</span>,—Your charming
“Rhymes and Jingles” followed your pleasant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>
note, and I thank you for both. The book is just
what children most enjoy, as a real mother’s book
will be sure to be; and you have some sweet little
poems which seem to hide themselves too modestly
among the merry rhymes.</p>
<p>I think I have the mother-feeling,—ideally,
at least; a woman is not a woman quite, who lacks
it, be she married or single. The children—God
bless them!—belong to the mother-heart that beats
in all true women. They seem even dearer, sometimes,
because I have none of my own to love and
be loved by, for there is a great emptiness that
only child-love can fill. So God made us, and I
thank Him for it. The world’s unmothered ones
would be worse off if it were not so.</p>
<p>Thank you for writing of yourself, and your boys.
I wish I knew you, face to face. I am sure we
should find ourselves in sympathy in many ways.</p>
<p>I send a verse or two, for by and by, when the
March winds blow.</p>
<p>When I get to a little clearing of leisure, I will
write more for “St. Nicholas.”</p>
<p class="center">Truly your friend,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO MRS. J. T. FIELDS.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly Farms</span>, December 5, 1875.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Annie</span>,—I had a pleasant little visit at
Mrs. Pitman’s after I left you. We went to Professor
Thayer’s, in Cambridge, that evening, and
heard Emerson’s noble paper on “Immortality,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span>
which is soon to be published. There is great satisfaction
in hearing such words from such a man’s
own lips, for we know that Emerson has as little as
mortal can have of the haze of vanity between himself
and the truth; and it is this surely, oftener
than anything else, that blinds men’s minds to the
open secret of eternal life.</p>
<p>Mr. Longfellow was there, and I had a pleasant
talk with him. He spoke of the book he is preparing
and told me he wanted to put into it “Hannah
Binding Shoes.”</p>
<p>Mr. Garrison and Henry Vincent, the lecturer,
were at Mrs. P.’s the next day.</p>
<p>I have been in Newburyport since I left Somerville,
at my friend Mrs. Spalding’s. Mr. Whittier
came there on his way from Boston, and I did not
see that he was the worse for the woman-avalanche
that descended upon him at your door....</p>
</blockquote>
<p>In 1875, “An Idyl of Work,” dedicated to working
women, was issued by Osgood & Co. It is a
long poem in blank verse, written chiefly in pentameters,
and describes most beautifully the life of
the Lowell factory girls, in “The Forties.” There
is a song of delight in work, running through it all.
The incidents of prosaic labor are invested with a
charm; and the toiler’s lot is shown to have its
bright side in the community of womanly interests
that develop strong traits of character, and lead
to lifelong attachments. It is an epic of labor,
giving a history of an episode in American manufacture,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>
that proved how mental and moral culture
can be aided by hand-work, when the laborer looks
upon his occupation as his privilege.</p>
<p>In the following year, “Roadside Poems,” a well-edited
compilation of mountain poetry, added a new
interest to the country and the mountains, for the
summer traveler. Shelley, Wordsworth, Longfellow,
Browning, and Lowell, were made to act as
interpreters of the wonders of the lane, and the
beauty of the sunrise over mountain sanctuaries, and
to explain the meaning of the storm reverberating
among the hills. It is a little book filled with
glimpses of the sky, the fragrance of flowers, the
earth-smell of ferns, and the coloring of autumn
leaves.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO J. G. WHITTIER.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">83 Waltham Street, Boston</span>,<br />
January 1, 1878.</p>
<p>... Of course you must have grown very tired
of the poetry written to you, and about you. I sent
my verses to the “Transcript,” because I thought
you seemed too much pleased to think I had spared
you the infliction! Discipline can never come too
late in life, I am confident!</p>
<p>Still, I didn’t say a word more than the truth,
and I think I spoke sincerely for many others. It
is a great thing to have won a nation’s affection,—much
greater than the greatest amount of mere
fame.</p>
<p>Judging from our own inside view, none of us<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>
deserve to be as well thought of by our friends as
we are; but the beauty of it is, that real friendship
knows us best after all, because it sees in us our
best aim, endeavor, and possibilities, and lets our
failures and imperfections pass by and be forgotten.
Why not, when the judge is always so imperfect,
too?</p>
<p>The sum of which is, that we all think you a
pretty good sort of man, as men go.</p>
<p class="center">Always thy friend,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">83 Waltham Street</span>, January 17, 1878.</p>
<p>I have been reading the Book of Romans through,
trying to forget that I had ever read it before, and
I find that “justification by faith” seems to me a
very different doctrine from the one I was brought
up on. I don’t know that I should understand it as
Luther did. But it seems to me grander than I
have dreamed of before. It is freedom to stand
with our faces to the light, whatever our past may
have been; freedom to do right from the love of it,
and not as burdensome duty; and the love of doing
right as the proof of deliverance. Is not this the
“grace wherein ye stand,” which Paul preached as
free grace in Christ?</p>
<p>I find very little in the Book of Romans which
points to some <i>future</i> salvation. It is the life redeemed
from love of sin, which he seems to be talking
to the Romans about. I do wish religion were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span>
made more practical in theology, after this Pauline
fashion. I do not care for any commentator’s
judgment. I think that common sense and a sincere
desire for truth will be shown the right interpretation....</p>
</blockquote>
<p>During part of the winter of 1878, Miss Larcom
made her only foreign trip—a visit to Europe never
being possible, on account of the expense—to Bermuda,
which she thoroughly enjoyed. She wrote
letters to the Boston “Daily Advertiser,” describing
the “Still vexed Bermoothes,” with enthusiastic
appreciation. The recollection of Miranda and
Prospero, with “hag-born” Caliban, interested her
as much as the houses with walls of coral, or the
transparency of the beryl sea, through which one
could see the sponges, and large purple amenones,
and fish of brilliant hues. “A banana plantation
is rather a shabby-looking affair; the leaves are
beaten to tatters by the island tempests; but for
a contrast there is the royal palm, to see which
for the first time is an era in one’s life, lifting its
stately column above the cocoanut and India rubber
trees. And we are satisfied that roses smell no
less sweet for growing on the border of an onion
patch. After all this wonder of foreign growths
it is pleasant to see a dandelion in flower, and to
find little mats of pimpernel on the hillside before
our hotel. These little home-blossoms deepen the
home feeling, and we are no more foreigners, even
here.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>A poem full of semi-tropical scenery, written on
this trip, appeared in “Harper’s Magazine:”—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Under the eaves of a southern sky,</div>
<div class="indent">Where the cloud-roof bends to the ocean floor,</div>
<div class="verse">Hid in lonely seas, the Bermoothes lie,</div>
<div class="indent">An emerald cluster that Neptune bore</div>
<div class="verse">Away from the covetous earth-god’s sight,</div>
<div class="verse">And placed in a setting of sapphire light.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>For “pot-boilers,” Miss Larcom undertook various
inferior kinds of literary work, such as compilations
of poetical calendars, and short biographical
notices of famous people. One of her books of
this class, “Landscape in American Poetry,” with
beautiful illustrations by Mr. J. Appleton Brown,
was published in 1879. There was some original
writing in it, but in the main, it was a collection
from many sources, of poems dealing with interesting
places in America.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO MRS. E. B. WHEATON.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">627 Tremont Street, Boston</span>,<br />
January 21, 1879.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Mrs. Wheaton</span>,—I have been intending
to write, ever since I was at Norton, and
tell you how much I enjoyed being there, and returning
to the spirit of my old days at the Seminary.</p>
<p>I was so ill the last years of my stay there, I
hardly knew how much of a home it was to me.
To go back in restored health was a revelation of
the old joy in my work. I think there must be
something of the same feeling in looking back from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>
the better world we hope for, when we have passed
from this. We shall never know how good and
beautiful a world we have lived in until we get
away from it, and can get a glimpse of it with all
our weariness and cares laid aside.</p>
<p>I think a great deal of the beautiful atmosphere
which pervades the Norton life is due to the generous
idea in which the school was founded. It gives
the place a home feeling rarely found in such
schools.</p>
<p class="center">Ever truly yours,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Boston</span>, December 6, 1879.</p>
<p>When I came home from the reception and
breakfast given to Dr. Holmes on Wednesday, I
thought I would sit down and write you about it at
once.... The breakfast was a splendid success;
you have probably read about it, but there was a
certain exhilaration in being in the presence of so
many bright people, and feeling perfectly at home,
which was indescribable. I never expected to enjoy
anything of the kind at all, but I was really taken
off my feet, in a figurative sense. Dr. Holmes
filled the place of honor in a delightful manner.
It was really like sitting down at his own breakfast
table. Mrs. Whitney and I went at twelve as invited.
I left at a little past six and they were not
through with their letters and speeches then. I
was introduced to ever so many people I never saw
before.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span>... I don’t know but the pleasantest thing to me
was the opportunity of speaking to Rev. Phillips
Brooks, or rather of hearing him speak face to face.
To look up into his honest, clear eyes, was like seeing
the steady lights in a watch-tower; and a tower
of strength he is among us. The outward largeness
of the man is a type of his moral strength and mental
breadth and spiritual height, I am more than
ever convinced. I never spoke to a man who
seemed so thoroughly grand to me.</p>
<p>Mr. Whittier came, but remained a very short
time. I saw him only a moment, just before we
went in. My escort—they were all coupled off
by a printed plan—was Mr. William Winter, a
New York poet and journalist. He was very entertaining,
and I think his poem was the best and
most effective of the occasion.</p>
<p>... I am fast getting to be a dissipated woman,
but I must and will put myself to work steadily for
a week or two.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>This was the first meeting between Miss Larcom
and Mr. Brooks. She had heard him preach at
Trinity Church and was greatly helped by his
sermons, for which she had often thanked him by
letter, and, in return, had received some few characteristic
lines, like the following:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Boston</span>, April 14, 1879.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Miss Larcom</span>,—The preaching of
Christ as a personal friend and Saviour of all our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span>
souls becomes to me more and more the one interesting
work of life, and the readiness of the people
to hear that one simple message, which, in its endlessly
various forms, is always the same, gives me
ever new satisfaction and delight.</p>
<p>I have known you by your verses for years. I
hope some day we may meet.</p>
<p class="center">Yours very truly,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Phillips Brooks</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The friendship between them deepened, as the
years went on. They had many serious conversations
on spiritual subjects, and he became to her
the great religious guide of her life. His personality,
with its earnest, and even fierce, love for the
simplicity of truth, and the power with which he
presented it, made the deepest impression upon
her in her last decade, and brought to the fruition
of spiritual loveliness the remaining years of her
career.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Boston</span>, March 20, 1880.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Miss Larcom</span>,—You will allow me
to thank you for your note and to say how truly
glad I am if anything I said on Wednesday evening
helped you in your thought of the Lord’s Supper.
To me the Personalness of the great Sacrament
seems to be the key to all its meaning, and its simplicity
is its grandeur and its charm.</p>
<p class="center">Ever yours sincerely,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Phillips Brooks</span>.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span></p>
<p class="center">TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">627 Tremont Street</span>,<br />
February 12, 1880.
</p>
<p>... You must be disheartened often, in having
to listen to the vagaries of the many who have ordained
themselves prime ministers of divine affairs.
I really cannot feel it right to put myself in the
way of hearing such talk.</p>
<p>What can the end be, since there is common sense
among the people, but a disgust for preaching altogether?</p>
<p>But I believe in a movement towards a service
in which worship shall be the chief element; and I
don’t think I am a step nearer Episcopacy, either.
I am trying to like that, because I have always
been unjustly prejudiced against it, but I am a
born Independent at heart....</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The years of Miss Larcom’s greatest poetical
production were brought to a close by the printing,
in 1880, of “The Wild Roses of Cape Ann.” Her
works were bound together in a Household Edition,
in 1884. After this, she wrote continually for the
magazines, and on anniversary occasions of various
kinds. Some of these verses were included, with a
few new ones, in the booklet “Easter Gleams,” and
in the selection of religious poems, called “At the
Beautiful Gate,” but no noted additions were made
to her poems after this, though there are many
of her lines of great beauty, scattered through the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>
pages of current ephemeral literature, up to the
time of her death.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO S. T. PICKARD.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Bethel, Me.</span>, September 30, 1880.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Mr. Pickard</span>—I go to-morrow to
Berlin Falls, New Hampshire, to stay at the Cascade
House until I have finished reading my proof.<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a>
I wish to thank you for your interest in the book
about to be. It will have more character and more
local color than the other; but I do not write for
critics, but for my friends, as the dedication will
show, and I do not care much whether critics like
it or not, provided my friends do.</p>
<p>I can conceive of no greater damper upon one’s
poetic attempts than the cold water of criticism.
It is from heart to heart, from friend to friend,
that I write; and I find in that the highest inspiration
to do my best. Of course I am glad to enlarge
the circle of my friends in this way; and poetry
has amply repaid me in the coin of friendship.
One gives out life in writing; and nothing but life
in return—life enlarged and filled—gives any
true satisfaction. Of course I shall send you a
copy, not editorially, but personally.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The “Wild Roses” were fragrant, and delighted
some of the critics, even, for in addition to those
that grew along Cape Ann, there were many cultivated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span>
ones, that blossomed beside the still waters
of thought, and in the quiet retreats of meditation:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="indent6">“A Rose is sweet,</div>
<div class="verse">No matter where it grows: and roses grow</div>
<div class="verse">Nursed by the pure heavens, and the strengthening earth,</div>
<div class="verse">Wherever men will let them. Every waste</div>
<div class="verse">And solitary place is glad for them,</div>
<div class="verse">Since the old prophets sang, so, until now.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>“Phebe” has a prominent place in the book—the
poem that drew from Mr. Howells, when he
was editor of the “Atlantic,” a most graceful note of
acceptance:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Miss Larcom</span>,—You take rejections
so sweetly, that I have scarcely the heart to accept
anything of yours. But I do like “Phebe,” and
I am going to keep her.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>“Shared” excited admiration; and was pronounced
by one competent critic to be the best religious
lyric of the decade:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“The air we breathe, the sky, the breeze,</div>
<div class="indent">The light without us and within,</div>
<div class="verse">Life, with its unlocked treasuries,</div>
<div class="indent">God’s riches, are for all to win.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>The theological poem, “The Heart of God,” was
the cause of controversy. A stranger wrote, asking
her to change it, for he thought it expressed too
clearly “the old doctrine of the Divinity of Christ.”
She answered politely, but with a strong statement<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span>
of her faith, that what he called “the old Doctrine”
was the inspiration of the verses: “To me, Christ
is the Infinite Person, at once human and divine.
God exists as impersonal Spirit, but I know Him
only as a person through Christ. The historical
Christ is entirely true to me, as the only way in
which God could humanly be known to us. It
is no more impossible for me to believe that the
‘Eternal Christ of God,’ the personal manifestation
of Deity, should veil Himself for a time with the
human form, than that we, in our humble personality,
as sharers of the Divine Nature, should wear
it as we do.” The same truth she put strongly in
“Our Christ,” when she wrote:—</p>
<p class="center">“In Christ I feel the Heart of God.”</p>
<p>Concerning this poem, the Rev. W. Garrett Horder,
the English hymnologist, writes that it has been
accorded a place in “Hymns Supplemental” for
Congregational churches, and was sung for the
first time in England, February 14, 1894, in Colby
Chapel, Bradford.</p>
<p>In making an analytical study of Miss Larcom’s
poetry, the range of her verse becomes apparent.
She finds expression for her muse in almost all
forms of versification: the epic, as in “An Idyl of
Work;” the ballad, with its merry lines, relating
some story of early New England days, or some delightful
old legend; the lyric in its numerous forms,—pastoral
songs that breathe of the fields and
pretty farms, lyrics of nature in her peaceful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span>
moods when the wayside flower dwells securely, or
in her grander moods when the mountains hide
themselves in storm-clouds, or the sea moans in the
deepening tempest; lyrics of grief, when, in solemn
and plaintive strains, she chants the dirge of
Elizabeth Whittier, or tolls the passing bell of Lincoln,
or sheds a tear over the grave of Garfield;
and sacred lyrics, in which she deals with the
deepest emotions of the human heart, expressing
its longing after immortality, and its adoration for
God. The range of her verse is further enlarged
by the addition of the sonnet’s “narrow plot of
ground,” and the stately movement of the ode.</p>
<p>Her lines always have a musical flow born of intense
emotion. They have a smoothness and ripple,
like the flow of the summer brook, or the even
modulations of the tides. At times, they possess a
cadence not unlike what Mr. Arnold, speaking of
Spenser, calls “fluidity,”—an effect produced by
combinations of melodious sounds, as in these lines
from “On the Beach:”—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“And glimmering beach, and plover’s flight,</div>
<div class="indent">And that long surge that rolls</div>
<div class="verse">Through bands of green and purple light,</div>
<div class="verse">Are fairer to our human sight</div>
<div class="indent">Because of human souls.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>Again, in “Golden-Rod:”—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“The swinging harebell faintly tolled</div>
<div class="indent">Upon the still autumnal air,</div>
<div class="verse">The golden-rod bent down to hold</div>
<div class="indent">Her rows of funeral torches there.”</div>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span>And in “My Mountain:”—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“I shut my eyes in the snow-fall,</div>
<div class="indent">And dream a dream of the hills;</div>
<div class="verse">The sweep of a host of mountains,</div>
<div class="indent">The flash of a hundred rills.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>Together with the music, there is strength in her
verses, when she attempts to deal with subjects that
call for vigorous treatment. In the “Rose Enthroned,”
there is a strong grasping at the origin of
things, and powerful descriptions of the primeval
birth-throes that, from the war of elements, issued
forth in the fairness of creation.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Built by the warring elements they rise,</div>
<div class="indent">The massive earth-foundations, tier on tier,</div>
<div class="verse">Where slimy monsters with unhuman eyes</div>
<div class="indent">Their hideous heads uprear.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>In her mountain descriptions there is the same
power. The wind-beaten and thunder-scarred summit
of Whiteface presents itself to her as the
visage of a monarch, who seems to rule the race
of giant hills. The effect of a mountain whose
slopes plunge into the sea is graphically given in
the phrase, “Plunged knee-deep in yon glistening
sea.” Her appreciation for beautiful details of nature,
that seemed to escape the common observer, is
seen in her similes and epithets; the little streams
winding through the marshes are called “sea-fed
creeks;” the mists that rise in the evening, reflecting
the light of the descending sun, are “violet
mists;” the quiet of the fields of clover, when one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span>
is out of sound of the waves, are fitly called “sweet
inland silences;” the heart of the woods, where are
the shadows, has its “forest crypts;” and there are
“mosaics of tinted moss.”</p>
<p>Dr. Holmes very well describes her when he says:
“She was as true a product of our Essex County
soil as the bayberry; and her nature had the chaste
and sweet fragrance of its fair and wholesome
leaves. She was a true poetess, and a noble woman.”
Her writings have the genuine flavor of
the soil, like the perfume of the woods, or the salt
spray that bathes one’s face along the seashore.
Mr. Whittier thus analyzed her powers as a poet:
“She holds in rare combination the healthfulness
of simple truth and common sense, with the fine
and delicate fancy, and an artist’s perception of all
beauty.” Mr. Stedman, in his “Poets of America,”
speaks of her as a sweet-voiced singer of
“orchard notes.” This is a good partial description
of certain of her songs, but as an estimate of
her poetical ability it is very limited. She was not
disturbed by the criticism, but wrote thus to a
friend.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.</p>
<p class="right">4 <span class="smcap">Hotel Byron, Berkeley Street</span>,<br />
<span class="smcap">Boston</span>, March 8, 1886.</p>
<p>... Don’t be troubled about “orchard-notes.”
I consider it the highest compliment.</p>
<p>Think of goldfinches and linnets, song-sparrows
and orioles! I know and love their separate songs,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span>
and should feel proud if I thought <i>my</i> singing deserved
comparison with theirs. Why, three fourths
of the cheer of the spring and summer-time is in
those same orchard-notes! I shall have to try hard
to live up to my reputation. But if you do think I
get up a little higher into the air, a little farther off
into the wilderness sometimes, for a more meditative
flight of song, just remember that very high critics
do not always comprehend the music in the air about
them. Does not Milton write of Shakespeare as
“Fancy’s child,” and of his poetry as “wood-notes
wild”?</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Such an estimate must be imperfect, because it
leaves out of consideration the moral power of her
religious writings, which, more than her nature-songs,
have won for her a place in the regard of
the people. A gentleman thanking her for the
gift of one of her books, expressed for many readers
a recognition of this deeper hold: “A soul
once fed and inspired as was mine, at a critical and
sad juncture of its life, by your poetry, is likely to
open, as I did, the beautiful book your kindness
sent me, with strange delight.” One who could
write “A Thanksgiving,” with its noble lines,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“For thine own great gift of Being,</div>
<div class="indent">I thank Thee, O my God,”</div>
</div></div>
<p>and the words,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Lord, enter this house of my being</div>
<div class="indent">And fill every room with Thy light,”—</div>
</div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span>should certainly be called a religious poet of a high
order; and her poems are filled with such passages
as that which follows, presenting religious thought
simply and convincingly:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="indent7">“God hears</div>
<div class="verse">The prayer the good man means, the Soul’s desire,</div>
<div class="verse">Under whatever rubbish of vain speech;</div>
<div class="verse">And prayer is, must be, each man’s deepest words.</div>
<div class="verse">He who denies its power, still uses it,</div>
<div class="verse">Whenever he names God, or thinks of Him.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>Poetry, to her, was vastly more than word-shaping,
or combinations of accented and unaccented
syllables; it was an attitude of mind and soul
towards all existence, a view-point of her being,
from which she saw such visions, and heard such
sounds, that the impulse was irresistible to record
in recognized poetic form her ideas and feelings.
She found poetry in everything around her; it
was the atmosphere she breathed, the medium, like
imponderable ether, through which she saw life.
Nature had a more profound meaning to her than
the charm of color, or the changing pleasures of
the land or the sea. It was the visible evidence
of the unseen, the prophecy of a greater fulfillment,
the proclamation of the spiritual element within,
which the senses of themselves could not perceive.
She once said, “Nature is one vast metaphor
through which spiritual truth may be read:”—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“The Universe is one great loving Thought,</div>
<div class="indent">Written in Hieroglyphs of bud and bloom.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>The delicate and spiritual nature of womanhood,
too, with its heroism, breathed through all she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>
wrote. Everything she touched glowed with the
light of purity. Her aim was to uplift and sweeten
life, by a revelation of its true meaning. Her
measures are choice; her passion is genuine; her
verses sincere; and the <i>morale</i> of them is always
elevating.</p>
<p>Our literature is not rich in women poets of the
highest genius, but there are many who have sung
true songs. Maria Lowell was permitted to give
us a few notes only of her chaste singing. The
Cary sisters, Mrs. Cook, Mrs. Greenough, and
Helen Hunt Jackson, and many who now enliven
our magazines, have done genuine work; but one
often looks in vain for the power that distinguished
Miss Larcom. Considering the range of the versification,
the music of the lines, the strength of
phrase and beauty of metaphor, and lofty moral
intensity of her poetry, it is not claiming too much
to say that it exhibits a genius as versatile and as
rich in its utterance as that of any of her female
contemporaries, and considering the impression that
she has made upon the people, at their firesides and
in their worship, she holds a place, equal to any,
in their hearts.</p>
<p>Her poems have been recognized in many collections
in our land and in England. Mr. Longfellow
in his “Poems of Places” has remembered her.
She is honored in Emerson’s “Parnassus;” one of
her hymns is included in Dr. Martineau’s “Hymns
of the Spirit;” she has been given a place, by
Mr. Garrett Horder, in “A Treasury of Sacred<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span>
Song from American Sources;” by Mr. Higginson,
in “American Sonnets;” by Mr. Richard Grant
White, in “The Poetry of the Rebellion;” and
by Mr. W. M. Rossetti, in his “English Selections
from Popular Poets.”</p>
<p>The following letter to Dr. John Hunter of
Glasgow shows that she enjoyed this recognition
of her work:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly, Mass.</span>, July 10, 1890.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,—A friend gave me your “Hymns of
Faith and Life,” in the winter, telling me she had
found one or two of mine in it. On looking it over,
I find five, not all of which are credited to me,
though all are included in the Household Edition
of my poems, published by Houghton, Mifflin &
Co. I thought you would like to know the authorship,
and therefore write.</p>
<p>Of course I am gratified to know that my hymns
were taken on their own merit apparently, and I
am glad if anything I have written is a natural expression
of sincere worship for other hearts and
voices than my own.</p>
<p class="center">Truly yours,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The two following letters illustrate how Dr.
Holmes and Mr. Longfellow appreciated Miss Larcom’s
work.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="right">296 <span class="smcap">Beacon Street</span>, November 17, 1880.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Miss Larcom</span>,—I have been reading
your poems at all the spare moments I could find<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span>
this evening. Many of them I read carefully—every
page I tasted. My wife and daughter were
sitting opposite to me, and I had to shade my eyes
with my hand that they should not see the tears
shining in them—this over and over again. The
poems are eminently wholesome, sweet, natural.
Their perfume is as characteristic of the soil they
spring from as that of the sweet fern or the bayberry.</p>
<p>It is pleasant to me to find my name in such
good company as it is in your pages, and if anything
I have written has ever given you pleasure
this volume has amply repaid me.</p>
<p class="center">Very sincerely yours,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">O. W. Holmes</span>.</p>
<p>P.S. (Worth all the rest). I got a letter from
Mr. Whittier which reads as follows:—</p>
<p>“Has thee seen Miss Larcom’s ‘Cape Ann’?
I like it, and in reading it I thought thee would
also. Get it and see if she has not a right to stand
with the rest of us. Wishing thee a pleasant
Thanksgiving after the manner of the enclosed card,
I am faithfully thy friend,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">J. G. Whittier</span>.”</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Cambridge</span>, December 24, 1880.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Miss Larcom</span>,—I thank you very much
for your beautiful volume of beautiful poems. I
have been reading it this morning with great enjoyment.</p>
<p>I always liked your poetry, and now like it more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span>
than ever. It is not merely verse, but possesses
the true poetic instinct and insight.</p>
<p>One little song among the many particularly
charms me. It is “At her Bedside.” It ought to
be set to music. Thanks, and all good wishes.</p>
<p class="center">Sincerely yours,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Henry W. Longfellow</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IX.</h2></div>
<p class="ph3">RELIGIOUS CHANGES.<br />
1881-1884.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> true poetic temperament has in it an element
of religion; for religion and poetry both deal with
the spiritual interpretation of life, and one who
possesses the temperament for either is conscious
of the vastness overshadowing common things, and
sees the infinite meaning of the apparent finiteness
of the visible world. The delicate perception of
truth which is a distinctive quality of the poet
often leads to the deep appreciation of the spirit in
and through nature, and enables one to feel and
know God.</p>
<p>Lucy Larcom possessed the poetic temperament,
with this strong element of religion. She was pre-eminently
religious, in the sense of possessing a
spiritual power, dealing continually with spiritual
things. She began early to interpret life in the
light of divine truth; and truth made real in human
character she considered the one thing worth
striving for.</p>
<p>Her relations to organized Christianity are particularly
interesting. Doubtless the history of her
connection with the churches is a type of that of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span>
other lives numerous in our generation that have
become dissatisfied with the communions in which
they have been trained, and after a period of uncertainty
and unrest have found a home in the
Episcopal Church.</p>
<p>Her religious life began in a Puritan home, and
in a Congregational meeting-house. The strong
ethical teaching of her fathers made a lasting impression
on her, and the dogmatic preaching of
Calvinism influenced her young life. From both
she gained a love for the simplicity of living which
characterized her career, and that dearness of conscience
which she always displayed. There was
also a joy to her under the austerity of the worship,
and the sternness of the theology. The sermons
suggested new thoughts, which forced themselves
between the sentences of the minister, and
in this way she preached to herself another sermon
than that spoken from the pulpit.</p>
<p>Her religious enthusiasm bore fruit at thirteen
years of age, in church membership, in Lowell.
Not many years after this she was sorry for the
step she had taken, for the natural broadening of
her mind and the deepening of her consciousness of
truth led her far away from the doctrines she had
accepted. The sermons that she heard did not seem
to satisfy her needs; she longed for spiritual nourishment,
for help on the daily path, for thoughts
that had some connection with actual temptations
and doubts. Most of the discourses dealt ingeniously
with exegetical questions, or were massive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span>
arguments used to crush the objector, or efforts to
prove some metaphysical doctrine. Relating one
Sunday’s experience, which has been referred to
before in her diary, she said, “I went to meeting,
expecting and needing spiritual food, and received
only burning coals and ashes. There was a sermon
to prove that Satan will be tormented for ever and
ever; and the stress of the argument was to prove
the endlessness of his punishment.”</p>
<p>Not only did she find a failing sympathy with
the preaching and worship, but there were doctrines
she could not continue to hold. Among
these doctrines were, verbal inspiration of the
Bible, which she thought mechanical and destructive
of the Spirit’s influence through a distinctive
human personality; the Atonement, as the
purchase blood of God’s favor for a fallen race;
predestination, which seemed to eliminate man’s
freedom; and endless punishment, adjudged for
acts in this life, without any probation in a future
state, which seemed to her contrary to the idea
of the Sonship of man. Neither did she care for
the emphasis placed on doctrine, as distinguished
from life. The central point in her theology was
the truth of God’s love, and from this, by logical
sequence, came her ideas of His revelation through
nature, through human life as His gift, and
through character as a manifestation of His glory.
She was a student of Maurice, who led her along
congenial paths of thought. On Sundays when she
remained away from church, she generally read a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span>
sermon of Robertson’s; and in his powerful analyses
of truth, and in his burning love for the Master,
she found continued inspiration. Her love for
the person of Jesus increased each year. She felt
herself a member of the Invisible Church, being
contented with the thought that the visible churches
had no claim upon her, because of their errors.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO J. G. WHITTIER.</p>
<p class="right">627 <span class="smcap">Tremont Street</span>,<br />
<span class="smcap">Boston</span>, December 25, 1881.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Friend</span>,—Alone in my room this
evening, I feel just like writing a Christmas letter
to you, and I follow the impulse.</p>
<p>This day always brings back old times and old
friends to memory, but never with sadness to me,
because the one idea of the day is hope and joy for
all souls, the possibilities of infinite help, unending
progress. Whenever I enter deeply into the thought
of Christ, whenever I feel Him the one Reality inseparable
from my own being, then I feel that I
have my friends safe, and that they are to be my
friends forever. To me, He is the one Divine
Friend in whom human friendships can alone be
real and permanent, because He draws us into
sympathy with what is best, with what is eternal,
the love of goodness, the consciousness of God in
us and around us, and the solemn gladness of a
human life into which God has entered, and where
He still is.</p>
<p>God with us still, the Spiritual Presence of One<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span>
who is more real than any other person can be to
us, through whom indeed we receive our personality,—this
idea, so grand as at times to seem almost
impossible, grows more definite and clear to me.
It is the “So I am with you alway” of Christ.
And with this idea, that of those whom we love
unseen, our friends who have disappeared from
sight, becomes more definite also.</p>
<p>Sometimes I can say undoubtingly, “I <i>know</i> I
shall find them again, where He is.” But though
the light flickers and dims sometimes, what if it
does? There the light is, and every year a larger
space is redeemed from darkness.</p>
<p>Oh, my dear friend! life is a gift blessed as it is
awful. To think how close we are to one another
for good or evil, do what we will! We cannot be
apart from our fellow-beings; the pulses of this life
we have in common throb, upward or downward,
through us forever. Death is not to me half so
solemn as life: but then death is no reality—a
circumstance of our external life only....</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO THE SAME.</p>
<p class="right">627 <span class="smcap">Tremont Street</span>,<br />
<span class="smcap">Boston</span>, June 6, 1881.</p>
<p>... I am steadily gaining in strength I think,
and I am glad to keep on learning to live and to
work, with such limitations as years necessarily
bring. I find my life taking deeper hold of all
other human lives; I feel myself more closely and
warmly one of the great human family, every<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span>
year of my life. And I feel through this the assurance
of immortality—because we are in our
deepest instincts children of the living God—because
we, as sons and daughters, are united through
the Son with the Father; we share His eternity;
we cannot lose Him nor one another, nor the least
spark of truth or love kindled within us from His
being.</p>
<p>I am glad that I live, and that I shall die; that
I shall fall asleep to awake with all I love, with all
that is permanent here, in Him.</p>
<p>The forward outlook is full of good cheer; for is
not He the Eternally Good?...</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO FRANKLIN CARTER.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly, Mass.</span>, July 18, 1881.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Frank</span>,—I want to write a word of congratulation
to you, in your new position. C——
told me you thought of going to Williamstown, but
I did not know it was fully decided, until I saw
your address in a Boston paper.</p>
<p>It was an excellent inaugural. I felt my sympathy
go out to you as I read. I felt sure, and feel
sure, that you will do good in your new position,
which surely is a most responsible one, in a time
like this. I wonder if it is really a time of greater
unbelief than hitherto. Doubt is not an unhealthy
symptom; it argues the possibility of belief. Indifference
to high truth seems to me worst of all,
the indifference that comes of <i>too much world</i>,
which everybody seems to get suffocated in.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span>It is a great privilege to be able to influence
young men to the best things, as you will be able
to,—to make low aims seem, as they are, unworthy
of manhood. God bless you and help you!</p>
<p>I have lived on, doing the little I could, during
these last few years. I have gained in health, and
am always hoping to return to some steady work;
but it may not be best to do so at all. I like my
freedom, and if I can afford to keep it, I shall. I
am sure it is not good for me to live in a school.
I sometimes wish I had earned or inherited money
enough not to have to think of the future, but
doubtless the Lord knows just what I need. It is
not best for us all to have life made easy for us, in
that way.</p>
<p>As I look back on my life, I see much reason
for humility. I ought to have done so much more
and so much better. Nevertheless the future is
bright, for God is good. Sometimes it seems to
me as if I were just learning what His forgiveness
means, what it is to begin every day anew, as if
there had been no unworthy past, as if there were
only His love and my desire to please Him left.
But I only meant to write a line. I go from here
to spend the “hay-fever” season among the mountains
very soon.</p>
<p class="center">Always and truly yours,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The change in Miss Larcom’s religious life came
when she began to attend the services of Trinity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span>
Church, Boston, in 1879. The preaching of
Phillips Brooks was the realization, in living
words, of her own thought. He gave utterance
for her to all her broader and freer conceptions of
Christianity. She had known little of the Episcopal
Church before going to Trinity, and she had
the same inherited prejudices that many, bred like
her, have, though she remembered with pleasure
St. Ann’s in Lowell, during her days of wage earning;
but the simplicity of the worship at Trinity,
and the earnestness of the preacher, touched the
deepest chords in her life, and she realized that she
could be helped by them. Writing to one of her
friends, who urged upon her the claims of the Episcopal
Church, she said:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>... I have been very much interested in the
services at Trinity Church. Just think! two
prayer-books came to me in one week! one from a
friend in New York, from whom I had not heard
for a year. I do not know what special suggestion
I am to get from the fact, except that I am to
know more of the Episcopal Church. Truly I am
ashamed of my ignorance regarding it. I enjoy
the services, but I think I still strongly prefer
Congregational ways. If only there were a little
more sharing of the worship on the part of the
people! I don’t like to think that the minister is
doing it all up for me; but that is the way of one,
and not of the other, decidedly. I am going to be
able to worship with Episcopalians as intelligently
as with others....</p></blockquote>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span>At another time she wrote about her church connections
as follows:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>... I wish I could feel as you do, about the
Church. I should like to be there, but I have to
look upon it from the outside as an institution.
The real church, to which I hope I belong, seems
to me to be so much broader than any one form, so
inclusive of all denominations, that I hardly think
I have the right to identify myself with any; for,
by so doing, I should exclude myself absolutely
from the rest. Now I seem to myself to belong
everywhere. Yet it is sometimes lonely to feel that
spiritually I have not where to lay my head. We
women crave home, a home of our own; but we
must not deceive ourselves by shutting our eyes,
and making believe we are at home, when we are
not.</p>
<p>However, I mean to go regularly to Trinity if
I can, for the feeling of having free seats is more
comfortable than that of intruding into people’s
pews, and I go as if I had a right to the service....</p></blockquote>
<p>Her diary for 1881 and 1882 indicates the deepening
of her religious thought, and the way in
which the Episcopal Church was becoming known
to her.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Boston, November 28, 1881. Waked by distant
bells of Advent Sunday. As a Puritan, I have
known little of the Christian year, in its Church<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span>
history. It is worth while to try to enter into the
spirit of all methods of true Christian worship.
I read a sermon by F. D. Maurice, one by F. W.
Robertson, and one by Phillips Brooks, all bearing
upon the idea of these Advent days. In the
“Christian Year” (Keble), an allusion is made to
one of the skeptical centuries, which seems to fit
this, in its over-scientific tendencies:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="indent6">“An age of light,</div>
<div class="verse">Light without love, glares on the aching sight.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>But under all true science,—if science is indeed
knowledge,—we shall find Christ, since Christ is
the revelation of the deepest love of God.</p>
<p>December 4. Have been writing Christmas
verses, by request, the past week. Thanksgiving
and Christmas would blend themselves in my
thoughts as one festival. “For my body liveth
by my soul, and my soul by me” (St. Augustine).
“Too little doth he love Thee, who loves anything
with thee, which he loveth not for Thee” (<i>Ibid.</i>).</p>
<p>December 5. Two distinct thoughts impressed
by the two successive evening services at Trinity
Church:—</p>
<p>A week since,—That the controversy between
skepticism and Christianity, as carried on quite recently
among us, does not touch the real point in
question, which is whether Christ, the Son of God,
has come into the world, and has changed it, and
is changing it for the better: not whether certain
statements of the Hebrew Scriptures can be verified
as facts, but whether there is a living Christ.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span>And last evening,—That the motive of the
Christian life, the true reason why we should become
Christians, and live as Christians, is that
other men may receive the blessing; that it may
widen on, through us, into unknown ages. It was
a carrying out of St. Paul’s thought, spoken to the
Ephesians, about the Gentile world and the “ages
to come.” It is the grandeur of Christianity that
it will not permit us to shut ourselves up in our
own personal or local interests,—that it belongs
to the whole race, and unites us to every human
heart.</p>
<p>A note from Mrs. Garfield this morning.
Though so nearly a stranger, she lets me in, a
little way, to the sacred seclusion of her sorrow,—“this
valley and this shadow,” as she calls it.
She cannot see why the blow had to fall upon
her,—nor can we see why the country needed
it. The blasphemous conceit of the assassin, who
claims to have been inspired by the Deity, makes it
all the more perplexing.</p>
<p>One good thing ought to come of this trial,—that
we should all of us try to know clearly what
we mean, when we claim close relations with the
Divine Being. Too many, perhaps all of us, sometimes,
use His name insanely, and therefore irreverently,
in our thoughts, and to cloak our errors to
ourselves.</p>
<p>Begin this morning Max Müller’s “Science of
Religion,” which I have never yet thoroughly
read.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span>January 1, 1882. Heard the midnight toll of
the passing Old Year at Trinity Church last night.
It was good to be there, and to come out into
the clear starlight and moonlight of the New
Year, with the great company that had reverently
gathered in the church to watch the coming in of
1882,—another Year of Our Lord. Rev. Mr.
——’s sermon was appropriate, but that old, sad,
haunting thought seemed to me to be too painfully
impressed,—that, whatever we do, the scars of
our past sins eternally remain,—that the losses
caused by our wrong-doing can never be made up.
Is it the true reading of God’s forgiveness in
Christ? Is not the uplifting power of the new
love with which His Spirit floods our life, something
nobler than we should have known, except
for the pain, and the wounding, and the loss that
came of sin? For the evil that has come to others
through us, may not a flood of good out of the
heart of our loving Christ overflow all, and lift
them, with us, to a higher stratum of life?—I
must believe it—that righteousness in human souls
will obliterate the past evil. If it is to be remembered
no more, it must not <i>be</i> there,—or some
better thing must have come in its place. We
cannot tell how far God’s love may extend, what
miracles it works. The chapter about the New
Jerusalem coming down from God out of heaven,
was read as the year was passing, and Mr. Brooks
made that the point of his remarks,—that the
coming year might be the New Jerusalem to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span>
us. In that light all darkness may surely be forgotten.</p>
<p>January 6, Epiphany. Went to the Church service.
The thought that Christ truly came to us,
to all the world, through His birth at Bethlehem,
and the joy of His coming, is a blessing that everybody
may share, and that it is more truly a blessing
because it is to be shared, was chiefly dwelt
upon. It struck me as a new thought, that the
Wise Men from the East represented all the
science, all the intellectual treasure of all time,
which are truly given to humanity only when laid
at the feet of Christ. The preacher did not express
that idea, but it passed through my mind as
I listened. Every gift we have, every work we do,
only becomes a real, living, worthy thing, when
given to Christ to be inspired with His life. If
the scientific research of this age could but see the
star hanging over the place where the Young
Child lies, and find its true illumination in Him!</p>
<p>January 7. Miss H—— called, full of enthusiasm
over what she believes herself to have done
by healing the sick, through the power of prayer.
I must believe that what she says is true,—and
yet I question. Can this be God’s way? Not
impossible—but I have never been able to see
that any prayer for definite physical results was so
good as that which asks to be brought into harmony
with the will of God, so that we shall accept any
condition which He sees best for us. Yet—what
does the “gift of healing” mean—if not that He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span>
permits health to flow through one life into another?
My little crippled friend, E——, does not feel
sure that she ought to ask God to make her well
and strong, like other girls. I wish she might be,
though.</p>
<p>January 8. Miss E. H. called. Our talk always
gets back to the one subject,—Christ in human
life. She cannot see that He is more than the
best of all human helpers, and yet she has flashes
of higher truth sometimes. I think she wishes for
a definite intellectual idea of the Christ, for she
said to me, “You make it wholly spiritual,”—and
so the conception of him, in the human soul,
must be, it seems to me. She said, “I think of
what He was,” and I think of Him, that He is,
and there we parted.</p>
<p>It is to me like the sunlight: clear, penetrating,
inspiring, the idea of Christ who is, was, and is
to be, the Eternal Son of the Father, the presence
of God in humanity, as the friend of every soul,—the
uniting link between the human and the
divine. I feel my own personal immortality in
following this truth whithersoever it may lead,—deeper,
ever deeper, into the Heart of God, as I
earnestly believe.</p>
<p>At church the subject was the power behind all
human efforts, which makes them worth anything.
The planter and the waterer are nothing, except
as means bringing the seed to growth, which must
first be alive, a force in itself, which he who tends
cannot produce or understand. The power of God<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>
behind all worthy human efforts, that we are tools
in the Master’s hand, and must refer every good
result to Him, were the inferences.</p>
<p>Who can explain moods? A strange depression
has been over me to-day, as of some impending
danger to some life near to mine. I shook it off
in going out, but I found myself imagining the
saddest thing that could possibly happen to me or
my friends, or the country, or the world. I do not
think I dread any one thing for myself, yet the removal
of some of my friends would leave life very
lonely.</p>
<p>January 16. Yesterday I was much instructed
and helped by reading one or two of Maurice’s
sermons. The thought that forgiveness means the
putting away of sins is not often emphasized as
he does it,—“Power <i>on earth</i> to forgive sins;”
that here one can lay down the burden, and go on
fighting the enemy with a sure hope of conquest,
because of that divine life and strength that
comes through a present Christ;—this is release
indeed. Not that we shall be forgiven, but that
we are forgiven, if we turn to the truth in the love
of it.</p>
<p>And the thought of the Communion service as
a marriage-supper, a token that our lives are reunited
to the divine life, came to me with new force.</p>
<p>Mr. Brooks preached about heaven, in the afternoon;
that it must be the continuance of life,—of
the highest and deepest we know here. There
always will be for us, God, and the “charity”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>
which means love. He spoke from chapter xiii.,
I. Corinthians: “For now we see through a glass
darkly,”—carrying out the image of life blurred
and distorted often to us here, made clear there,
where only true things can remain. Keble says,
for yesterday, that we may—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Through the world’s sad day of strife</div>
<div class="indent">Still chant his morning song.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>And why should not the music of heaven be the
continuing of what is the true harmony of earth?
It must be. The sermon yesterday referred especially
to the death of two ministers in the Church
the past week, Dr. Stone and John Cotton Smith.</p>
<p>January 23. Remarks at table, where surely
people talk very freely. One lady says that she
has never for an hour been glad that she was born.
I can scarcely think of such a thing as possible, because
it is God’s world, and if we have any real
glimpse of Him we must know that there is a divine
purpose in our being here, even if we do not
have the “good time” in life that we think we
deserve. But it may be an inherited morbid feeling,
it may be an affectation,—it may be several
things.</p>
<p>Another lady states her Unitarian position that
“Christ was human, we know,—he must also
have been more than human, else he could not help
us, therefore he was divine; but he could not
have been wholly divine, else he could not have
been an example for us.” The last assertion is to
me untrue. He must be able to help us more, because<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span>
He is one with the Father, nor is He less our
example, but more. He never gave a lower standard
than this,—“Be ye perfect, even as your
Father in heaven is perfect.” He surely made
God our only example of goodness, to learn and
to follow. And we know that we are made in the
image of God, because we cannot in our best moments
accept any standard but this,—of perfection
to be sought after through eternity; the grandeur
of our being is that there will always be something
beyond for us to seek.</p>
<p>Reading “Ecce Homo” for the first time, with
a view to studying the “Life of Christ” with a
friend.</p>
<p>February 6. Reading Renan’s “Life of Jesus.”
In the introduction, his objections to the fourth Gospel
seem to me to arise from some lack of perception
in himself. I cannot find in it the “pretentious,
heavy, badly written tirades” to which he
alludes. Nor does it seem to me anything against
the book that it was written from memory, long
after the death of Christ. To apply to so close
a friendship as that between Jesus and John the
passage, “Our memories are transformed with all
the rest; the idea of a person whom we have known
changes with us,” seems to me a wholly unsatisfactory
and unappreciative way of putting it. If
friends, and such friends, do not remember each
other as they really are, we lose the idea of personal
identity altogether. Yet Renan seems to
think that John did write the fourth Gospel, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span>
from the same close kind of intimacy as that which
existed between Socrates and Plato. We surely
reach the heart of Christ most closely through the
words of the beloved disciple,—the stories clustering
around the birth of Christ, which Renan dismisses
as “legendary,” seem to be so simply on his
assertion. Were they so, the character of Jesus,
Son of God and Son of Man, remains itself divinely
alone in the world’s history. But I cannot see
more miracle in the beginning than all the way
through. Nor does it seem to me that it would
have been more sacrilegious for Him to say “I am
God,” which he never did in words affirm, Renan
says, than to say, as He did, “I and my Father are
one;” “He that hath seen me hath seen the Father.”
He spoke as the Son of Man, referring also
always to His Father, claiming to be, in the closest
sense, the Son of God. As a man, He must
refer to the God beyond Him, else He could not
have made Himself understood by men. For myself,
I cannot think of God at all, except as having
eternally this human side, by which we human
beings, His children, may know Him. There
is no unity in the idea of Him without this complexity,
which shows Him as Father, Son, and
Spirit.</p>
<p>Yet Christ’s human life was perfectly human,
wholly so; and the picturesque beauty of that life,
the lovely scenery of Nazareth, and his wayfaring
company of disciples, plain countrymen, group
themselves very attractively on Renan’s page. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span>
book fascinates; it seems always based upon a
beautiful, yet most inadequate, conception.</p>
<p>February 20. Many things to remember these
last weeks: Mr. Whittier’s visit, and my almost
daily glimpses of him, and talks with him,—a
friendship that grows more satisfactory as the years
deepen life. Separateness of life makes communion
of thought almost truer and more inspiring
than when people live near each other, and
frequently meet. I have more admiration and
reverence for such a man, from having found a
higher standard in life for myself from which to
look across and up to him. I think everybody who
has largeness of character like his needs perspective;
juxtaposition is not acquaintance.</p>
<p>April 27. The weeks pass too busily for record;
also I have not been well. Read with Miss H——
Maurice’s “Gospel of the Kingdom,” Fairbairn’s
“Studies in the Life of Christ,” Neander, “Life of
Christ;” and came to Maurice’s “Lectures on the
Gospel of St. John,” which is left for future study....
A clearer light has come, and yet the sadness
of not living wholly in the light: the bitterness of
error and failure!</p>
<p>I will not be morbid; I know that there is
always a better self than myself, waiting to be set
free. But the riddles of life are perplexing. Who
are we? What are we struggling for?</p>
<p>I think Maurice one of the most illuminating
writers I ever knew. He looks into a truth, and
you see what he sees, if you see anything.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span>This stirring up of theological questions at Andover
is a phenomenon of the time; a movement
towards a simpler holding of truth, and let us trust
a greater honesty in us all in our statements of
belief. Opinions change, but faith lives in the
heart of the truth, not in its outward expression.
I wish some formulas could be laid aside, and that
we could come into a real unity of faith.</p>
<p>May 26. Closing days of a lovely visit at Melrose,
at the house of two of the most delightful
people,—a true home.</p>
<p>The woods close the house in around my window,
and the birds sing close by. A squirrel has fearlessly
come in to visit me once or twice; a flying
squirrel, they say it is. The people I am with show
me how beautiful it is to live truth, justice, and
sympathy. They belong to no Church, but their
lives are most beautifully harmonized with the
spirit of Him who was, and is, the expression of
God’s love to man. When with them I almost feel
as if it were better not to profess religion in
churches,—this living testimony is so far beyond
what most Christians can show; but then I remember
that it is because God in Christ is in the world,
because the divinity has revealed itself in humanity,
that they are what they are. How else have
truth, honor, tenderness, and unselfishness, been
kept alive in the human hearts, but by that revelation
of the one life as the divine standard? And
if the churches were all forsaken now, we should
see a sad falling off from among us of such people<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span>
as these, for most of us need constant reminders
that we are the children of God. We need the
Word, the coming together, the loving, uniting
memories of Him who is our life.</p>
<p>Longfellow and Emerson gone from us before the
opening of spring! It is strange to think of New
England without them. But they are part of its
life, forever....</p></blockquote>
<p>Though Miss Larcom was progressing in her
knowledge of the Episcopal Church, she felt no
nearer an entrance into that body. She was willing
to enjoy the services at Trinity Church, but she did
not want Mr. Brooks to think, because of her constant
attendance, she had any thoughts of confirmation.
So in 1884 she wrote him a letter, stating
her position, which he most cordially accepted, writing
her in reply what he considered the advantages
of her attitude.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="right">233 <span class="smcap">Clarendon Street, Boston</span>, March 20, 1884.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Miss Larcom</span>,—My delay in answering
your letter does not mean that I was not deeply
interested in it, and very glad to get it. It only
means that I have been too busy to write calmly
about anything, and even now I write mainly to
say how glad I shall be if some time or other we
can quietly talk over what you have written. For
the present, however, let me only say, that I accept
most cordially the position which you describe for
yourself. I am content that our Church should be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span>
a helpful friend to one who has been living among
quite different associations, and who does not think
it best to come into closer personal connection
with her. If God means that there should ever be
a closer association of life between you and the
Episcopal Church, He will make it plain in due
time. It is not bad, perhaps, that among the special
connections with particular bodies of Christians
which come in our lives, there should be one period
in which, from the very breaking of our associations
with the bodies of Christians, we are able to realize
more directly our relation to the body of Christ.
Perhaps this is such a time for you. If it is, and
whether it is or not, may you find more and more
of His light and help, and if anything that I can
do, or that Trinity Church can do, is ever a source
of happiness or strength to you, I know that you
will be sure that I am very glad. With kindest
wishes, always,</p>
<p class="center">I am yours most sincerely,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Phillips Brooks</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER X.</h2></div>
<p class="ph3">UNDERCURRENTS.<br />
1884-1889.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO MISS S. H. WARD.</p>
<p class="right">January 1, 1884.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Susie Ward</span>,—Something has just
brought you to mind; I saw your address in print
in an almanac, and I felt like sending a New Year’s
greeting to the schoolgirl I knew—<i>was</i> it thirty
years ago?</p>
<p>I am very fond of those dear girls of mine, though
I seldom see them, and would like to send a New
Year’s greeting to them all.</p>
<p class="center">Ever your friend,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO THE SAME.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly, Mass.</span>, January 15, 1884.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Susie</span>,—It is so pleasant to take up
the threads of an old friendship again! It always
reassures me of the hereafter of souls, that even
here after long intervals, we find ourselves still at
home with those who had slipped away from us apparently.
They are really still in their place, and
we are sure of them and know where to find them.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span>I have had many changes since we were much
together, but life is the same good gift of the Lord
I always knew it to be, only more wonderful as one
gets deeper into it.</p>
<p class="center">Always yours,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO J. G. WHITTIER.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Wolfville, Nova Scotia</span>,<br />
August 21, 1884.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Friend</span>,—I am moved to write to
you from here, where I sit looking out upon the
Basin of Minas, and Grand Pré itself, the mud of
which latter I have been trying to remove from my
dress, though I suppose I ought to let it stay spattered
with poetic associations!</p>
<p>Yesterday we were taken to drive through the
Valley of the Gaspereau, a lovely region, under
perfect cultivation,—and so on, over the old dikes
of Grand Pré, where we stood upon the site of
the old church, and saw the cellar of what was supposed
to be the priest’s house, close by the church.</p>
<p>The people here think they know where Evangeline’s
father lived, and just where Basil the
blacksmith had his forge,—so mixed are our illusions
with our historic certainties! I find myself
believing in Evangeline as a real maiden, one who
once lived and suffered on this very soil, and I
gathered a daisy and a wild rose for you, which
her hand might have plucked, instead of mine, as
a memorial of her lost home.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span>Miss J—— and I are stopping at the village doctor’s.
Mrs. Fitch, who keeps his house, takes a very
few boarders. His orchard is loaded with apples
and pears, and his garden opens out on the meadow
close upon the first dike built by the French Acadians.
We are finding the hottest weather of the
season, and are glad not to be in any city just now.</p>
<p>We had a pleasant sail to Halifax—the sea as
smooth as glass, and so no excuse for sickness. I
had friends in Halifax, who took us to the citadel
and the park, the latter the finest I ever saw, because
left chiefly to nature: just woods of pine and
spruce, overlooking the harbor, which I can well
believe to be what the Nova Scotians claim for it—the
most beautiful harbor in the world.</p>
<p>We go the last of the week to Annapolis and
Digby, and home by the way of Mt. Desert, which
I have never visited.</p>
<p>I go from there to Bethel, to spend September,—read
my proof—and escape hay-fever—(as I
hope!).</p>
<p>You are often spoken of here, and by those who
wish you would visit the place. The journey is a
long one, and I suppose, as I tell them, that you
would not feel like taking it. But there is a charm
about the people and the region which can only
be felt by being here,—everybody seems very intelligent,
and very hospitable,—no extreme poverty
anywhere, that I can see.</p>
<p class="center">Thine always,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span></p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO PHILLIPS BROOKS.</p>
<p class="right">12 <span class="smcap">Concord Square</span>, March 26, 1885.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Brooks</span>,—I called at the chapel
yesterday afternoon, but others were waiting to
see you, and it was getting late in the day, so I did
not stay. I had, indeed, no good excuse for taking
your time; but it would have been a great pleasure
to speak to you, after my winter’s imprisonment
with illness.</p>
<p>It is only within a week or two that I have come
to Boston, or been out to church at all. I have
enjoyed, almost to pain, the few services I have
attended, for I am not sure that I hold myself in
the right manner towards God’s people, with whom
I so fully sympathize in spirit. I wonder if I really
am in the Church! My childish consecration was
sincere; I entered the communion of the sect in
which I was baptized and brought up, from an
earnest longing to come nearer to Christ,—a
desire which has grown with me through all the
years; only now it reaches out beyond all names
and groupings, towards the whole Communion of
Saints in Him. Nothing less than this is the real
Church to me. Some narrowness I find in every
denomination, and this distresses and repels me, so
that I cannot tell where I belong. Yet when I go
to Trinity Church, I feel myself taken possession
of, borne upward on the tide of loving loyalty to
Christ; and I know that it has not been well for
me to live apart from my kindred.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span>I wish I could find myself among the group who
consecrate themselves to-night: but, as you once
said to me, if that were the way for me, it would be
made plain. And I shall consider Trinity as home,
whenever I am in Boston.</p>
<p>I did have one little request to make,—it was
liberty to use some paragraphs from your printed
sermons in a compilation which I may prepare
this year. I shall take it that I have permission,
unless forbidden.</p>
<p class="center">Faithfully yours,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO ——</p>
<p class="right">December 3, 1885.</p>
<p>I heard Canon Farrar preach and lecture. He
is not remarkable, it seems to me, except for his
moral and spiritual earnestness, but that is remarkable,
as men go. I liked his lecture, for it will
help to foster a good feeling between us two brother
nations of the English race. England and America
ought to feel themselves one....</p>
</blockquote>
<p>When the summer came, Miss Larcom always
looked forward with pleasure to her mountain-homes,
of which she had a number, in New Hampshire
and Maine. The hills gave her rest; and the
beauty of the views, with the grand distances, suggesting
freedom and the thought of being above
the common level, gave her inspiration for her work.
Each year she tried to visit the various points she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>
loved—Ossipee Park, The Notch, Bethlehem,
Moosilauke, Bethel, Centre Harbor, and Berlin
Falls. Bethel fascinated her with its sight of the
Androscoggin and its majestic elms, and the view
of Mt. Moriah and some of the Presidential Range,—Madison,
Adams, and Washington. At Mr.
John Russell’s Riverside Cottage she was always
welcome; and back of the house, on the crest of
the mountain, was a little glen, shaded by evergreens,
in which she used to sit and read, called
“Miss Larcom’s Retreat.” Sitting on the low
bench, in this nook, she wrote the poem “On the
Ledge:”—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“Here is shelter and outlook, deep rest and wide room;</div>
<div class="verse">The pine woods behind, breathing balm out of gloom;</div>
<div class="verse">Before, the great hills over vast levels lean,—</div>
<div class="verse">A glory of purple, a splendor of green.</div>
<div class="verse">As a new earth and heaven, ye are mine once again,</div>
<div class="verse">Ye beautiful meadows and mountains of Maine.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>She always enjoyed Ossipee Park, with its wonderful
brook, “set in the freshness of perfect
green,” and watched it widen into pools and leap
into cascades. She wrote of it, “Ah! this is the
sort of retreat for friends who like to meet or separate
within the sound of a voice which surely wins
them together again side by side.”</p>
<p>Bethlehem, besides giving her freedom from hay-fever,
was always “the beautiful.” Moosilauke
was her favorite summit. From these places she
generally wrote charming letters to the Portland
“Transcript,” which its readers will remember, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span>
others may judge of by the following from Wood-Giant’s
Hill, Centre Harbor.</p>
<p>“There is a peculiar charm in New Hampshire
hill scenery just at this season, before the roses
have faded, or the hay is mown, or the bobolinks
have ceased singing among the clover blossoms, and
while the midsummer-tide is rolling up over all,
and blending all in haze and heat,—a mingling of
freshness and ripeness that is indescribably lovely.
One should surely be among the hills before the
Fourth of July, to catch the best of their beauty, as
well as to escape the dust and distractions of the
patriotic anniversary.</p>
<p>“To sit at a western window and look off upon
the Beulah-like landscape, slope upon slope of rolling,
forest-crowned hills ascending towards bluer
heights which lose themselves among dim lines of
half-revealed higher horizons—to feel the air
sweeping across from the softly-blended infinite
spaces, over pine woods and fields in full flower—to
breathe it all in like the odor of some divine
nectar—is there anything like it in the whole
year, except at the meeting point of June and July,
and in such a region as this. For we know that
there are lakes all around us, sleeping unseen in the
midsummer haze, and we know that the invisible
mountains lie just beyond those lovely ascending
distances before us.</p>
<p>“And so, when a sweeter waft of coolness refreshes
every sense, and we ask with wonder what
makes it so sweet, the answer seems borne onward
with its very breath:—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p>
<p class="center">“‘The gale informs us, laden with the scent.’</p>
<p>“It brings us the spice of pine woods and the
clear drip of ice-cold waterfalls; the breath of pond
lilies and sweet-brier and unmown scented grasses,
clover-tops and mountain-tops, blended in one
draught; and that delicate bubble of song which
rises from the meadows, the faint farewell chorus
of summer birds that seem loth to go, makes the
full cup overflow with musical foam.</p>
<p>“I saw the sun drop last evening—its magnified
reflection, rather—into the larger Lake Asquam,
like a ball of crimson flame. The sun itself went
down, hot and red, into a band of warm mist that
hung over the hills. The ‘Wood Giant’ stood
above me audibly musing. His twilight thoughts
were untranslatable, but perhaps the wood-thrushes
understood, for they sent up their mystical chant
from the thickets below, in deep harmony with the
music of his boughs.</p>
<p>“The higher summits have not unveiled themselves
yet, not even Cardigan or Mount Israel.
Steaming across the lake from Wolfboro’ three
sunsets since, it seemed to me that there was a
compensation in this invisibility of the loftier hills.
Only Red Hill and the Ossipee Range were to be
seen; and they loomed up in huge grandeur, asserting
themselves to be, as they are, the dominant
guardians of Winnipiseogee. It is seldom that
the Beautiful Lake loses them from sight.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span></p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Centre Harbor</span>, N. H., October 7, 1855.</p>
<p>... I have had my “outing” at Bethlehem; I
went there hardly able to sit up during the journey,
but gained strength at once, and am well now.</p>
<p>I stayed there more than four weeks, and enjoyed
it much. Mr. Howells and family were at the next
house, and I saw them several times. Bethlehem
is a very public place. I found a good deal of
calling and visiting going on. But the house life
was delightful.</p>
<p>I spent last week at Ossipee Park, the loveliest
spot in New England, I think.</p>
<p>I am here for a week or more, at the place where
Mr. Whittier was in the summer. Mrs. Sturtevant
is an old friend of mine, and her housekeeping
leaves nothing to be desired. You would
like the place and it is easily accessible,—only a
mile back of Centre Harbor. Mr. Whittier’s
poem, “The Wood Giant,” was written here. You
can see the tree above others, ten miles across the
lake, at Ossipee Park—it is down in the pasture,
a little way from this house, looking towards sunset
over the lake....</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO J. G. WHITTIER.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Hotel Byron</span>,<br />
<span class="smcap">Boston</span>, April 23, 1886.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Friend</span>,—I have been in and about
Boston for the past three weeks, and of late have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span>
been interested in this new study of Theosophy,
which so many are looking into. I have wondered
how you regard it.</p>
<p>What I most enjoy about it is the larger horizons
it opens upon our true spiritual sight,—glimpses
only, it is true,—but we could not bear
more than that, doubtless. And the moral and
spiritual truth it unfolds and inculcates is of the
loftiest. It harmonizes so entirely with the highest
Christianity, no believer in that can find cause
for cavil. And yet, it is far behind the spirit of
Christianity, as we have it from the Divine Teacher’s
lips and life; in that the common mind is shut
out from a clear comprehension of its meaning.
“The simplicity that is in Christ” is the true gospel,
whatever wisdom beside this may be given to
sages and seekers. The gospel for the poor and
the ignorant is the gospel for us all.</p>
<p>And I suppose those that go farthest into these
other deep secrets are the humblest. Spiritual
pride is indeed pronounced the greatest of all sins
by these, and by Christian souls.</p>
<p>But how beautiful it is to know that truth is
one, and that life is one, and that all over the
world, and through all the ages, men are entering
into and sharing the great inheritance!</p>
<p>I may find much that I cannot accept, but what
of that, if I am brought nearer to the heart of
humanity, in its fraternal aspirations towards the
Father of our spirits!</p>
<p class="right">Faithfully thy friend,<span class="gap"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span></p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="right">233 <span class="smcap">Clarendon Street</span>,<br />
<span class="smcap">Boston</span>, December 28, 1886.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Miss Larcom</span>,—I cannot let your kind
note pass without at least a word of gratitude and
welcome. It is good to know that you are in Boston
again, and that I may sometimes speak to you
on Sundays. I should be sorry indeed to think
that the winter would pass without letting me, somewhere,
sometime, come to more familiar friendly
talk with you. You will find me the chance, I
hope, either by coming here, or letting me know
where I may come to you.</p>
<p>At any rate, I am glad that you are here, and I
send you my best New Year’s wishes.</p>
<p>I do not want you to think that I am aspiring to
poetry. “The Little Town of Bethlehem” was
written more than twenty years ago, for a Christmas
service of my Sunday school in Philadelphia.
It has been printed in hymn-books since, and sung
at a good many Christmases, and where the newspapers
find it, all of a sudden, I do not know!</p>
<p class="center">Ever faithfully your friend,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Phillips Brooks</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>It has been stated that Miss Larcom was barely
able to support herself by her writings. She realized,
like many another author, that Mr. Whittier’s
words were true when he wrote her that “the
hardest way of earning bread and butter in this
world is to coin one’s brains, as an author, into
cash, or spin them into greenbacks.” She could,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span>
however, do very well, so long as her health was
good. In addition to the copyright on her books,
she received payment from the magazines for her
work,—“St. Nicholas” sometimes gave her fifty
dollars for an article. “Harper’s” and the “Independent”
paid her the same rates as they did to
“H. H.” She also contributed to “Wide Awake,”
the “Christian Union,” the “Congregationalist,”
and to many minor papers, like the “Cottage
Hearth.” But she was subject to severe attacks of
illness, which rendered her, for the time, incapable
of writing. Then it was that her friends came forward
to aid her; any assistance, however, she was
loth to accept. This unwillingness to receive help
gave rise to an interesting scene between herself
and Mr. Whittier. At one time, her strength and
resources had been reduced by illness. She was
lying upon her couch when Mr. Whittier came,
and, seating himself beside her, said, “Now, Lucy,
this is altogether too bad.”</p>
<p>“What is too bad?”</p>
<p>“Why, that thee should work for the world all
thy days, and then lie here, worrying about expenses.”</p>
<p>“I don’t worry. The Lord has always taken
care of me.”</p>
<p>“But, Lucy, thee ought to worry. The Lord
has made thee capable of caring for thyself. Why
not be more practicable? I have done something
about this.”</p>
<p>“I knew you had, as soon as this talk began.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span>
Now, I thank you, but I will not touch one cent of
the money you collect.”</p>
<p>“Don’t be foolish. Thee will; and thee must
not waste thy remaining strength in rebellion.”</p>
<p>A compromise was made by her taking a pension
of a hundred dollars a year, from a Quaker
Home, in Philadelphia, and a few annual subscriptions—one
from Mr. George W. Childs.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO J. G. WHITTIER.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Hotel Byron, Berkeley St.</span>,<br />
<span class="smcap">Boston, Mass.</span>, February 4, 1887.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Friend</span>,—I have been away two
days, and on returning, find thy note and the enclosed
check for one hundred dollars. A greater
surprise could not have awaited me.</p>
<p>And, curiously enough, I had been amusing
myself just before, with the thought of the great
fortunes rolling about the world, without ever so
much as touching me! And I had said to myself
that the Great Disposer of all these things, who is
also my Father, doubtless had a purpose in it,—perhaps
that I was to prove to the very end that
life could be very cheerful and comfortable without
much money, and with unremitting effort to earn
a moderate living, so long as my strength should
hold out.</p>
<p>And I felt like acquiescing gratefully, happy in
my restored health, in my interest in my work, and
in doing and being all that it is in me to do and to
be for others,—for life does look every day larger<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span>
and deeper and more beautiful in its possibilities,
even this one small life of mine, in this world of
God’s. I think I was rather in danger of looking
down on the millionaires, and pitying them for
their heavier burdens of responsibility.</p>
<p>I always feel rich when I feel well, and I was
not conscious of a present want, although I knew
my purse was getting light, and I was not sure
whether I could afford to stay in Boston through
the winter, but now I see that I can, for I shall
take your advice, and keep the check.</p>
<p>I suppose I should never have consented to have
my name used, as one who needed assistance, but
I have great confidence in your wisdom, and if you
thought it right, I could not object. But you know
that I have never suffered from want, and that I
am able to work, although three-score.</p>
<p>The only wish I have ever had in connection
with money, is for the freedom it might give me to
choose my work, and the place where I should live.
When I can do that, I don’t know that I shall
have any further desire, for myself. And if I
really need that, God will give it to me.</p>
<p>If Mr. Childs has really sent the money to <i>me</i>,
I must thank him for it, and I will do so, if you
will kindly send me his address. You see how
ignorant I am about our good rich people, when
I don’t know whether to address him as “Mr.”
or “Esq.” or write with Quaker plainness! You
said, “Philadelphia.” Is that enough, without
street or number?</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span>I thank thee sincerely for all the kind thoughts
that this matter implies on thy part. And I feel
more and more assured that the silver and the
gold belong to God, and that He spends it where
He will. If He puts it into Mr. Childs’ hand for
me, I will not refuse it—not from any good man’s
hand. Only please remember that thee must not
let people think I am poor, when I am not. Shall
we not see thee before long?</p>
<p class="center">Gratefully yours,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>One of Miss Larcom’s greatest pleasures was the
visits she was able to make to her congenial friends.
Not being tied by family cares, it was possible for
her to accept some of the many invitations she
constantly received from those who loved her.
Her presence in a household was like a peaceful
influence, for she had the delightful gift of being
an agreeable guest. Always sympathetic, never intruding
into the privacy of family matters, reticent
about her troubles, and eager to impart her joys,
with a fund of humor always at hand, she made
a charming companion; and her visit was always
remembered as an event in the year. There are
many homes that have had the privilege of entertaining
her, and receiving something from the close
contact with her personality. One of her hostesses,
Mrs. James Guild, of Roxbury, in whose house she
used to enjoy hours of Plato study, and where the
last few years of her life she found rest, says, “In<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span>
passing the library, I often looked through the portières,
to behold the presence in the room,—the
white, peaceful face, that seemed to wear a halo.
She would have three or four books at once on
her knee, and look up smiling to ask, ‘Am I not
greedy? I don’t know which of these to read
first! I do love books, but not better than friends;
when you are at leisure, I am ready to sit with
you.’”</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Williamstown, Mass.</span>, October 10, 1887.</p>
<p>... I came here, through Lake George and
Saratoga, last Friday. I am visiting at President
Carter’s, my old friend, who has a charming family
and home. The town itself is most beautiful,
and I have been driving about among the Berkshire
Hills, finding them no less enjoyable for
what I have seen of the Adirondacks.</p>
<p>President Carter is at present away on business.
A case of possible hazing is one of the most trying—the
facts are so hard to get at. The spirit of this
college is entirely opposed to such things. He is
also a corporate member of the American Board.
I do not sympathize with the turn affairs have
taken. It looks to me like a long step backward.
It cannot be that a disputed theological point is to
settle the world’s salvation. And the inquisitorial
spirit tends so entirely to bitterness and harsh judgment;
it proves itself foreign to the spirit of Christ.</p>
<p>May God reveal himself to these benighted
theologians!</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span></p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO J. G. WHITTIER.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly, Mass.</span>, April 24, 1888.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Friend</span>,—Yesterday I returned to
Beverly, having done something quite uncommon,
for me,—taken a trip to the Jerseys. I went
on urgent invitation from old pupils and school-friends
at Wheaton Seminary, who gave a breakfast
at Hotel Brunswick, New York.</p>
<p>I met a good many people I was glad to see, and
made most of my visit at Mr. Ward’s, of the “Independent.”
His sister, who keeps house for him,
at Newark, is a former pupil of mine.</p>
<p>Then I had an invitation from a schoolmate at
Monticello, Illinois, who lives at Orange, New Jersey,
and I stayed there several days. I went over
New York and Brooklyn by the bridge and the elevated
railway, but scarcely touched the metropolis.</p>
<p>However, I saw my old friends, and a good many
new people, and had a pleasant time.</p>
<p>And now, I am urgently invited to my old
Illinois seminary, in June, when it has its semi-centennial
anniversary. I am afraid I shall have
to go, as my Minnesota sister seconds the motion,
and she expects to move to California, another year.</p>
<p>What a moving world it is!...</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The “New England Girlhood,” published in
1889, was at once a success. Few facts of Miss
Larcom’s life had been generally known up to this
time: there had been, however, interesting biographical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span>
sketches printed from time to time, notably
Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney’s sketch, in “American
Women of Note,” and her own article, in the “Atlantic
Monthly,” with the title “Among Lowell
Mill-Girls.” But in this book she took her friends
into her confidence, and showed such genuineness
of feeling, and love for her modest beginnings
in the old town of Beverly, with its lanes, its
woods, and its seacoast, that her description stirred
up the memory of similar days in the thought of
New England people, at home, and in distant parts
of the country. This account of her youth contains
the best elements of her thought and life, in
a story, charming for its simplicity and truthful
portraiture of New England homes before any of
the modern changes had taken place,—those
changes that introduced stoves and shut up the
great fireplaces, that substituted for the stage-coach
the horse and electric car, put clocks on the
mantelpiece, and relegated to the junk-shops the
“tin kitchens” and the three-legged “trivet.” Its
homely incident and the sincerity of its religious
sentiment render it an excellent book to put into
the hands of young girls; by reading it they are
brought into connection with the refined and vigorous
girlhood of an actual life. One critic remarked,
“If there could be more biography like this, there
would be less call for fiction.” Miss Larcom received
numerous letters of thanks for having written
the book. A gentleman sent her a check, as an
evidence of his satisfaction. An aged man wrote,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span>—“If
it was written for the young, it certainly
was for the old. I am now eighty-five years old
and never was more delighted.” Mr. Whittier sent
his approval: “I am reading the book for the
second time, with increased pleasure; I recall my
first meeting with thee at Lowell, after thy return
from the West.”</p>
<p>That she enjoyed these tokens of appreciation,
this letter indicates.</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.</p>
<p class="right">214 <span class="smcap">Columbus Avenue</span>,<br />
Saturday evening, December 28, 1889.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Friend</span>,—I have just come in and
read Mrs. S——’s letter, which I return. Her enthusiasm
inspires me just as I like to be inspired.
I felt in writing the book that I was just entering
into my past life, and taking my friends with me.
I did not feel that I was making a “literary effort,”
but just taking a little journey backward.</p>
<p>I appreciate the readers who will simply go along
with me, as Mrs. S—— does. I am glad to give
myself to those who understand the gift, and I
would like to find more in myself for them, if I
could. It is just like taking hold of hands all
round, these pleasant acknowledgments that come
to me. It is <i>our</i> life that we are enjoying together....</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Mr. Brooks sent one of his short, characteristic
notes, thanking her for “A New England Girlhood.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span></p>
<blockquote>
<p class="right">233 <span class="smcap">Clarendon Street</span>,<br />
<span class="smcap">Boston</span>, December 9, 1889.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Miss Larcom</span>,—I have never been a
Yankee girl, and yet I felt that I recognized every
picture in what I read, and I have read it all.</p>
<p>To hear of the American First Class Book again
was like a breeze out of my childhood!</p>
<p>And I hope all the girls are reading it, and catching
the flavor of its healthy spirit.</p>
<p>At any rate, I thank you for it, and I am yours
most sincerely,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Phillips Brooks</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XI.</h2></div>
<p class="ph3">MEMBERSHIP IN THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> longing for a religious home asserted itself
in Miss Larcom’s life, and the thought came to her
that she was not testifying to her deep love for her
Master, by withholding herself from active membership
in some Church of Christ. In her diary,
where she wrote with great freedom her inmost
feelings, there are passages which indicate discontent
with her negative position. She was being
forced to a conclusion:—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></p>
<p>“I must decide for myself whether the Church is
a reality to me; whether, in the visible Church,
working for it, and with it, I can be more useful
than I should be, floating on still, trying to accommodate
myself to circumstances, and to harmonize
myself with the best in everything, without any
special ties. Having lived outside the Church so
long, I have a great longing for a closer sympathy
and working together with others. But whether it
can be with my old Congregational friends, I am
not certain. It would be better to stay with them,
identified with their name and work, if I can do it
from my heart, but not if I am called upon to say
anything that I do not believe.”</p>
<p>While in this state of uncertainty, the Church
was gradually making its way into her life. She
looked forward to each Sunday, with eagerness;
and the message from the day’s sermon she either
put in her diary, or conveyed, by means of letters,
to her little crippled friend, Elsie L——.</p>
<p>The Church-Year, with its sacred anniversaries,
became very dear to her. In her diary, there is a
record referring to Passion Week, that shows her
appreciation of these Church days: “I think it
most beautiful to keep these memorial days of the
Church, whether we belong to the Episcopal Church
or any other. These are the days for all Christians
to observe.”</p>
<blockquote>
<p>April 8, Good Friday. Passion Week has been
a revelation to me of the divine history made real.
It has seemed to me as if I really followed and faltered
with the disciples, in Gethsemane, at the mock
trial of Pilate, and through the terrible scenes of
the Crucifixion. It is so much to the world, that
the Church has kept up the Christian year, with
these awful and glorious anniversaries. How often
their reality has faded out, when men are left to
themselves.</p>
<p>I could thank the Church, almost, for having impressed
them so upon her history, that they sometimes
seem <i>hardened</i> into it! She has never let
them become mere idle tales; the life and death of
Christ, held so close to her heart, have kept her
alive, through all her formalisms.</p></blockquote>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span>In the worship, the part taken by the congregation,
in responsive readings, prayers, versicles,
and Litany, appealed to her. She felt that she was
not being preached at through the disguise of a
prayer, but that all—minister and people—joined
in the praises to God, each with a phrase on his
lips and a meditation in his heart. The dignity and
orderly arrangement of the services, together with
the use of the stately words of the Prayer Book,
made her appreciate the beautiful formality of such
devotional customs.</p>
<p>Her affections were strengthened by an act which
seemed to open a new set of experiences to her.
This act was the partaking of the Holy Communion
early on Easter Day, in 1887. Mr. Brooks had
given notice, inviting to the Lord’s Supper any
persons who might desire to come, though they
belonged to some other branch of the Church of
Christ. A friend of Miss Larcom urged her to
accept the invitation. The generosity of it fascinated
her; the thought of all who loved Jesus, loving
Him perhaps in different ways, meeting around
the Father’s table, was in thorough accord with
her own feelings. Going to the service, and taking
her place at the altar rail, she received the bread
and wine administered in the reverent manner of
the Episcopal Church. This one act, in the early
morning of Easter day, revealed to her the spiritual
meaning of the worship, and seemed to bring her in
closest touch with the Master; and afterwards the
Church became a different place to her; she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span>
becoming one with it, though she yet had no right
to call herself a member. Referring to this Communion,
she said, “How free the Lord’s table ought
to be! and how beautiful it was at that early Communion;
the church fragrant and fresh, and glowing
with flowers! It seemed like meeting Christ
with Mary in the Garden, just as he had risen from
the Grave! I do think the Communion service
of the church most inreaching and uplifting in its
earnestness, its simplicity, its spirituality.”</p>
<p>“As I remember this service in the Congregational
church, that method seems almost formal in comparison
with this. Perhaps there is something in
the very movement required,—the person going
forward to the table to share the bread and wine,
each with the rest, yet each of us receiving them
directly from Christ—His own life, to be transfused
into ours. There is certainly a clearer meaning
in it all to me, whenever I join in the service at
Trinity Church.</p>
<p>“The crowd in the church afterwards, who came
to the later services and sermon, was also most
impressive, filling in even every smallest space in
the chancel, among the flowers. The sermon was
strong and deep, impressing the thought that life
is the one reality, and death and sorrow and sin
only partial experiences. Life the ocean, and all
these things but ripples on the surface.</p>
<p>“The last thought for the day,—in the evening,—was
that injustice never does triumph, however
it may seem.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p>
<blockquote>
<p>April 22. Emeline’s birthday,—the dearest of my
sisters—more than a mother to me—now three-score
and ten. But I live my child-life over again
with her, and our two lives make a glad harmony
all through. How much shall we keep of ourselves
and our human relations, forever? All that has
been real, surely. And so we are mature women
and little children together, at once, in the immortal
life.</p>
<p>The past week has been one of rather unpleasant
experiences, in some ways. The Beverly Farms
bribery investigation at the State House has occupied
me. Whether bribery or not, great injustice
is attempted on my native town, which I love and
will defend, so long as I know her to be unmistakably
in the right, as she is now.</p>
<p>I have done the little I could, so far; have written
for the newspapers,—have sent a letter of request
for veto to the governor,—and joined the women
of Beverly in a petition to him, to the same effect,
and I shall hold myself ready to do more, if needed.
But I do trust that our legislature will, of themselves,
make the matter right.</p>
<p>April 25. Spring is in the air, even in Boston,
although just a week ago to-day we had one of the
worst snowstorms of the season.</p>
<p>Yesterday’s experience is something not to be
forgotten, though unrecordable. There are no
words to repeat the spirit’s story, when it is taken
possession of by the highest influences, and lifted
up into the heaven of aspiration and consecration;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span>
when the way is open through sympathy with
human souls, and with the Eternal Son, into the
Father’s heart.</p>
<p>How easy the spiritual life seems, when material
things fall into their subordinate places! If it
might always be so!</p>
<p>May 20. Still in Boston, interested in many
things. People <i>are</i> trying to help each other. I
have been at the Woman’s Industrial Union, have
heard Miss Leigh talk of her work in Paris, have
talked over the possibilities of better influences
for girl-workers in Boston, have listened to Miss
Freeman’s report of her Student’s Aid work at
Wellesley College—all so suggestive—so hopeful!
What should not the woman of the future
be? What may she not be?</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“I saw all women of our race</div>
<div class="verse">Revealed in that one woman’s face!”</div>
</div></div>
<p>June 6. Canon Wilberforce and the great temperance
meeting at Tremont Temple. A most eloquent
man, and he goes to the very root of the
matter,—no real temperance without spirituality.
“Not drunken with wine, but filled with the Holy
Ghost,”—he made that infinite contrast clear.
His sermon yesterday was most impressive,—from
the text, “What seest thou?” It was a Trinity
Sunday sermon, and the thought was that in Jesus
we see God most perfectly. But emphasis was
placed upon the attitude and condition of the soul,
for the seeing. It was Canon Wilberforce’s first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span>
sermon in Boston, and I think this is his first visit
to America. It is good to have such neighbors
come to see us.</p>
<p>In the afternoon Mr. Brooks spoke from the
text, “He that hath the Son hath life.” I have
seldom heard him speak with more fervor, of what
life is, and of the dreadful thing it is to lack life,
the life that comes to us and is in us through
Christ,—the life of God in human souls. It is
his last sermon for the summer, and the text itself
is one to keep close at heart all through the year.
“Not merely the knowledge of Christ, but Christ
Himself with us, we must have,” he said: and with
the thought comes the suggestion of all true relations
of spirit with spirit, the human and the divine
interblended, God the soul of our souls and the
children one with the Father through the Son. I
thank God for what I have found at Trinity Church
this winter: I begin to know more what the true
Church is,—nothing exclusive or separating, but
the coming together of all souls in Christ.</p>
<p>June 12. In Beverly, but not yet acclimated to
the stronger sweep of the east winds. They give
rheumatic twinges. But the birds sing, and the
fresh foliage is shaken out into greenness, the rose
acacia and the bridal-wreath spirea run wild in the
garden, and the freedom of nature’s life revives
mine. The thrill of the oriole,—what a jubilation
it is, through the Sabbath stillness; it is better than
the city in summer time.</p>
<p>Read this morning Phillips Brooks’ sermon on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>
“Visions” and “Tasks,” and several others—among
them, the “Church of the Living God.”</p></blockquote>
<p>With reference to doctrines, she understood the
Church’s position. The great facts of Christianity
as set forth in the Apostles Creed, she did not
doubt; and she liked the comprehensiveness of a
Church, admitting those who accept these facts
and desire to live a Christian life, and permitting a
private opinion on many complicated questions of
theology. And yet, with her appreciation for the
Church, she could not make up her mind to enter
it. There were objections difficult for her to overcome.</p>
<p>These objections were not of a devotional or
theological, but of an ecclesiastical character.
High-Churchism, including in that term Sacerdotalism,
offered a barrier. She felt that, by joining
the Church, she would seem to approve of this
teaching, and while she was willing to admit the
historical fact of Apostolical continuity, she could
not accept a theory of Apostolical succession which
in any way seemed to exclude from good standing,
as Churches, the various religious denominations
which she had known and loved. She said, “In
the broad idea of Christ’s Church, Episcopacy at
times seems to me no less sectarian than other
‘isms.’” She had too much of the Puritan in her
to make any such admissions about the Episcopal
Church that would seem to indicate that she felt
it was the only Church. Her position, as late as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span>
1890, is very well put, in a letter to Mrs. S. I.
Spalding, of Newburyport.</p>
<p>“I do feel nearer a conclusion, such as you
would approve, than I ever have yet. I think,
sometimes, I can see my way perfectly clear, but
old notions are hard to change. Do you think I
can take all the Puritanism implied in ‘A New England
Girlhood,’ into the Church with me? Is it
possible to be inside the latter, and yet feel that all
the others are Churches, too, and that I am only
signifying that I want to be more completely in
union with them all, by identifying myself with this
one? This is the way I should want to feel and
do.”</p>
<p>By means of letters and conversations with Mr.
Brooks, she saw that it was not necessary for her
to give up all her Puritanism, on coming into the
Church, nor was she bound to accept the interpretation
that some Episcopalians put upon the Sacraments
or Orders in the ministry. She learned
that the difficulties she was considering were dispelled
by the conception of the comprehensiveness
of the Church. Mr. Brooks wrote her, concerning
a discussion in the Church papers, in which Sacerdotalism
was especially rampant: “There is nothing
in it, which is not now repeated for the hundredth
time. The solution of it all is in the comprehensiveness
of the Church, which includes the vast expanse
both of breadth and narrowness.” In March,
1890, she came to the end of her discussions, and
seemed to see the true meaning of the Episcopal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span>
Church, as one method of entering the larger Invisible
Church of Christ. She preferred this path
to others, but looked upon it as a path, not the end
of the journey.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>March 1, 1890. The same questionings,—yet a
clearer light upon the meaning of the Church has
gradually come to me. It is as if there were many
doors of entrance into one vast temple, some of
them opened a little way, and with much scrutiny
from within of applicants for admission; some
swung wide with welcome. But there is one united
worship inside, only some prefer to group themselves
in cloisters or corners; but there is freedom
and light for all who will receive them.</p>
<p>The Episcopal Church seems to have several
doors of its own,—some wide and some narrow;
it is not <i>the</i> Church,—only one way of entering
Christ’s Church. If I can enter it that way, I am
already there. And I believe more positively than
ever, that we should say, in some distinct, personal
way, that Christ is the centre and head of humanity,
and that our whole life, earthly and heavenly,
is hid in Him.</p>
<p>What belongs to me in Puritanism I shall never
lay aside; I could not, if I would. But I do see
more of a hope for future unity in the Church service
than in any other way; and if I can see therein
for myself the perfect freedom of Christ’s service, I
am ready to make a new profession there. I am
waiting only for His guidance, now.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span>I see more and more how much the writings of
Maurice have been to me for the past twenty years.
He is continually unfolding my own thoughts to
me,—his absolute sincerity is contagious. I want
no pretenses, no subterfuges or concessions in the
spiritual life. He speaks to me more clearly than
almost any audible voice. And his words seem
the expression of the mind of Christ.</p>
<p>March 5. My birthday. And the world seems
as if it were dimly dawning anew to me. Everything
in my life has taken a touch of awe,—of
strangeness.</p>
<p>I do not know that there is any new gladness in
the decision I made yesterday, to be “confirmed”
at Trinity Church, but there is a settled feeling
that may grow into happiness. I can say that my
“heart is fixed,” and my life will be firmer and
more settled, for having found a place for itself.
The church itself seemed a different and more
beautiful place, as I sat there and listened to the
story of the Woman of Samaria, and of the separateness
of souls in consecrated work. “Meat to
eat that ye know not of,” the doing of God’s will,—the
hidden manna and the white stone, with the
new name known only to him who receives it.
Yes, this one little decision has opened closed doors
to me already—everything looks sacred.</p>
<p>March 20. Last night I knelt in the chancel at
Trinity Church, and received, with many others,
the benediction of consecrated hands; and to-day
I can think of myself as avowedly in the visible<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span>
Church once more. I have been in a false position
all these years,—I see it now. It does mean something
to name the name of Christ in the presence
of His people, as one of their company. I have
not been an unbeliever, ever; He has been dear to
me always, and most real to my heart.</p>
<p>It was tranquillizing, to be bending there with
all that young life,—(no other older life), the
snow falling without, soft and white as doves’ wings,
and the quiet consecration filling all hearts within.
I was not wholly happy; I have had too many struggles
with myself, and misapprehension between my
own heart and others, perhaps, to feel glad or uplifted,—but
I was calm and thankful, and felt the
atmosphere of blessing surrounding us all.</p>
<p>It is good to have taken this position; I shall
feel stronger and richer in life and spirit for it, I
trust and believe.</p>
<p>The few words of Mr. Brooks this morning at
the church seemed to carry out the spirit of last
night’s service. We climb up the great mountain-tops,
he said, but we cannot live there, though we
may keep their inspiration within us. But the
high table-lands which we have gained by long
gradual ascent,—we can live and breathe there;
and can grow hopeful in the broad outlook before
us. Such are the consecrations of life to which we
have grown step by step, out of which greater developments
are to open for us, and above which the
loftier summits are always overhanging.</p>
<p>March 26. The thought that has been with me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span>
most these few days is that consecration means service:
that it is not for one’s self alone,—not the
mere endeavor after personal holiness,—but to give
the life into which we enter to all other lives we can
reach. (John xvii. 18, 19.) The spirit of these
words of Christ is the true setting apart of life, for
the sake of all human lives.</p>
<p>The chapter for to-day—the going forth of
Joshua into Canaan after that glorious Nebo-Vision
of Moses, is full of suggestions for me. I have not
yet possessed my whole life, none of us have, but
we go forward courageously into it, in the name of
the Lord.</p></blockquote>
<p>We have sketched, chiefly in her own words, for
they have a greater significance, the history of a
religious woman, finding her way into the Kingdom
of Christ through the doorway of the Episcopal
Church. She was a catholic, broad-minded Christian,
and she became satisfied with the doctrine and
worship of the Church. She looked upon it as one
branch of the Church of God, but she also acknowledged
other branches; it became as much a
home to her as it was possible for any Church to
be. She grew to love it, but the ideal and Invisible
Church was ever before her mind.</p>
<p>The religious history of her life is like that of
many others—those who have become dissatisfied
with a theology made up of men’s opinions, and
who seek light and life in the personality of Jesus.
There are many persons to-day, with natures capable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span>
of spiritual insight, who have been educated to
appreciate the best in our literature, who believe
in righteousness,—people with poetry in them,
and a delicate sense of fitness and dignity, who are
thinking of the Episcopal Church as a religious
home. To such persons, a progress similar to that
of Miss Larcom can be effected only by the Church
emphasizing those qualities which attracted her.
These characteristics of the Church may be summarized
as the spirituality, the breadth, and the
magnanimity of the Church.</p>
<p>Prominent through all the services, the various
organized forms of church work, the observances
of festivals and seasons, must be the spiritual idea
for which they all stand. This spiritual idea is
the bringing of the individual soul into such relations
with Jesus that it will find its truest self in
Him and through Him, find its greatest activity
in reaching other souls. This great aim is frequently
lost sight of, because the Churches are so
often business establishments for the collection of
money, and the successful management of organizations.
But there are souls longing to be fed,
and these should be remembered when the church
seasons come, by the administration of Sacraments
as the simple offering of nourishment to those who
need it, not with the theological accompaniments
of argument, but in the sacredness of dependence
on Christ, as in the first Easter communion of
Lucy Larcom, at Trinity Church.</p>
<p>There is no need to elaborate the ideas of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span>
breadth, or magnanimity of the Church; for, in
this day of vigorous thought and reconstruction of
older doctrines, both of these characteristics would
seem to commend themselves, on their simple announcement:
for who is it that longs for the narrowness
of a “Westminster Confession” or even
the mild bondage of “The Thirty-Nine Articles”?
And who is it that has sufficient effrontery to un-church
the millions who are trying in their own
ways to serve their Lord? That there is such narrowness
in the Episcopal Church no one can deny;
it is in opposition to this that it must present itself
to the world, as a comprehensive and tolerant
Church.</p>
<p>Lucy Larcom, a Puritan, seized upon the vital
truths of the Episcopal Church. If these are
kept before the people, this Church, as a part of
the kingdom of Christ, may hope to have a large
influence in the development of American Christianity.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XII.</h2></div>
<p class="ph3">LAST YEARS.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miss Larcom</span> was loved in Beverly. The townspeople
were justly proud of her, and they always
welcomed her sweet face into their homes. She
was interested in the Town Improvement Society,
and once, at one of its entertainments, she read two
or three of her poems. When there was an effort
made to secure Prospect Hill for a public park,
she sent some appropriate lines to the local paper,
hoping to influence opinion. Her public spirit, as
shown in her letters and diaries, was also active in
her life, and she joined, according to her opportunities,
in such affairs as could receive aid from her
pen, and the townspeople were gratified by her contributions
to the village life.</p>
<p>The success in literature of a Beverly boy made
her happy. When Mr. George E. Woodberry entered
the company of American poets by the publishing
of the “North Shore Watch,” a volume
containing the triumphant ode, “My Country,” not
unworthy of comparison with Lowell’s “Commemoration
Ode,” and the strong sonnets, “At Gibraltar,”
and the classic “Agathon,” she was one of the
first to send him her appreciation.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span></p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY.</p>
<p class="right">214 <span class="smcap">Columbus Avenue</span>,<br />
<span class="smcap">Boston</span>, February 18, 1889.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Woodberry</span>,—I have just been
reading your poems, and have been so much moved
by them that I wanted at once to tell you how
deeply they appeal to me. Most of our modern
verse,—and I include my own,—is too superficially
lyrical, the measure often muffles the meaning,—the
thought flies off through the sound.
In yours, the music and the meaning unfold together,
always hinting the deeper chords half awakened
beneath. The feeling of the unexpressed
and the inexpressible infinite—that which is at
the source of everything real—that which is life
itself, is in your poetry, as in almost no other modern
poetry that I have read.</p>
<p>The “Transcript” compares it with Clough’s.
I delight in Clough, but I do not like comparisons
of this kind. You strike different chords, and I
believe that you have greater possibilities than he.
What touches me especially is the high purity of
emotion which is yet as human as it is holy. This
is rare, even in great poetry. As I read some
lines, it seemed as if my soul were weeping for joy
at their beauty.</p>
<p>“Agathon” I wanted to read over again as soon
as I had finished it. Indeed, I shall want to turn
to it often, for a breath of the pure poetic ether.
I do not know a greater poem of its kind since<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span>
“Comus.” Page 42, and from 59 onward, Milton
might have been proud to write. They appeal to
all that nobler part of us that lives beneath the
shows of things; and I am glad that so young a
poet as you begins his song so nobly. I am proud,
too, that you are a Beverly boy, as I am a Beverly
woman. But for that, I might not have ventured
to write so freely. I have not room to write all
I want to say, but I must mention the “Christ
Scourged,” which seems to me wonderful in its
strength of sympathetic expression. It would give
me great pleasure to meet you. If you are staying
in town, I wish you would call here some
evening.</p>
<p class="center">Truly yours,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>In preparing a new edition of “Songs of Three
Centuries,” she included among the additions, a
poem by Dr. Solis-Cohen, “I Know that My Redeemer
Liveth,” and also, “The Crowing of the
Red Cock,” by Emma Lazarus. In the course of the
correspondence, Dr. Solis-Cohen wrote so frankly,
giving his feelings about Christ from an intelligent
Jewish standpoint, that she answered in a similar
vein, stating clearly her idea of the relations that
should exist between the Jew and Christian. Dr.
Solis-Cohen had written: “No professed Christian
can exceed many Jews in love for the pure and
lofty character of Jesus, and we can readily accept
that character, as a manifestation of God in man,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span>
while we decline to accept the superstructure of
the Church.”</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO DR. SOLOMON SOLIS-COHEN.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly, Mass.</span>, October 18, 1890.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dr. S. Solis-Cohen</span>:—</p>
<p><i>Dear Sir</i>,—The proof of your poem is just
received,—and I have put your corrections away
so carefully that I cannot at this moment lay my
hand upon them; so I will ask you to correct the
copy and send it to the printers as soon as convenient.
I will tell them to wait for it.</p>
<p>The magazine with the poem in it is received—beautiful
and graceful I find the latter. I wish
the additions to the “Songs” were not limited—but
the publishers do not wish to enlarge the volume
too much. We shall have two poems by
Emma Lazarus; one of them Mr. Whittier tells me
he considers her best—“The Crowing of the Red
Cock.”</p>
<p>Your letter interests me exceedingly. I grew
up under the influence of old-fashioned Puritanism,
and from it drew the idea that Jew and Christian
were really one, only they did not understand each
other.</p>
<p>Children do construct their own theology oftener
than is thought, I believe. The Puritan was like
the Hebrew in many ways, most of all in his firm
hold of moral distinctions, in his belief in the One
God as the God of righteousness and truth.</p>
<p>Certainly no one ever insisted upon obedience to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span>
the law more positively than Christ himself. We
Christians do believe in Him as the human manifestation
of God: that is the one distinctive element
of our faith.</p>
<p>All sorts of strange doctrines have been built up
about this idea.</p>
<p>I care for none of them, but rest upon what is
to me a spiritual certainty—“Truly this <i>is</i> the
Son of God.”</p>
<p>I emphasize the “<i>is</i>” because to me that visible
life was only one phase of His eternal presence
in and with humanity. To me He is “the living
Lord”—the Spirit bearing witness to our spirits
of their own immortal meaning; and so “the Resurrection
and the Life.”</p>
<p>But His life has no spiritual power over ours,
unless it teaches us divine love—unless we live
in that love which He came to unveil.</p>
<p>Christians have miserably failed of this—in
their treatment of each other as well as of the
Jews, but it is because they have not received the
spirit of their Master.</p>
<p>I thank you sincerely for writing to me so
freely, and I thank you for having written the
poem enclosed, which bears the same message to
me as a Christian, that it does to you as a Jew. I
should like to know more of Emma Lazarus. Her
early death was a loss to all lovers of true poetry.</p>
<p class="center">Very truly yours,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span>The ecstacy of a sudden realization of religious
truth sometimes overcame her in the summer mornings,
and her heart uttered itself fervently in
prayer, as will be seen in the following extracts
from her diary.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>July 5, 1890. I awoke with a strange joy as of
some new revelation, that seemed sounding through
my soul, with the words, “Lift up your heads, O
ye gates, and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors,
and the King of Glory shall come in!”</p>
<p>Is it a new entering in of life and love at all the
doors of my nature? doors that I have left closed
and overgrown, perhaps? Come in, O Life, O
Truth, O Love, by whatever gate thou wilt,—in
whatever form thou wilt! Only make me ready to
receive thee, and to go with thee through the gates
into the freedom of thy universe!</p>
<p>August 3. Now I see life more clearly in all its
bearings, its dangers, and its hopes,—its earthly
and heavenly unity. It is almost like beginning a
new childhood in the Kingdom of Heaven. All
things centre themselves in Christ, the living, spiritual
Christ, who is the Life, the Reality, the Person,
who makes us real to each other through the
eternal union with the Father. Nature is alive.
Nothing is dead that the heart of God has touched.
And human beings seem so near and dear!</p>
<p>I think of those who have gone, of my sisters
Louisa and Charlotte, of my mother, of all the
friends whom I see no more, but who have made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span>
part of my true life. They seem more alive than
when here; my communion is with them and with
all the living to-day.</p>
<p>August 6. This morning, with the opening of
my windows on the white floating clouds of summer,
and the warm hillside, softened with the mist
of coming showers, a song and a hymn arose in my
thoughts:—</p>
<p>O Thou Eternal Loveliness,—I am part of
Thee, or I am not at all! Nature is the expression
of Thee, but yet more is this human life of mine.
Because I am, and can feel and see this beauty,—feel
it as a part of my own life and soul, I know
that Thou art—the Divine One in whom all that
is immortal of me is enfolded, and from whom it
is unfolded. How can Thy being be questioned
by one who has had a single glimpse of the beauty
of this Thy world? It is such happiness to feel
that I am part of it all, because I belong to Thee!
Yet I should never have known the spirit of it all,
never should have understood the secret, except
through the Son, who has brought Thy children
back to their spiritual home in Thee. In Him the
evil of earth is conquered, and the good of earth is
shown also to be the good of heaven. To be of
one spirit with Him, the Perfect Love and the Infinite
Loveliness, is to belong to the Whole, and
so to Thee. And so there can be no losing of anything
for us eternally. Who shall separate us from
any true Love?</p>
<p>August 24. On the summit of Moosilauke.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span>Have been here four or five days, in cloud and
mist and rain. One bright sunset, two pleasant
afternoons, on the last of which there was the most
beautiful phenomenon that we call “the sun drawing
water.” I never looked down upon the earth
through that many tinted transparency of sun and
mist before. It was wide as the whole West, and
the tints of green upon the nearer hills were
brought out with softest intensity. It was like an
open fan of thinnest gossamer, wavering in all possible
hues between us and the landscape. But the
sign was true. It has rained steadily for three
days and nights.</p>
<p>August 27. Monday and Tuesday there was a
fine sunset and sunrise, and four travelers were up
here to enjoy it. But yesterday the mist and cloud
rolled up from the valley again, and in the night
a southeast storm set in, preceded by the same
sign in the east that was in the west last Thursday.
It is one of the signs of approaching rain,—the
clearness with which the summits and ranges are
outlined through the mist. They are most dreamily
lovely, so. I thought yesterday how much the
earth and sky were alike, on these high places.
It was hard to tell which was mountain and which
was cloud.</p>
<p>September 6. A week of great beauty in cloud-scenery,
though with little sunshine. Most suggestive
phases of cloud and mountain interblending;
I have been out in it everywhere I could; twice at
sunrise, when I was well rewarded by the glory in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span>
the east. The days seem so short! I was foolish
to bring books up here,—and yet I have found
them companionable now and then. “God in his
World” I have re-read—it is a book for the
heights.</p>
<p>February 4, 1891. Boston. In my room at the
Hoffman House these last two weeks. I could not
get settled earlier; others were occupying it. But
I love this room, because I have lived so intensely
and deeply in it; because I have had revelations in
it of God and his truth, of human friendship, of
the inmost meanings of life. The very walls seem
alive to me sometimes. Every place where we
have met God, and come to feel Him as the reality
in all things, is holy ground.</p>
<p>One of the pleasant things of the last month
was my visit to Wheaton Seminary, and the meeting
with Mr. Brooks there, and hearing him speak
to the girls, making them more happy, and helping
them much, as I have to-day heard. His presentation
of Christ as the Way, the Truth, and the Life,
has led one, at least, to a decision for herself, that
Christ is the Son of God. I like to meet new
friends in my old haunts. I have lived through
some painful and some delightful experiences at
Norton, struggling and groping in solitude through
formal dogma and doctrine into spiritual truth,
for there was none with me, and my way of thinking
was accounted heresy. But I felt beckoned
into clearer light than there was around me, and I
followed in silence. I first read Maurice there,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span>
and F. W. Robertson, who opened doors for me
which have never since been closed. And I taught
my pupils, giving them what I had received, truths
which I felt were unquestionable, and I knew,
while there, that it was not wholly in vain, though
I had access to but a few. Now I go back, and
I find the whole school apparently ready for this
clearer spiritual light, and I am glad. We must
love places where we have truly lived,—even in
heaven we shall remember them.</p>
<p>I finished my little book last week,—“As It Is
in Heaven.” I wonder if it was presumptuous in
me to write it? But it seemed to grow by itself, and
I wanted to give the blossoms and fruit that had
shaped themselves in my mind, to those who might
enjoy them, and perhaps get some refreshment and
strength from them. I trust it will be of service
to somebody.</p>
<p>April 3. Lent has passed, and Passion Week,
and Easter. All these festivals now mean so much
to me, and yet not wholly for themselves, but because
they make the whole year sacred. I have
attended all the morning services, and have found
it good to begin the days with that half-hour of
prayer and thought, and communion with others.
Once I should have thought this frequent assembling
together day after day, and week after week,
for religious services, at least unnecessary. But
for the deepening life that has come to me through
them I can never be sufficiently thankful, and I
feel that the Church holds through them a special<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span>
power over the spiritual life of the community. For
the last weeks of winter and first weeks of spring,
everybody is reminded that this life of ours belongs
to us through the life and death of Christ our
Lord. We are always forgetting that,—always
falling back into ourselves and our own petty interests
and plans and thoughts of and for ourselves.</p>
<p>I cannot see why Churches of every name should
not keep Lent and Good Friday and Easter, as
they do Christmas, and I believe they are moving
in that direction.</p>
<p>I was present at the Good Friday evening service
at the Old South, presided over by its pastor,
Rev. Mr. Gordon, where a Baptist, a Unitarian, a
Congregationalist, and three Episcopal clergymen
took part. It was most impressive, and seemed
like a promise of the time when all Christ’s people
shall be one. The Good Friday sermon at Trinity
Church in the morning was to me a new unfolding
of a thought that has always perplexed me, from
the text, “The blood of Christ cleanseth from all
sin.” I could never make the “Atonement,” as
set forth by the religious teachers of my youth, a
reality to myself; Christ Himself was always real,
as a divine man, and as a living presence with us
still, but how His death was to us more than
His Life, I could never see. The grandeur of it
all,—the love that inspired the sacrifice, always
moved my being to its depths, but the prominence
given to His “Blood-shedding” seemed unnatural.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span>
It was tragic; pictorial; yet somehow outside of
me—a scene upon which I gazed, and wondered,
and longed to understand.</p>
<p>I cannot recall the words of Mr. Brooks’s sermon,
but the feeling and the thought left with me from
it was that now I could see it all; and that through
that completed sacrifice, the divine life entered
into every human soul that could open to receive
it. And it is the very thought of the blood, which
represents, and <i>is</i>, the life, that made it clear.</p>
<p>He gives all of himself that He has to give, in
first living for us, and then dying for us. And the
giving means our receiving His pure life into our
stained souls, so that their defilement is cleansed,
and we live His life of love and sacrifice, instead
of our old selfish and sinful one. It is now His
blood that flows through us, and inspires us with
eternal strength. And this is what it means to
be His, and one with Him; the character, the person,
must be renewed, when filled with his purity,
with his righteousness, and his consecration. Any
other view of the atonement than this seems to me
still to be something of a fiction. But this view
is so inspiring to me, that the cross has a new
meaning,—it is the true and only emblem of
Christ’s work to hold up before the world.</p>
<p>May 17. Mr. Brooks’s election as bishop has
followed almost as the natural sequence to Bishop
Paddock’s death, and it has seemed to be demanded
quite as much by the community at large
as by the church. The feeling has been, that if<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span>
there is a place of higher influence for such a man,
he must be put in it. I have not been accustomed
to think that there can be any higher place than
that of a Christian minister, but he will not cease
to be this. But for me it is like the closing of a
beautiful book of inspiration, from which I have
been reading for the past ten years, almost constantly
of late; and before the bishop’s death, I
have felt that it was more than any one congregation
ought to have to itself, and God will broaden
the stream of the water of Life now into more far-reaching
channels. The change has brought great
sadness, but our best is given us to share, and we
shall find joy even in this sacrifice.</p>
<p>May 1. At Beverly,—and tired with my spring
languor, and some inward depression. Yesterday I
talked with Mr. Brooks about the change that is
coming, and though I believe it best and needful
for him, still I feel in it an unutterable sadness.
It is strange that I do, for I never expect to see him
often, or to hear him preach except for a few weeks
in the winter. But I suppose we have all had the satisfaction
of knowing that the fountain was flowing
and that we might drink if we would. And what
have I not received at this source? What a different
world it is to me, from what it was ten years
ago. How I have become strengthened through
and through, to see and know what spiritual life is,
and in my measure to live it, as I believe! Soul
and eyes and heart and hands and feet have been
given to me anew, through the illumination received.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span>That strange “light in light” that seemed to
glow around me, as I knelt in reconsecration of
myself, a little more than a year ago, has not left
me, though it is dimmed by this present regret,
and I shall walk on in it through paths yet untried.</p>
<p>Yesterday I sat in the same room and the same
chair where, eight years ago, Mr. Brooks first suggested
that my place might be in the Episcopal
Church. I had not thought it possible, and did not
see it so then. To be sitting there in his study,
where I had not been again since that first talk
with him, as one of his people, and to hear him
speak of the strangeness to him of his own new
outlook upon life and work,—of the suddenness
with which the change has come to him: “First it
seemed impossible, and then it became inevitable,”
he said,—brought back that other day and all the
time between, and my own experience in being
lifted out of my old associations into the Church,—for
it seems to me that unseen hands at last
lifted me into my place.</p>
<p>Well might he speak of that room as a sacred
room, where so many souls had been strengthened
and led on into light. I wish he need not leave
his house when he becomes bishop; it is so truly
identified with his life. Our place is partly ourself.
I am sure he needs a change, after so many years
of incessant service, doing the work of twenty men,
apparently. He will still have hard work to do,
but it will not be of the same kind.</p>
<p>I do believe that the hand of God is in his election<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span>
as bishop. It is not so much the Episcopal
Church (much as he loves it, and believes in it)
that is to be benefited: the whole church—the
whole community—will feel the difference in the
freedom and depth of spiritual life that can but
radiate from such a man, wherever he goes. I do
want to live at least ten years longer, to have a
part in the good time.</p>
<p>Mr. Whittier writes to me: “The very air of
Massachusetts is freer and sweeter, since his election,”
and these are the words of a seer.</p>
<p>And still it is a haunting regret that I shall no
longer hear his words in the old familiar way, at
Trinity Church.</p></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly, Mass.</span>, June 3, 1891.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Friend</span>,—I do not think the weather
would have kept me here quite, last week, but I
also have had to call myself half-sick. I think it
must be the “grippe” or the effect of some subtle
seizure of that fiend, for I am unaccountably good-for-nothing,
in many ways. I had to lie still all
last Sunday. I <i>must</i> go to Boston next Sunday,
for it is the Communion Service, which has become
very dear to me, and more so <i>now</i>.</p>
<p>Perhaps I will try again this week coming to
you on Friday and going to Amesbury on Saturday
for a call; thence to Boston. If you should hear
that Mr. Whittier had gone to Portland (he is expected
there next week) perhaps you will let me
know by Friday morning.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span>I should <i>prefer</i> coming to see you when I could
stay over Sunday. But while Mr. Brooks preaches
I want to improve every chance of hearing him.
I thought he would not be permitted to leave Trinity
Church—I believe that he was himself surprised
at his own nomination. But he would have fallen
in the harness there: no man could do <i>forever</i> the
superhuman work he was doing, and the collapse
might have been sudden. I have seen him within
a week or two, and he looks at the new work with
all the enthusiasm of a boy. The change may prolong
his strength and usefulness; for nothing but
change of work would be rest to him.</p>
<p>The <i>little</i> side of Episcopacy is making itself
manifest, as it must, when so great a man is brought
into contrast with <i>mere</i> systematizers, petty planners
of the Kingdom which is infinite, <i>so</i> infinite
that it absorbs them, as the atmosphere does motes
and insects.</p>
<p class="center">Yours with love,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p>September 13, 1891. Summit of Moosilauke.
I have been here three weeks yesterday, with rainy
or cloudy weather most of the time, and a few
days of perfect beauty. It has been warm weather,
never cold enough for winter clothing, but heavy
and damp sometimes. In every bright interval
I have been out, half a dozen times out in the
sunrise alone (one of the best things up here).
The sunrises in which the sun was not visible were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span>
loveliest; when the rays reached across from under
a cloud, and over the lower mists, to the distant
mountains in the south, penciling them with soft
rose and pearl tints. The finest sunrise was when
the sunbeams shone down from under a dark purple
cloud on a foamy sea of white mist that covered
the landscape, touching its upper surface with the
splendor we usually see from below. There was a
sunset the night before, with a similar effect, just
as a storm was rolling away. There has been less
variety in the phases of cloud-beauty than usual.</p>
<p>Yesterday was my best day of all. I walked
over to the East Peak, and looked down into the
great ravine, where the shadow of our mountain
was slowly ascending the opposite slopes. The
higher peaks behind shone in soft purple through
the rosy mist, and as I stopped at a crest half-way
to the Peak, they grew so beautiful in their loneliness,
uplifted from sombre depths to luminous
height, and brought to my thoughts such heavenly-human
associations, of the great ones known and
unknown, who have glorified my life and uplifted
it into spiritual splendor, that my eyes were again
and again filled with warm, happy tears. God
has been very good to me in these latter years, in
bringing me to the mountains and giving me friends.
It is the utter loneliness that I sometimes have with
nature, up here, that makes the place so delightful
to me. The people are only incidental; only now
and then one who loves the mountains in my way,
or in a better way, gives them a new attraction.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span>The mountains are more human to me than any
other exhibition of inorganic nature; they are indeed
presences. There must be something like
them in heaven.</p>
<p>I go down to-morrow, to hotel-life for a week or
so, but the peace and strength of the hills will remain
in my heart.</p>
<p>Beverly, October 17, 1891. These last three
weeks,—these last three days, especially,—have
been so full! I have lived more in them, in the
very deepest part of my life, than in as many years,
often.</p>
<p>The consecration of a bishop whose ministry
has been more to my spiritual life than that of any
other minister; the joy of knowing him as a friend;
the sorrow of losing him as a minister; the thankfulness
that I may be counted in as one of his people
still, to work in his larger field with him; the
certainty that God has called him to do more than
ever for the coming of His Kingdom: it is a great
flood of regret and triumph that has been flowing
through me, and that fills me still. I am full of
tears and song; I never felt life so real and so deep.
It is like setting sail on the grandest voyage of
hope, with a chosen spirit of God at the helm, and
all of us full of the inspiration of his life and faith.</p>
<p>I was glad to sit a little aside at the Consecration
Service, and feel more than I could see, though I
saw all the best of it,—that grand manhood in the
midst of white-robed clergy and bishops, one with
it all, and yet so superior to it all, the great humble<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span>
man, bowed among his brethren, to receive his new
office! And I shall never forget my first glimpse
of him in his new character, with the Communion
cup in his hand, a token of service yet to be rendered;
Christ’s life still to be poured out for his
brethren through his own.</p>
<p>So may our lives all be enlarged and strengthened
with his, to serve our Master better, in a
wider and deeper service of humankind!</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO J. G. WHITTIER.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly</span>, February 24, 1892.</p>
<p>... The thought of a present God, who is a
personal Friend to every Soul, has always haunted
me, and of late years has become more real and
close. It seems to me that all truth and peace and
hope centre there. It gives new meaning to immortality,
and to this life as the beginning of an immortal
one. Every year it seems a happier thing
to be alive, and to know that I cannot die.</p>
<p>Through <i>thee</i>, my friend, I have come to see this
very slowly. I have always thought of thee as a
spiritual teacher. And then of late years to have
had in addition the teachings and friendship of
Phillips Brooks has been a great and true help. I
thank God that you two men live, and “will always
live,” as he says to you, and that I have known
you both.</p>
<p>When he called at Mrs. Spalding’s after seeing
you, he told us about the Ary Scheffer poem, and
repeated it to us from the words “O heart of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span>
mine,” through to the end, as he went away, standing
before the picture,—“Christus Consolator,”
which hangs at her parlor door....</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO THE SAME.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly, Mass.</span>, July 10, 1892.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Friend</span>,—I heard of you last in
Danvers, but I am not sure whether you are there
or not, though I have been trying to get around
and see! I have been occupied with various matters
which have taken me to Boston frequently,
and I have usually stayed with Mrs. Guild, Roxbury.</p>
<p>... I do not find myself so strong as usual this
year, and my plans for work may all fall through.
I think I never had so much that I wanted to do,
before. My last two little books have been so
widely and warmly welcomed, that it seems to me
as if I had only just learned what I <i>can</i> do. If I
had begun to write from what I feel most deeply
twenty years ago, I might have been of some real
help to the world. But then I had not had the
experience, and perhaps could not.</p>
<p>It makes me very thankful to know that you
approve my work. We have so often talked over
these matters together. I think the inspiration
must be partly, at least, from you. I know that
my one desire is for <i>reality</i> in the spiritual life,
for self and for others....</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p>Beverly, October 16, 1892. This summer has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span>
brought me little time for writing, but much for
suffering and thinking. Three months ago to-day
my dear sister Emeline left this world; suddenly,—quietly,—just
“slipped away,” her daughter
Lucy says. She made herself ready for church,
and sat waiting,—but it was heaven for her, instead.
Her going makes more difference to me
than the departure of any one else could; for she
has been part of my life ever since I was born.
She did more to shape my mind—my soul—than
any one else did. And yet I differed from her in
my way of thinking, upon many things; the deep
agreement was underneath, at the spiritual foundations.
I think her great power over me was in
her great capacity for love. Her great heart, while
it was faithful to home ties, failed of love to none
of God’s children; and to me she was even more
mother than sister. Her going makes it an easier
thing for me to go, when the time comes.</p>
<p>Then, while on Moosilauke summit, the news of
Mr. Whittier’s death came to me—more translation
than death. I seemed to see him pass on by
me, up the heights, and seemed to hear him say, as
he passed, “So easy a thing it is to die! Like the
mountain blending with the clouds, like the melting
of earth into sky, is the transition from life
into loftier life.” He too passed away in peace;
the lovelier to think of, because he had always
dreaded the hour of death. He, too, was my noble
and tried friend; in my life for more than fifty
years. He is associated in my life with the beauty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span>
of the hills and the sea that we have enjoyed together,
with the deep things of poetry and religion,
which were indeed one reality to him. The memory
of fireside talks in his own home, with his
sister, so dear to us both; the readings of “In
Memoriam” with him after she was gone,—are
most blessedly vivid to me.</p>
<p>And Tennyson has died, within a week! One
could know him only through his poetry, but what
a halo that has hung over our mortal life in all its
phases! To know the man and the poet, as I
knew Whittier, and to be able to feel the greatness
of both, is an immortal possession.</p>
<p>Emerson, Browning, Bryant, Whittier, Tennyson,—and
where are the singers who take us into
the heart of things as they did? There is a delicate
murmur of trained voices making music in
this modern air, but it does not arrest us and hold
us, as the voices of the now silent masters did. It
is hardly an age of song.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO MRS. S. T. PICKARD.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly</span>, October 16, 1892.</p>
<p>... I have dreamed of him [Mr. Whittier] lately,
sitting by the fireside chatting in the old way, as
when I used to visit him and Aunt Lizzie. She
was more to me than almost any friend, more even
than he. I always thought of them as one; and
now they are together again. They cannot be far
away. I want to keep near them in spirit, so as
to find them at once, by and by. I am glad I did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span>
not ever know that he was rich. He used to want
to pay my bills when we were at West Ossipee, etc.,
but I declined, for I supposed he was almost as
poor as myself, though I know of late years his
books have paid well. I am very glad he left me
the copyright of the books I compiled with him;
and indeed it was only right, as I worked so hard
on them. The “Songs of Three Centuries” nearly
cost me my health; the publishers “rushed” it so.
I was good for nothing for three or four years
after, as far as writing went. But he never knew.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO S. T. PICKARD.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Beverly, Mass.</span>, November 11, 1892.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Pickard</span>,—The trouble with me
now is that I am on the invalid list, and am warned
not to promise or undertake any new work at present,
nor to work continuously in the future, as I
have done. The heart seems to be the weak member,
and really stops me, even upon slight exertion.
I have meant to look over my letters from our
friend, and see if there was anything you could use;
but they are packed away with others in a cold
room, where I do not venture to go. I have not
left the house for nearly four weeks, now, and I see
that some revolution in my way of living must be
made. But I hope to be stronger some time than I
am now,—at least to the extent of getting out into
the air. I am sorry not to be able to say that I
can be depended upon, though I will gladly do
what I can to help you.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span>It is unfortunate for me to be hindered by the
state of my health, as I had plans I wanted to set
about at once, of my own. It is imperative for me
to be earning money regularly, for an income, as
I have never quite accumulated it into the thousands.
My recent little books, for the past four
years, have been more profitable than before, and
I can see one or two more as possibilities, if I could
put myself down to the work. I mention all this
to show you how I am situated, as to doing what
you suggest.</p>
<p>Then there is one other thing,—Mr. Whittier
many times said to me, apparently in earnest and
jest, both,—“Don’t thee ever go writing about
me!” It used to hurt me a little, as if I would
parade his friendship for me in any way! I could
not do, after he died, what I would not when he
was alive,—unless I knew he was willing,—and
he never hinted any wish of the kind, certainly.
I have already been asked to furnish “Recollections”
for two periodicals, and have declined. I
may be over-particular in this matter, but I do
feel a delicacy about it,—almost as if I had not
the right.</p>
<p>I write just as the matter looks to me now, and
with the sincerest wish to honor our dear friend’s
memory. Tell me your view of it!</p>
<p class="center">Yours sincerely,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p>
<p class="center">TO FRANKLIN CARTER.</p>
<p class="right">214 <span class="smcap">Columbus Avenue, Boston</span>,<br />
January 10, 1893.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Frank</span>,—I have just finished reading
the life of Dr. Mark Hopkins, and think it a most
interesting record of a grand life. I thank you for
sending it to me. I could not help thinking, as
I read, how full our country is of noble men of
whom we know nothing, or very little. I knew
Dr. Hopkins was an able man, but he was only a
name to me until I read your book. But of course
he was a very unusual man. How grateful and
glad you must be that he was your teacher, and
that you could tell his story so well! I have
known little of you, and you of me, for several
years. I have felt that the years of work could
not be many for me, and so I have been hard at
work writing, that I might give something to those
who could receive from me, before I died.</p>
<p>I do not know whether you have seen my little
books or not. I have published three in the last
two years. The two prose books I thought I had
a call to write, and the response they have received
has shown that I was not wholly wrong.</p>
<p>Perhaps I have given myself too closely to writing,
for I am far from well. Careful medical examination
shows that I have organic heart-disease,
which will need to be watched carefully in the
future; I shall have to go slowly hereafter. Yet I
have many plans that I want to carry out; and it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span>
as necessary now as ever for me to earn my daily
bread. But I am not in the least bit anxious.
The kind of writing I do, does not bring much
money, and I am not desirous of writing the kind
that does.</p>
<p>These later years have been happy ones to me,
because I have been doing things I like to do, and
have had noble and sympathetic friends. One of
my best friends—Whittier—is out of sight now,
but I do not feel that he is far away. Life is one,
in all the worlds, and it is life in God that unites
us all. God in Christ is the great uniting reality
to me. And yet I live so far from my ideal of what
it is! How much more we should all be to each
other, if we believed it, through and through!—</p>
<p>I cannot write, or do anything continuously,
without pain in my chest, so I desist, with love to
you and yours.</p>
<p class="center">Faithfully ever,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p class="center">TO MISS FOBES.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Roxbury, Mass.</span>, March 14, 1893.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Miss Fobes</span>,—I did not think it
would be so long before your kind letters would be
acknowledged, but the truth is that even a little
book, if one’s heart is in the writing of it, is very
absorbing,—and mine has taken all my time. I
am reading the proof sheets of it now, and it will
be out early in April. (I am visiting a friend
here, for a week, trying to rest a rather tired head.)</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span>These little books I have somehow been impelled
to write, from the feeling that others might be
helped, by seeing the way I had been led, and the
point at which I had arrived. For I can but think
of these later years as having been most plainly to
myself under spiritual guidance. I prayed for it
always. I remember walking alone in the woods
behind Monticello Seminary, my heart asking with
tears that I might suffer much, if so I could find
the true secret of life. I have not suffered as
many have,—I have only had ordinary trials and
losses and matter-of-fact struggles with circumstances,
but I have often been in danger of succumbing
to lower standards than I believed in.
But it has been the one effort of my life to keep in
sight the highest and best, and to be satisfied with
nothing less.</p>
<p>Now the best seems to me the simplest:—to
receive, and to give by living it, the life of Christ.
That is the thought I have kept before me in my
little book, which I call “The Unseen Friend.” I
shall send you a copy, as soon as possible.</p>
<p>I am much interested in what you write of the
word “eternal.” It was on the meaning of that
word that my first divergence from the Calvinistic
theories occurred, many years ago. I read F. D.
Maurice much, and still do so. His rendering of
the word “eternal” was, you know, considered
heresy in his own church. Now, the exception is,
in this region, to hear it preached in any other
sense. I think it first implies the <i>character</i> of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span>
life, but also its <i>duration</i>. It is only the real
that can last, and grow better and better forever,
as being a progress into the infinite life of God.
It is death to refuse to receive this life; I cannot
think that any soul will forever refuse, though the
freedom of the human will makes it a possibility.</p>
<p>I look upon this life on earth as but a beginning,
rather an education than a probation—and yet
that also, as every hour of our life is a trial of our
fitness for the next hour. One thing I have liked
in the Episcopal Church since I knew it and have
been in it, is that they preach this practical, spiritual
life so much more than systems and doctrines.
The Christian year is a repeated following of the
story and the spirit of Christ’s life, and everybody
can understand it. Nobody can hold the Apostles
Creed, and not believe in the oneness of the Son
and Father, and that is the pivotal truth of Christianity.
More and more I see the failures in my
past life, through not entering into this central
truth in a more living way.</p>
<p>I thank you for the kind things you say of my
poems and books. There is no one whose approval
I value more deeply. Sometimes I wish I had
more years before me, for I feel as if I were just
beginning to see clearly, and I am more and more
interested in this human life of ours. Yet how
little any of us can do to relieve its burdens. How
hopeless its evils and sins sometime look!</p>
<p>I have just read “David Grieve.” It is far
from being a cheerful book, though powerfully<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span>
written. It is, however, an improvement upon
“Robert Elsmere,” which seemed to me wordily
weak.</p>
<p>I have seen Emily Dickinson’s poems, and enjoy
their queer gleaming and shadowy incoherences.
It does not seem as if her mind could have been
fairly balanced. But her love of nature redeems
many faults.</p>
<p>That poem in the “Christian Union,” “The Immortal
Now,” must have been printed early in the
year 1890, I think. Possibly in 1889, but I believe
I wrote it in the winter of 1889-90. If I
can find a duplicate, I will send it to you. I have
a half-project of collecting my religious poems by
themselves, for next Christmas. What would you
think of it?</p>
<p class="center">Always affectionately yours,</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Lucy Larcom</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The following letter was written to Bishop
Brooks a few days before his death, and was found
on his desk, while his body still lay in his home,
the soul having gone to be “near the Master and
Friend.”</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">TO PHILLIPS BROOKS.</p>
<p class="right">214 <span class="smcap">Columbus Avenue</span>,<br />
January 17, 1893.</p>
<p>It is a real trial to me, my dear friend, that I
am unable to hear you to-night, when you are probably
speaking so near me; and yet a greater to
think that I may be denied it all winter. For I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span>
find myself more ill than I supposed I was, and am
not at present permitted to go out at all. It is a
heart derangement, which has shown some dangerous
symptoms. I have been to Trinity Church, but
am told that I must not attempt walking there
again. It seems childish to tell you about it, but
you know you are my rector still,—and I had
been looking forward to seeing and hearing you occasionally.</p>
<p>Sometimes it seems to me that God’s way of
dealing with me is not to let me see much of my
friends, those who are most to me in the spiritual
life, lest I should forget that the invisible bond is
the only reality. That is the only way I can reconcile
myself to the inevitable separations of life and
death. I know that I feel more completely in sympathy
with those who went away from me into
heaven long ago than I did when they were here.
Still I love and long for my friends, and would
gladly see them while they are here, in the dear
familiar way.</p>
<p>I have accustomed myself to the thought that
my call hence may come suddenly, and if I should
not meet you again here, you will know that in
any world I shall look for you near the Master and
Friend in whose presence you live here, and whose
love you have helped me to see as the one thing
worth living for anywhere. I can truly say that
the last ten years of my life have been better and
happier than all that went before.</p>
<p class="right">Faithfully yours,<span class="gap">L. L.</span></p>
<hr class="tiny" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span>February 20, 1893. A strange mingled experience
the last three or four months. Weeks of illness
in the late autumn in Beverly, when I suddenly
was brought to the knowledge that I have
an incurable disease of the heart, which had been
aggravated by overwork and neglect. In the enforced
quiet, I could only think, and that was not
permitted about disturbing things. Then, a little
recovered, I came to Boston just before Christmas,
and used my strength too rapidly, so that now I
have been in my room under the doctor’s care, for
over a month. And since I have lain here, a great
calamity has befallen. The noblest of men and
friends has left the world,—Phillips Brooks. One
month ago this morning he breathed his last. He,
with whom it was impossible to associate the idea
of death;—was?—<i>is</i> so, still!—the most living
man I ever knew—physically, mentally, spiritually.
It is almost like taking the sun out of the
sky. He was such an illumination, such a warmth,
such an inspiration! And he let us all come so
near him,—just as Christ does!</p>
<p>I felt that I knew Christ personally through
him. He always spoke of Him as his dearest
friend, and he always lived in perfect, loving allegiance
to God in Him. Now I know him as I know
Christ,—as a spirit only, and his sudden withdrawal
is only an ascension to Him, in the immortal
life. Shut into my sick-room, I have seen none
of the gloom of the burial; I know him alive, with
Christ, from the dead, forevermore. Where he is,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span>
life must be. He lived only in realities here, and
he is entering into the heart of them now. “What
a new splendor in heaven!” was my first thought
of him, after one natural burst of sorrow. What
great services he has found! How gloriously life,
with its immortal opportunities, must be opening
to him! He,—one week here,—the next there,—and
seen no more here again. The very suddenness
of his going makes the other life seem the real
one, rather than this. And a man like this is the
best proof God ever gives human beings of their
own immortality.</p>
<p>I treasure my last memories of him, the last sermon
I heard him preach at Trinity, at the October
Communion; the last time I saw him there, just
before Christmas, and the last warm pressure of his
hand, and the sunlike smile as he spoke to me at
the church door; the last note he wrote me when
he spoke of Mr. Whittier in the other life, with
such reverent love: “Think what—<i>where</i>—he is
now!”—even as we are thinking of him. It seems
as if God gave me these last three years of intimate
friendship with him, in connection with the Church,
as the crowning spiritual blessing of my life. The
rest of it must be consecrated to the noblest ends,
like his.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>In March and early April, 1893, Miss Larcom’s
heart-trouble was rapidly developing into an alarming
condition, and she realized that the end must
soon come. Her life had reached its climax in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span>
little book, “The Unseen Friend,” in which she had
written her last and greatest religious message to
the world. More of her friends were on the “other
side” than here, and her eyes eagerly sought the
visions beyond.</p>
<p>Her old pupils and friends remembered her during
those weary days of suffering in the Hoffman
House, Boston. Her beloved niece, Miss Lucy
Larcom Spaulding (now Mrs. Clark) was with her
constantly, ministering to her needs. Some sent
her flowers, which she loved so dearly; others,
fruit; one desired to send from the West a luxurious
bed; and one sent a reclining-chair. The old
cook, Norah, at Norton, asked the privilege of
making graham bread for her. Her old scholars
remembered her more substantially, by a loving
gift, in those days when her pen was forced into
idleness. She painfully felt the restraints of her
illness. Her nights were full of distress. In a
half-amused way, she said, “I never knew what it
was to be really sick. I knew people had to stay
in bed, and have the doctor, but I thought they
slept at night.”</p>
<p>The end drew near. On Saturday evening,
April the fifteenth, she said it would be a great joy
to exchange the physical for the spiritual body;
and she was comforted by reading Bishop Brooks’s
addresses, “Perfect Freedom.”</p>
<p>On Monday, April the seventeenth, she grew
rapidly worse; and in her unconsciousness, she frequently
murmured in prayer, the word “Freedom.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span>
On this day her soul was released, and she entered
into the fullness of the Glory of God.</p>
<p>On a little slip of paper she had written these
last words:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">“O Mariner-soul,</div>
<div class="indent">Thy quest is but begun,</div>
<div class="verse">There are new worlds</div>
<div class="indent">Forever to be won.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>She was borne lovingly to Trinity Church, where
she had worshiped; and there, in the presence of
her sorrowing friends, the service was held. There
was also a service in St. Peter’s Church, Beverly,
where her fellow-townsmen gathered to do her this
last honor. She was laid to rest in the soil of her
native town, within sight and sound of the sea.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">INDEX.</h2></div>
<p>
Abraham, Mount, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>.<br />
<br />
Adirondacks, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>.<br />
<br />
Advertiser, Boston Daily, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>.<br />
<br />
Alden, John, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>.<br />
<br />
Aldrich, T. B., <a href="#Page_84">84</a>.<br />
<br />
Alps, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>, <a href="#Page_168">168</a>.<br />
<br />
American Women of Note, <a href="#Page_239">239</a>.<br />
<br />
Amesbury, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>.<br />
<br />
Anderson, Hans, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>.<br />
<br />
Andover, <a href="#Page_145">145</a>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>.<br />
<br />
Andrew, Governor, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>.<br />
<br />
Androscoggin, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>.<br />
<br />
Anglo-Saxon Poetry, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>.<br />
<br />
Annapolis, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>.<br />
<br />
Appledore, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>.<br />
<br />
Appleton, Nathan, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>.<br />
<br />
Arnold, Matthew, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>.<br />
<br />
Arthur, Prince, <a href="#Page_131">131</a>.<br />
<br />
Asquam, Lake, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>.<br />
<br />
Atlantic Monthly, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_189">189</a>, <a href="#Page_239">239</a>.<br />
<br />
At Her Bedside, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>.<br />
<br />
Attleboro, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>.<br />
<br />
At the Beautiful Gate, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Bacon, Francis, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>.<br />
<br />
Baker, Mrs. I. W., <a href="#Page_32">32</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">letter to, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">living with, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Barrett, Lois, <a href="#Page_1">1</a>.<br />
<br />
Bass River, <a href="#Page_2">2</a>.<br />
<br />
Beaufort, S. C., <a href="#Page_112">112</a>.<br />
<br />
Berkshire Hills, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>.<br />
<br />
Berlin Falls, <a href="#Page_188">188</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>.<br />
<br />
Bermuda, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>.<br />
<br />
Bethel, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>.<br />
<br />
Bethlehem, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>.<br />
<br />
Betsys, Aunt, cucumbers, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>.<br />
<br />
Beverly, <a href="#Page_1">1</a>, <a href="#Page_2">2</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">life in, <a href="#Page_43">43-46</a>, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">division of, <a href="#Page_246">246</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">love for, <a href="#Page_252">252</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Beverly Farms, <a href="#Page_1">1</a>.<br />
<br />
Blanchard, Dr. Amos, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>.<br />
<br />
Blue, Mount, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>.<br />
<br />
Bonnechose, de, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.<br />
<br />
Boston, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>, <a href="#Page_125">125</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>, <a href="#Page_246">246</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">troops in, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">Harbor, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Boston Journal, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>.<br />
<br />
Bradford Academy, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>.<br />
<br />
Bradford, England, <a href="#Page_190">190</a>.<br />
<br />
Breathings of the Better Life, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>.<br />
<br />
Brooks, Rev. Phillips, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>, <a href="#Page_225">225</a>, <a href="#Page_248">248</a>, <a href="#Page_252">252</a>, <a href="#Page_275">275</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">letter on preaching, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">friendship for Lucy Larcom, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter on Lords Supper, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">preaching of, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">preaches on Old Year, <a href="#Page_211">211</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">preaches about Heaven, <a href="#Page_214">214</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter about church-membership, <a href="#Page_220">220</a></span>;<br />
<span class="indent">letter about The Little Town of Bethlehem, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter, <a href="#Page_241">241</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">invites all to Communion, <a href="#Page_244">244</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter, <a href="#Page_250">250</a></span>;<br />
<span class="indent">at Wheaton, <a href="#Page_265">265</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">elected Bishop, <a href="#Page_268">268</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">Consecration of, <a href="#Page_274">274</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">death of, <a href="#Page_285">285</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Brown, J. Appleton, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.<br />
<br />
Brown of Ossawatomie, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>.<br />
<br />
Browning, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_278">278</a>.<br />
<br />
Browning, Mrs., <a href="#Page_159">159</a>.<br />
<br />
Bushnell, Horace, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Campton, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>, <a href="#Page_152">152</a>.<br />
<br />
Cape Ann, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>.<br />
<br />
Carlyle, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>.<br />
<br />
Carter, Franklin, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">letters to, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>, <a href="#Page_281">281</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Cary Sisters, The, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>.<br />
<br />
Centre Harbor, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>.<br />
<br />
Chadwick, Rev. J. W., <a href="#Page_174">174</a>.<br />
<br />
Chasles, Philarète, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>.<br />
<br />
Chaucers Daisies, <a href="#Page_167">167</a>.<br />
<br />
Childs, G. W., <a href="#Page_234">234</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>.<br />
<br />
Childs, Mrs., <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.<br />
<br />
Childhood Songs, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>.<br />
<br />
Child-Life, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>.<br />
<br />
Christian Union, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>, <a href="#Page_285">285</a>.<br />
<br />
Clough, Arthur, <a href="#Page_258">258</a>.<br />
<br />
Coleridge, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>.<br />
<br />
Congregational Church, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>, <a href="#Page_190">190</a>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a>, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>, <a href="#Page_242">242</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">administration of Communion in, <a href="#Page_245">245</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Congregationalist, The, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.<br />
<br />
Contrabands, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.<br />
<br />
Conybeare, and Howson, Life of St. Paul, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>.<br />
<br />
Cook, Mrs., <a href="#Page_196">196</a>.<br />
<br />
Corinth, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>.<br />
<br />
Cottage Hearth, The, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.<br />
<br />
Cousin, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>.<br />
<br />
Crayon, The, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>.<br />
<br />
Croswell, Dr., poems, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>.<br />
<br />
Curtiss, Hariot, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span><br />
<br />
Cushman, Miss, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Davis, Jeff, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">capture of, <a href="#Page_157">157</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Dickens, Charles, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>.<br />
<br />
Dickinson, Emily, <a href="#Page_285">285</a>.<br />
<br />
Digby, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>.<br />
<br />
District of Columbia, slavery in, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.<br />
<br />
Dodge, Mrs. Mary Mapes, <a href="#Page_177">177-178</a>.<br />
<br />
Donelson, Fort, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.<br />
<br />
Durand, John, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">letter to, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
Easter Gleams, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>.<br />
<br />
Elizabeth, Queen, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.<br />
<br />
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, <a href="#Page_125">125</a>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>, <a href="#Page_278">278</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">Parnassus, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</span><br />
<br />
England, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>, <a href="#Page_190">190</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">against slavery, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Episcopal Church, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>, <a href="#Page_243">243</a>, <a href="#Page_249">249</a>, <a href="#Page_284">284</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">criticism of, <a href="#Page_254">254-256</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">little side of, <a href="#Page_272">272</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Essex County, <a href="#Page_1">1</a>, <a href="#Page_193">193</a>.<br />
<br />
Evangeline, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Farley, Hariett, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>.<br />
<br />
Farrar, Canon, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>.<br />
<br />
Fichte, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>.<br />
<br />
Fields, James T., letter to, <a href="#Page_148">148</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>.<br />
<br />
Fields, Mrs. James T., <a href="#Page_149">149</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">letters to, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">books loaned by, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Fitch, Mrs., <a href="#Page_224">224</a>.<br />
<br />
Florida, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.<br />
<br />
Fobes, Miss P., <a href="#Page_38">38</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">letters to, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>, <a href="#Page_282">282</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Forrester, Fanny, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>.<br />
<br />
Fox, George, journal of, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>, <a href="#Page_106">106</a>.<br />
<br />
Franconia Notch, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>, <a href="#Page_151">151</a>.<br />
<br />
Freeman, Miss, <a href="#Page_247">247</a>.<br />
<br />
Frémont, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>.<br />
<br />
French Acadians, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Gannetts, Dr., school, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>.<br />
<br />
Gardiner, Maine, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>.<br />
<br />
Garfield, Mrs., <a href="#Page_210">210</a>.<br />
<br />
Garfield, President, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">assassination of, <a href="#Page_210">210</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Garrison, W. L., <a href="#Page_14">14</a>.<br />
<br />
Gaspereau, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.<br />
<br />
Gethsemane, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>.<br />
<br />
Gibbon, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.<br />
<br />
Godfrey, Captain B., <a href="#Page_37">37</a>.<br />
<br />
Golden-Rod, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>.<br />
<br />
Gordon, Rev. Mr., <a href="#Page_267">267</a>.<br />
<br />
Grand Pré, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.<br />
<br />
Great Britain, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>.<br />
<br />
Greenough, Mrs., <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.<br />
<br />
Greenwood, Grace, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>.<br />
<br />
Guild, Mrs., <a href="#Page_236">236</a>, <a href="#Page_276">276</a>.<br />
<br />
Gullivers Travels, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>.<br />
<br />
Guyon, Madame, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Hail Columbia, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.<br />
<br />
Halifax, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>.<br />
<br />
Hamilton, Gail, <a href="#Page_157">157</a>.<br />
<br />
Hammond, Wisconsin, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>.<br />
<br />
Hand in Hand with Angels, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>.<br />
<br />
Hannah, Aunt, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>.<br />
<br />
Hannah Binding Shoes, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">set to music, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Hares Mission of the Comforter, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>.<br />
<br />
Harpers Magazine, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.<br />
<br />
Haskell, Mrs. Abby O., <a href="#Page_29">29</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">letter to, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Hatteras, Fort, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>.<br />
<br />
Hawthornes Little Annies Ramble, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>.<br />
<br />
Heart of God, The, <a href="#Page_189">189</a>.<br />
<br />
Hegel, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>.<br />
<br />
Herbert, George, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>.<br />
<br />
Higginson, Mr., <a href="#Page_197">197</a>.<br />
<br />
Hilary, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>.<br />
<br />
Hindoo, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>.<br />
<br />
Hopkins, Dr. Mark, <a href="#Page_281">281</a>.<br />
<br />
Horder, Rev. W. Garrett, <a href="#Page_190">190</a>, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>.<br />
<br />
Horticultural Association, <a href="#Page_152">152</a>.<br />
<br />
Howells, W. D., <a href="#Page_189">189</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>.<br />
<br />
Humiston, Esther S., <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">letters to, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">dying, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">death, <a href="#Page_92">92</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">grave of, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letters of, <a href="#Page_138">138</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">mother of, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>, <a href="#Page_152">152</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Hunter, Dr. John, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Idyl of Work, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_190">190</a>.<br />
<br />
Immortal Now, The, <a href="#Page_285">285</a>.<br />
<br />
Independent, The, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.<br />
<br />
Ingelow, Jean, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">letter to, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Ipswich, <a href="#Page_1">1</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">Academy of, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Isles of Shoals, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>.<br />
<br />
Italy, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Jackson, H. H., <a href="#Page_196">196</a>.<br />
<br />
Jamesons, Mrs., Legends of the Madonna, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Kant, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>.<br />
<br />
Keble, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>, <a href="#Page_215">215</a>.<br />
<br />
Kennebec River, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>.<br />
<br />
Knickerbocker, The, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">letter to, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Koeppen, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Lambs Dream Children, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>.<br />
<br />
Larcom, Mrs., <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_262">262</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">boarding-house of, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">death of, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Larcom, Benjamin, <a href="#Page_1">1</a>.<br />
<br />
Larcom, Cornelius, <a href="#Page_1">1</a>.<br />
<br />
Larcom, David, <a href="#Page_1">1</a>.<br />
<br />
Larcom, Jonathan, <a href="#Page_1">1</a>.<br />
<br />
Larcom, Lucy, birth, <a href="#Page_1">1</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">at school, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">love for hymns, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">books she read, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">writes for manuscript papers, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">working in Lowell mills, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">early religious ideas, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">signs petition to Congress, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">meets Mr. Whittier, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">book-keeper in Lawrence Mills, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">writing in prose sketch-book, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">writing poetry, <a href="#Page_17">17</a>;</span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span><br />
<span class="indent">goes to Illinois, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">diary of journey, <a href="#Page_21">21-27</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">in Maryland, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">At Pittsburgh, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">at St. Louis, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">lives on Looking-glass Prairie, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">hardships in school-teaching, <a href="#Page_28">28</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letters to sisters, Abby and Lydia, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">examined for position as teacher, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">sick with agey, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">enters Monticello, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">life at Monticello, <a href="#Page_39">39-43</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">debating society, <a href="#Page_40">40</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">compositions, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">engagement, <a href="#Page_43">43</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">teaching in Beverly, <a href="#Page_44">44-46</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">enters Wheaton Seminary, <a href="#Page_46">46-47</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">room at Norton, <a href="#Page_48">48</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">love for flowers, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">knitting stockings for soldiers, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">power as a teacher, <a href="#Page_49">49-53</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">lecture on Anglo-Saxon Poetry, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">lecture on compositions, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">in the class-room, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">founding the Rushlight, and Psyche Literary Society, <a href="#Page_50">50-51</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">called Mother Larcom, <a href="#Page_51">51</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter on death, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">girls love affairs, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">scholars love for her, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">friendship for Miss Humiston, <a href="#Page_54">54-57</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">ideas about church-membership, and doctrines, <a href="#Page_55">55-57</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">leaves Norton, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">reasons for not marrying, <a href="#Page_57">57-59</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">publishes Similitudes, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">wins Kansas prize song, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">publishes Lotties Thought-book, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">prints Hannah Binding Shoes, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">writes to New York Tribune, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to John Durand, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">unsuccessful attempt to print a volume of verse, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">submits verses to Mr. Whittier for criticism, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">diary, <a href="#Page_69">69-147</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">thoughts on mystics, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">thoughts on The Sabbath, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">reasons for keeping a diary, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">remarks on ministers, <a href="#Page_76">76-77</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">reads Wilhelm Meister, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">depression of spirits, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">thoughts on eternal life and death, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">gifts on her birthday, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">unpleasant sermon on Satan, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">remarks on friendship, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">visits the Webster place, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">visits Plymouth, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">visits the Whittiers, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">love for mountains, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">on the Rebellion, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">concerning her diary, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">concerning gossip, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">on childs knowledge of the Bible, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">sleigh-ride to Attleboro, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">on Sarah Paines death, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">hears Emerson, <a href="#Page_125">125</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">education of nieces, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">religious talks with scholars, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">introspection, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">thoughts on the resurrection, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">love for the Whittiers, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">singing around Liberty Pole, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">prays for C——, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">skeptical, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">school trials, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">death of C——, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">visits Andover, <a href="#Page_145">145</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to Mr. Fields, enclosing poem, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to Whittier about the mountains, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">gives up teaching at Wheaton, <a href="#Page_152">152</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">home in Waterbury, <a href="#Page_152">152</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">writes for the Atlantic, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter about death of her sister Louisa, <a href="#Page_155">155</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">edits Our Young Folks, <a href="#Page_157">157</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">publishes Breathings of the Better Life, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letters to Mrs. James T. Fields, <a href="#Page_159">159-163</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to Mrs. Thaxter, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to Miss Ingelow, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to Mr. Whittier about her mothers illness, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">publishes Poems, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">name of, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">work with Mr. Whittier, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letters to Mrs. Dodge, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">publishes An Idyl of Work, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">prints Roadside Poems, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter on Romans, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">visits Bermuda, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">prints Landscape in American Poetry, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to Mrs. Wheaton, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">present at breakfast to Dr. Holmes, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">first meeting with Phillips Brooks, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">prints Wild Roses of Cape Ann, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to Mr. Pickard, <a href="#Page_188">188</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">criticism of her poetry, <a href="#Page_189">189-198</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to Dr. Hunter, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">religious changes, <a href="#Page_200">200</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to Franklin Carter, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">learns to know the Episcopal Church, <a href="#Page_107">107-120</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">opinion of faith-cure, <a href="#Page_212">212</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">reads Renan, <a href="#Page_216">216</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter from Nova Scotia, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to Phillips Brooks, <a href="#Page_225">225</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">summer homes of, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">on Theosophy, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">conversation with Mr. Whittier about finances, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">visits President Carter, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">prints A New England Girlhood, <a href="#Page_238">238</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">communes at Trinity Church, <a href="#Page_244">244</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">confirmed, <a href="#Page_252">252</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">converses with Mr. Brooks, <a href="#Page_269">269-270</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">illness of, <a href="#Page_280">280-281</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to Miss Fobes, <a href="#Page_282">282</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">last letter to Phillips Brooks, <a href="#Page_285">285</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">on the death of Mr. Brooks, <a href="#Page_287">287</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">death of, <a href="#Page_289">289</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">burial of, <a href="#Page_290">290</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Larcom, Mordecai, <a href="#Page_1">1</a>.<br />
<br />
Lavater, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>.<br />
<br />
Lawrence Mills, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.<br />
<br />
Lazarus, Emma, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.<br />
<br />
Lebanon, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>.<br />
<br />
Lee, surrender of, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.<br />
<br />
Leigh, Miss, <a href="#Page_247">247</a>.<br />
<br />
Liberty Pole, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.<br />
<br />
Lincoln, Abraham, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">assassination of, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Longfellow, H. W., <a href="#Page_80">80</a>, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">letter to Miss Larcom, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">death of, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Longfellow, Rev. Samuel, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>.<br />
<br />
Lowell, mills in, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">lyceum of, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">poem on, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">article in Atlantic Monthly on, <a href="#Page_239">239</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Lowell, Francis Cabot, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>.<br />
<br />
Lowell, J. R., <a href="#Page_180">180</a>.<br />
<br />
Lowell, Maria, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>.<br />
<br />
Lowell Offering, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span><br />
<br />
Loyal Womans No, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Maine, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>.<br />
<br />
Maintenon, Madame de, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.<br />
<br />
Manassas, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.<br />
<br />
Mansel, Dean, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>.<br />
<br />
Martineau, Dr., <a href="#Page_196">196</a>.<br />
<br />
Mason and Slidell, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>.<br />
<br />
Maurice, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_76">76</a>, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>, <a href="#Page_214">214</a>, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>, <a href="#Page_265">265</a>.<br />
<br />
Maurys Physical Geography, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>.<br />
<br />
Melrose, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>.<br />
<br />
Memphis, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>.<br />
<br />
Merrimac, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">sinking of, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Middlesex Standard, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.<br />
<br />
Milton, <a href="#Page_194">194</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.<br />
<br />
Milton Hills, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>.<br />
<br />
Mississippi, <a href="#Page_167">167</a>.<br />
<br />
Missouri, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.<br />
<br />
Monitor, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.<br />
<br />
Monticello, <a href="#Page_238">238</a>, <a href="#Page_283">283</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">prospectus of, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Moosilauke, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>, <a href="#Page_263">263</a>, <a href="#Page_272">272</a>, <a href="#Page_277">277</a>.<br />
<br />
Morris Poems, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>.<br />
<br />
Moultrie, Fort, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>.<br />
<br />
Müller, Max, <a href="#Page_210">210</a>.<br />
<br />
My Mountain, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>.<br />
<br />
Myrtle, Minnie, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Neanders History of the Church, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>.<br />
<br />
Neck-woods, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>.<br />
<br />
Newburyport, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>.<br />
<br />
New England Emigrant Aid Co., <a href="#Page_62">62</a>.<br />
<br />
New England Girlhood, <a href="#Page_2">2</a>, <a href="#Page_238">238</a>, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>.<br />
<br />
New Hampshire, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>, <a href="#Page_168">168</a>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>.<br />
<br />
New York Tribune, The, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>.<br />
<br />
Norfolk, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.<br />
<br />
North Carolina, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.<br />
<br />
Norton, Mass., <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.<br />
<br />
Notch Mountains, <a href="#Page_151">151</a>, <a href="#Page_168">168</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>.<br />
<br />
Nova Scotia, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Olivet, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>.<br />
<br />
On the Beach, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>.<br />
<br />
Operatives Magazine, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>.<br />
<br />
Osgood & Co., <a href="#Page_179">179</a>.<br />
<br />
Ossipee Park, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>, <a href="#Page_279">279</a>.<br />
<br />
Our Christ, <a href="#Page_190">190</a>.<br />
<br />
Our Young Folks, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>, <a href="#Page_157">157</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Paine, Sarah, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>.<br />
<br />
Park, Professor, <a href="#Page_145">145</a>.<br />
<br />
Parker, Theodore, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>.<br />
<br />
Passion Week, <a href="#Page_243">243</a>, <a href="#Page_266">266</a>.<br />
<br />
Paula, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.<br />
<br />
Pembroke, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>.<br />
<br />
Pemigewasset, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>, <a href="#Page_168">168</a>.<br />
<br />
Pilgrims, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>, <a href="#Page_167">167</a>.<br />
<br />
Pilgrims Progress, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>.<br />
<br />
Pitman, Harriet, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>.<br />
<br />
Phebe, <a href="#Page_189">189</a>.<br />
<br />
Phelps, Prof., <a href="#Page_145">145</a>.<br />
<br />
Phillips, Adelaide, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>.<br />
<br />
Plato, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">reading, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">teaching, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Plymouth, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>.<br />
<br />
Poems, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>.<br />
<br />
Portland Transcript, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>.<br />
<br />
Potomac, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>.<br />
<br />
Prairie sleigh-ride, A, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>.<br />
<br />
Psyche Literary Society, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>.<br />
<br />
Puritans, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Quaker, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">worship of, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">contrast with Puritan, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Quaker Home, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Readville, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>.<br />
<br />
Renan, <a href="#Page_216">216</a>.<br />
<br />
Richter, Jean Paul, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>.<br />
<br />
Roadside Poems, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>.<br />
<br />
Robertson, F. W., <a href="#Page_138">138</a>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a>, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>, <a href="#Page_266">266</a>.<br />
<br />
Rose Enthroned, The, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>.<br />
<br />
Rossetti, W. M., <a href="#Page_197">197</a>.<br />
<br />
Rushlight, The, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>.<br />
<br />
Ruskin, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>.<br />
<br />
Russell, John, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Sabbath Bells, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.<br />
<br />
Saddle-back, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>.<br />
<br />
Schelling, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>.<br />
<br />
Scott, Sir Walter, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>.<br />
<br />
Sears Foregleams and Foreshadows, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>.<br />
<br />
Shakespeare, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>, <a href="#Page_194">194</a>.<br />
<br />
Shared, <a href="#Page_189">189</a>.<br />
<br />
Shelley, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>.<br />
<br />
Similitudes, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>.<br />
<br />
Skipper Ben, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>.<br />
<br />
Smith, John Cotton, <a href="#Page_215">215</a>.<br />
<br />
Spalding, Mrs. S. I., <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">letters to, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>, <a href="#Page_193">193</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>, <a href="#Page_271">271</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Spaulding, George, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>.<br />
<br />
Spaulding, Lucy Larcom, <a href="#Page_289">289</a>.<br />
<br />
Spenser, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>.<br />
<br />
Socrates, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>.<br />
<br />
Solis-Cohen, Dr. S., <a href="#Page_260">260</a>.<br />
<br />
Songs of Three Centuries, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>, <a href="#Page_279">279</a>.<br />
<br />
South Carolina, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>.<br />
<br />
Southey, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>.<br />
<br />
St. Anns Church, Lowell, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>.<br />
<br />
St. Nicholas, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>, <a href="#Page_157">157</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.<br />
<br />
St. Peters Church, Beverly, <a href="#Page_290">290</a>.<br />
<br />
Standish, Miles, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>.<br />
<br />
Stanley, Aunt, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>.<br />
<br />
Stedman, Mr., <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.<br />
<br />
Stephen, Sir James, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.<br />
<br />
Stone, Dr., <a href="#Page_215">215</a>.<br />
<br />
Stone, Lucy, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>.<br />
<br />
Stowe, Harriet Beecher, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>.<br />
<br />
Stowe, Prof., <a href="#Page_145">145</a>.<br />
<br />
Sumatra, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>.<br />
<br />
Sumner, Charles, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>.<br />
<br />
Swedenborg, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>.<br />
<br />
Switzerland, <a href="#Page_168">168</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Taulers Sermons, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span><br />
<br />
Taunton, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>.<br />
<br />
Tennyson, <a href="#Page_278">278</a>.<br />
<br />
Thanksgiving, A, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>, <a href="#Page_194">194</a>.<br />
<br />
Thaxter, Mrs. Celia, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>.<br />
<br />
Thayer, Prof., <a href="#Page_178">178</a>.<br />
<br />
The Chamber Called Peace, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>.<br />
<br />
Tholuck, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>.<br />
<br />
Thomas, Rev. Abel C., <a href="#Page_10">10</a>.<br />
<br />
Thorndike, Colonel, <a href="#Page_2">2</a>.<br />
<br />
Trinity Church, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>, <a href="#Page_252">252</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">free seats in, <a href="#Page_208">208</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">services at, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">passing of old year at, <a href="#Page_211">211</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Trowbridge, <a href="#Page_157">157</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Unitarianism, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_215">215</a>.<br />
<br />
Universalists, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>.<br />
<br />
Unseen Friend, The, <a href="#Page_283">283</a>.<br />
<br />
Unwedded, <a href="#Page_59">59</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Vincent, Henry, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Walkers Rhyming Dictionary, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>.<br />
<br />
Wallace Lane, <a href="#Page_2">2</a>.<br />
<br />
Wallis, Becky, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>.<br />
<br />
Ward, Susan Hayes, <a href="#Page_238">238</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">letters to, <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Waterbury, Conn., <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_152">152</a>.<br />
<br />
Waterville, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>.<br />
<br />
Webster, Daniel, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>.<br />
<br />
Wellesley College, <a href="#Page_247">247</a>.<br />
<br />
Wheaton, Judge, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>.<br />
<br />
Wheaton, Mrs. E. B., <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.<br />
<br />
Wheaton Seminary, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_152">152</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>, <a href="#Page_238">238</a>, <a href="#Page_265">265</a>.<br />
<br />
White Face, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>.<br />
<br />
White Mountains, <a href="#Page_168">168</a>.<br />
<br />
White, Richard Grant, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>.<br />
<br />
White, Sunday, A, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>.<br />
<br />
Whitney, Mrs. A. D. T., <a href="#Page_184">184</a>, <a href="#Page_239">239</a>.<br />
<br />
Whittier, Elizabeth, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>, <a href="#Page_151">151</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>.<br />
<br />
Whittier, John G., <a href="#Page_66">66</a>, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>;<br />
<span class="indent">first meeting with Miss Larcom, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">friendship for Miss Larcom, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to Lucy Larcom, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">Home Ballads, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">Panorama, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letters to, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>, <a href="#Page_275">275</a>, <a href="#Page_276">276</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">rhymed note of, <a href="#Page_161">161</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">at Isles of Shoals, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">collaboration with Miss Larcom, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to Lucy Larcom, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">criticism of her poetry, <a href="#Page_193">193</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">letter to O. W. Holmes, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">visit of, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">poem, Wood-Giant, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">on Bishop Brooks, <a href="#Page_271">271</a>;</span><br />
<span class="indent">death of, <a href="#Page_277">277</a>.</span><br />
<br />
Wide Awake, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.<br />
<br />
Wilberforce, Canon, <a href="#Page_247">247</a>.<br />
<br />
Wild Roses of Cape Ann, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>, <a href="#Page_188">188</a>.<br />
<br />
Williams College, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>.<br />
<br />
Williamstown, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>.<br />
<br />
Winnipiseogee, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>, <a href="#Page_168">168</a>.<br />
<br />
Winter, William, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>.<br />
<br />
Wolfboro, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>.<br />
<br />
Woodberry, George E., <a href="#Page_257">257</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a>.<br />
<br />
Wordsworth, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Year in Heaven, A, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>.<br />
<br />
Youths Companion, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>.
</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<blockquote>
<p class="ph3">FOOTNOTES:</p>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> <i>An Idyl of Work</i>, p. 34.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> <i>An Idyl of Work</i>, p. 69.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> <i>An Idyl of Work</i>, p. 74.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> <i>Ibid</i>, p. 136.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> <i>Similitudes.</i></p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Elizabeth Whittier.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> <i>Wild Roses of Cape Ann.</i></p></div>
</blockquote>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 55751 ***</div>
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