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About Google Book Search Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web at|http : //books . google . com/| i % i -a :i2:TT2.a-5 Z.'KZ'J^l DZCSLiyt^aS^ '.VirrJKi : y / LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON EDITED BY MABEL LOOMIS TODD IN TWO VOLUMES Volume I BOSTON ROBERTS BROTHERS 1894 ■ ■4 ^ LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON Volume i LETTERS IlLY DICKINSON • \ I • ' T? ■ ■ * MAIUii L(m. .M •. ■: . \ ?V i .w; ^ ••: \ ■■»:,;.. .•>. \ }• f ■ ' ' : :. •- ■•' • ■ - • ^ y LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON EDITED BY MABEL LOOMIS TODD IN TWO VOLUMES Volume I BOSTON ROBERTS BROTHERS 1894 :-C-y):-.-^ ■■■" .\. ■ 'I . 'i . : LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON EDITED BY MABEL LOOMIS TODD IN TWO VOLUMES Volume I BOSTON ROBERTS BROTHERS 1894 Copyright^ 1894 By Roberts Brothers John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. INTRODUCTORY THE lovers of Emily Dickinson's poems have been so eager for some of her prose that i her sister has asked me to prepare these volumes of her letters. Emily Dickinson's verses, often but the reflection ^ of a passing mood, do not always completely repre- I sent herself, — rarely, indeed, showing the dainty humor, the frolicsome gayety, which continually ^ bubbled over in her daily life. The sombre and even weird outlook upon this world and the next, characteristic of many of the poems, was by no means a prevailing condition of mind ; for, while fully apprehending all the tragic elements in life, enthusiasm and bright joyousness were yet her normal qualities, and stimulating moral heights her native dweUing-place. All this may be glimpsed in her letters, no less full of charm, it is believed, to the general reader, than to Emily Dickinson's per- sonal friends. .As she kept no journal, the letters are the more interesting because they contain all the prose which she is known to have written. >FZ 57509 VI INTRODUCTORY It was with something almost like dread that I approached the task of arranging these letters, lest the deep revelations of a peculiarly shy inner life might so pervade them that in true loyalty to their writer none could be publicly used. . But with few exceptions they have been read and prepared with entire relief from that feeling, and with unshrinking pleasure ; the sanctities were not invaded. Emily kept her little reserves, and bared her soul but seldom, even in intimate correspondence. It was not so much that she was always on spiritual guard, as that she sported with her varying moods, and tested them upon her friends with apparent delight in the effect, as airy and playful as it was half unconscious. So large is the number of letters to each of several correspondents, that it has seemed best to place these sets in separate chapters. The conti- nuity is perhaps more perfectly preserved in this way than by the usual method of mere chronological succession; especially as, in a life singularly un- eventful, no marked periods of travel or achieve- ment serve otherwise to classify them. On this plan a certain order has been possible, too ; the opening letters in each chapter are always later than the first of the preceding, although the last letters of one reach a date beyond the beginning of the next. The less remarkable writing, of course, fills the first chapters ; but even this shows her love of study, of Nature, and a devotion to home almost as intense as in strange Emily Bronte. INTRODUCTORY VU Nothing is perhaps more marked than the change of style between the difiiiseness of girlhood and the brilliant sententiousness of late middle hfe, often startlingly imexpected. And yet suggestions of fu- ture picturesque and epigrammatic power occasion- ally flash through the long, youthfiil correspondence. Lowell once wrote of the first letters of Carlyle, 'The man ... is all there in the earliest of his writing that we have (potentially there, in character wholly there).' It is chiefly for these 'potential* promises that Emily Dickinson's girlish letters are included, all the variations in the evolution of a style having hardly less interest for the student of human nature than of literature. Village life, even in a college town, was very democratic in the early dajrs when the first of these letters were written, and they suggest a refreshing atmosphere of homely simplicity. Unusual difliculties have been encountered in ar- ranging the letters with definite reference to years, as none but the very earliest were dated. The change in handwriting, of which specimens are given in facsimile, was no less noticeable than Emily Dickinson's development in literary style ; and this alone has been a general guide. The thoughtfiilness of a few correspondents in recording the time of the letters' reception has been a farther and most welcome assistance ; while occasionally the kind of postage-stamp and the postmark helped to indicate when they were written, although generally the enve- Vlll INTRODUCTORY lopes had not been preserved. But the larger part have been placed by searching out the dates of contemporaneous incidents mentioned, — for in- stance, numerous births, marriages, and deaths; any epoch in the life of a friend was an event to Emily Dickinson, always noticed by a bit of flashing verse, or a graceful, if mystically expressed, note of comfort or congratulation. If errors are found in assignment to the proper time, it will not be from lack of having interrogated all available sources of information. In more recent years, dashes instead of punctua- tion, and capitals for all important words, together with the quaint handwriting, give to the actual manuscript an individual fascination quite irre- sistible. But the coldness of print destroys that elusive charm, so that dashes and capitals have been restored to their conventional use. In her later years, Emily Dickinson rarely ad- dressed the envelopes : it seemed as if her sensitive nature shrank from the publicity which even her handwriting would undergo, in the observation of indifferent eyes. Various expedients were resorted to, — obliging friends frequently performed this office for her; sometimes a printed newspaper label was pasted upon the envelope ; but the actual strokes of her own pencil were, so far as possible, reserved exclusively for friendly eyes. Emily Dickinson's great disinclination for an ex- position of the theology current during her girlhood INTRODUCTORY ix is matter for small wonder. While her Others were men of recognized originality and force, they did not question the religious teaching of the time; they were leaders in town and church, even strict and uncompromising in their piety. Reverence for accepted ways and forms, merely as such, seems entirely to have been left out of Emily's constitu- tion. To her, God was not a far-away and dreary Power to be daily addressed, — the great * Eclipse * of which she wrote, — but He was near and familiar and pervasive. Her garden was full of His bright- ness and glory ; the birds sang and the sky glowed because of Him. To shut herself out of the sun- shine in a church, dark, chilly, restricted, was rather to shut herself away from Him ; almost pathetically she wrote, ' I believe the love of God may be taught not to seem like bears.' In essence, no real irreverence mars her poems or her letters. Of malice aforethought, — an inten- tional irreverence, — she is never once guilty. The old interpretation of the biblical estimate of life was cause to her for gentle, wide-eyed astonishment. No one knew better the phrases which had become cant, and which seemed always to misrepresent the Father Whom she knew with personal directness and without necessity for human intervention. It was a theologically misconceived idea of a 'jealous God,' for which she had a profound contempt ; and the fact that those ideas were still held by the stricter New England people of her day made not the INTRODUCTORY slightest difference in her expression of disapproval. Fearless and daring, she had biblical quotation at her finger-tips; and even if she sometimes used it in a way which _ might shock a conventionalist, she had in her heart too profound an adoration for the great, ever-living, and present Father to hold a shadow of real irreverence toward Him, so pecu- liarly near. No soul in which dwelt not a very noble and actual love and respect for the essen- tials could have written as she did of real triumph, of truth, of aspiration. * We never know how high we are, Till we are called to rise ; And then, if we are true to plan, Our statures touch the skies. * The heroism we recite "Would be a daily thing Did not ourselves the cubits warp, For fear to be a king.' Must not one who wrote that have had her ever- open shrine, her reverenced tribunal? The whims and pretences of society, its forms and unrealities, seemed to her thin and unworthy. Conventionalities, while they amused, exasperated her also ; and the little poem beginning, * The show is not the show, But they that go,' expresses in large measure her attitude toward soci- ety, when she lived in the midst of it. Real life, on the other hand, seemed vast and inexpressibly INTRODIK XI solemn. Petty trivialities had hc^'^part in her con- stitution, and she came to despise them more and more, — so much, indeed, that with her increasing shyness, she gradually gave up all journeys, and finally retired completely from even the simple life of a New England college town. As has been said of Emily Bronte, ' To this natural isolation of spirit we are in a great measure in- debted for that passionate love of Nature which gives such a vivid reality and exquisite simplicity to her descriptions.' Emily Dickinson's letters, almost as much as the poems, exhibit her elf-like intimacy with Nature. She sees and apprehends the great mother's processes, and shares the rapture of all created things under the wide sky. The letters speak of flowers, of pines and autumnal colors ; but no natural sight or sound or incident seems to have escaped her delicate apprehension. Bird songs, crickets, frost, and winter winds, even the toad and snake, mushrooms and bats, have an in- describable charm for her, which she in turn brings to us. March, * that month of proclamation,' was especially dear; and among her still unpublished verses is a characteristic greeting to the windy month. In all its aspects ' Nature became the unique charm and consolation of her life, and as such she has written of it.* Warm thanks are due the friends who have gen- erously lent letters for reproduction. That they were friends of Emily Dickinson, and willing to V xii IN2 UCTORY share her wora. the larger outsid^xu-cle, wait- ing and appreciative, entitles them to the gratitude, not merely of the Editor, but of all who make up the world that Emily 'never saw,* but to which, nevertheless, she sent a 'message.* MABEL LOOMIS TODD Amherst, Massachusetts October 1894 TABLE OF CONTENTS VOLUME I Pagb Introductory v Chapter I. To Mrs A. P. Strong .... (1845- 1853) ' II. To Mr W. a, Dickinson . . . (1847-1854) 65 III. To Mrs Gordon I* Ford, Mr BowDOiN, Mrs Anthon, and Miss Lavinia Dickinson . . (1848-1865) 125 IV. To Dr and Mrs J. G. Holland (1853-1883) 155 V. To Mr and Mrs Samuel Bowles (1858-1S81) 189 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Child Portrait of Emily Dickinson . Frontispiece Pagb Letter to Dr and Mrs Holland, /j^j/»i«// .'159 Letter to Mr Samuel BowhESf facsimile . . . 2i8 / LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON CHAPTER I To Mrs A. P. Strong 'THHE letters in this chapter were written -*■ to a schoolmate and early friend. The first is one of the oldest yet found, dated when Emily Dickinson had but recently passed her fourteenth birthday. Before the era of outer envelopes, it is quaintly written on a large square sheet, and so folded that the fourth page forms a cover bearing the address. Most of the remaining letters to Mrs Strong are thus folded, and sealed either with wax or wafers, — occasion- ally with little rectangular or diamond papers bearing mottoes stamped in gold. The hand- writing is almost microscopic, the pages en- tirely filled. Merely personal items have been generally omitted. It will be seen that the name ' Emilie E. Dickinson ' is sometimes used. The ie was VOL. I. — I LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON CHAPTER I To Mrs A. P. Strong 'TPHE letters in this chapter were written ^ to a schoolmate and early friend. The first is one of the oldest yet found, dated when Emily Dickinson had but recently passed her fourteenth birthday. Before the era of outer envelopes, it is quaintly written on a large square sheet, and so folded that the fourth page forms a cover bearing the address. Most of the remaining letters to Mrs Strong are thus folded, and sealed either with wax or wafers, — occasion- ally with little rectangular or diamond papers bearing mottoes stamped in gold. The hand- writing is almost microscopic, the pages en- tirely filled. Merely personal items have been generally omitted. It will be seen that the name ' Emilie E. Dickinson * is sometimes used. The ie was VOL. I. — I LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON CHAPTER I To Mrs A, P. Strong 'THHE letters in this chapter were written -*■ to a schoolmate and early friend. The first is one of the oldest yet found, dated when Emily Dickinson had but recently passed her fourteenth birthday. Before the era of outer envelopes, it is quaintly written on a large square sheet, and so folded that the fourth page forms a cover bearing the address. Most of the remaining letters to Mrs Strong are thus folded, and sealed either with wax or wafers, — occasion- ally with little rectangular or diamond papers bearing mottoes stamped in gold. The hand- writing is almost microscopic, the pages en- tirely filled. Merely personal items have been generally omitted. It will be seen that the name ' Emilie E. Dickinson ' is sometimes used. The ie was VOL. I. — I 2 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1845 a youthful vagary, and the second initial, E., stood for Elizabeth, a * middle name ' entirely discarded in later years. Amherst, Feb. 23, 1845. Dear A., — After receiving the smitings of con- science for a long time, I have at length succeeded in stifling the voice of that faithful monitor by a promise of a long letter to you ; so leave everything and sit down prepared for a long siege in the shape of a bundle of nonsense from friend E. ... I keep your lock of hair as precious as gold and a great deal more so. I often look at it when I go to my little lot of treasures, and wish the owner of that glossy lock were here. Old Time wags on pretty much as usual at Amherst, and I know of nothing that has occurred to break the silence ; however, the reduction of the postage has excited my risibles somewhat. Only think ! We can send a letter before long for five little coppers only, filled with the thoughts and advice of dear friends. But I will not get into a philosophizing strain just yet. There is time enough for that upon another page of this mammoth sheet. ... Your beau ideal D. I have not seen lately. I presume he was changed into a star some night while gazing at them, and placed in the constellation Orion between Bellatrix and Betelgeux. I doubt not if he was here he would wish to be kindly remembered to you. What delightful weather we have had for a week ! 1845] '^O MRS STRONG 3 It seems more like smiling May crowned with flow- ers than cold, arctic February wading through snow- drifts. I have heard some sweet little birds sing, but I fear we shall have more cold weather and their little bills will be frozen up before their songs are finished. My plants look beautifully. Old King Frost has not had the pleasure of snatching any of them in his cold embrace as yet, and I hope will not. Our little pussy has made out to live. I believe you know what a fatality attends our little kitties, all of them, having had six die one right after the other. Do you love your little niece J. as well as ever? Your soliloquy on the year that is past and gone was not unheeded by me. Would that we might spend the year which is now fleeting so swiftly by to better advantage than the one which we have not the power to recall ! Now I know you will laugh, and say I wonder what makes Emily so sentimental. But I don't care if you do, for I sha'n't hear you. What are you doing this winter? I am about everything. I am now working a pair of slippers to adorn my father's feet. I wish you would come and help me finish them. . . . Although it is late in the day, I am going to wish you a happy New Year, — not but what I think your New Year will pass just as happily without it, but to make a little return for your kind wish, which so far in a good many respects has been granted, probably because you wished that it might be so. ... I go to singing-school Sabbath evenings to improve my voice. Don't you envy me ? . . . / 4 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1845 I wish you would come and make me a long visit. If you will, I will entertain you to the best of my abilities, which you know are neither few nor small. Why can't you persuade your father and mother to let you come here to school next term, and keep me company, as I am going ? Miss , I presume you can guess who I mean, is going to finish her educa- tion next summer. The finishing stroke is to be put on at Newton. She will then have learned all that we poor foot-travellers are toiling up the hill of knowledge to acquire. Wonderful thought ! Her horse has carried her along so swiftly that she has nearly gained the summit, and we are plodding along on foot after her. Well said and sufficient this. We '11 finish an education sometime, won't we ? You may then be Plato, and I will be Socrates, provided you won't be wiser than I am. Lavinia just now interrupted my flow of thought by saying give my love to A. I presume you will be glad to have some one break off this epistle. All the girls send much love to you. And please accept a large share for yourself. From your beloved Emily E. Dickinson. Please send me a copy of that Romance you were writing at Amherst. I am in a fever to read it. I expect it will be against my Whig feelings. After this postscript many others follow, across the top, down the' edges, tucked in 1845] ^^ ^^S STRONG 5 wherever space will allow. There are also a few lines from each of three girl friends to * dear A/ Amherst, May 7, 1845. Dear A., — It seems almost an age since I have seen you, and it is indeed an age for friends to be separated. I was delighted to receive a paper from you, and I also was much pleased with the news it contained, especially that you are taking lessons on the ' piny,' as you always call it. But remember not to get on ahead of me. Father intends to have a piano very soon. How happy I shall be when I have one of my own ! Old Father Time has wrought many changes here since your last short visit. Miss S. T. and Miss N. M. have both taken the marriage vows upon themselves. Dr Hitchcock has moved into his new house, and Mr Tyler across the way from our house has moved into President Hitchcock's old house. Mr C. is going to move into Mr T.'s former house, but the worst thing old Time has done here is he has walked so fast as to overtake H. M. and carry her to Hartford on last week Saturday. I was so vexed with him for it that I ran after him and made out to get near enough to him to put some salt on his tail, when he fled and left me to run home alone. . . . Viny went to Boston this morning with father, to be gone a fortnight, and I am left alone in all my glory. I suppose she has got there before this time, and is probably staring with mouth and eyes wide / f 6 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1845 open at the wonders of the city. I have been to walk to-night, and got some very choice wild flowers. I wish you had some of them. Viny and I both go to school this term. We have a very fine school. I'here are dTi scholars. I have four studies. They are Mental Philosophy, Geology, Latin, and Botany. How large they sound, don't they? I don't believe you have such big studies. . . . My plants look finely now. I am going to send you a little geranium leaf in this letter, which you must press for me. Have you made you an herbarium yet? I hope you will if you have not, it would be such a treasure to you ; 'most all the girls are making one. If you do, per- haps I can make some additions to it from flowers growing around here. How do you enjoy your school this term ? Are the teachers as pleasant as our old school-teachers? I expect you have a great many prim, starched up young ladies there, who, I doubt not, are perfect models of propriety and good behav- ior. If they are, don't let your free spirit be chained by them. I don't know as there [are] any in school of this stamp. But there 'most always are a few, whom the teachers look up to and regard as their satellites. I am growing handsome very fast indeed ! I expect I shall be the belle of Amherst when I reach my 1 7th year. I don't doubt that I shall have per- fect crowds of admirers at that age. Then how I shall delight to make them await my bidding, and with what delight shall I witness their suspense while I make my final decision. But away with my non- 1845] "^O MRS STRONG sense. I have written one composition this term, and I need not assure you it was exceedingly edify- ing to myself as well as everybody else. Don't you want to see it? I really wish you could have a chance. We are obliged to write compositions once in a fortnight, and select a piece to read from some interesting book the week that we don't write compositions. We really have some most charming young women in school this term. I sha'n't call them an)rthing but women, for women they are in every sense of the word. I must, however, describe one, and while I describe her I wish Imagination, who is ever pres- ent with you, to make a little picture of this self-same young lady in your mind, and by her aid see if you cannot conceive how she looks. Well, to begin. . . . Then just imagine her as she is, and a huge string of gold beads encircling her neck, and don't she present a lively picture ; and then she is so bustling, she is always whizzing about, and whenever I come in con- tact with her I really think I am in a hornet's nest. I can't help thinking every time I see this singular piece of humanity of Shakespeare's description of a tempest in a teapot. But I must not laugh about her, for I verily believe she has a good heart, and that is the principal thing now-a-days. Don't you hope I shall become wiser in the company of such virtuosos? It would certainly be desirable. Have you noticed how beautifully the trees look now? They seem to be completely covered with fragrant 8 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1845 blossoms. ... I had so many things to do for Viny, as she was going away, that very much against my wishes I deferred writing you until now, but forgive and forget, dear A., and I will promise to do better in future. Do write me soon, and let it be a long, long letter ; and when you can't get time to write, send a paper, so as to let me know you think of me still, though we are separated by hill and stream. All the girls send much love to you. Don't forget to let me receive a letter from you soon. I can say no more now as my paper is all filled up. Your affectionate friend, Emily E. Dickinson. [Written in 1845; postmarked Amherst, August 4.] Sabbath Eve, Dear A., — I have now sat down to write you a long, long letter. My writing apparatus is upon a stand before me, and all things are ready. I have no flowers before me as you had to inspire you. But then you know I can imagine myself inspired by them, and perhaps that will do as well. You cannot imagine how delighted I was to receive your letter. It was so full, and everything in it was inter- esting to me because it came from you. I presume you did not doubt my gratitude for it, on account of my delaying so long to answer it, for you know I have had no leisure for anything. When I tell you that our term has been eleven weeks long, and that I have had four studies and taken music lessons, you 1845] TO MRS STRONG can imagine a little how my time has been taken up lately. I will try to be more punctual in such mat- ters for the future. How are you now ? I am very sorry to hear that you are unable to remain in your school on account of your health, it must be such a disappointment to you. But I presume you are enjoying yourself much to be at home again. You asked me in your last letter if old Father Time wagged on in Amherst pretty much as ever. For my part, I see no particular change in his move- ments unless it be that he goes on a swifter pace than formerly, and that he wields his sickle more sternly than ever. How do you like taking music lessons? I presume you are delighted with it. 1 am taking lessons this term of Aunt S , who is spending the summer with us. I never enjoyed myself more than I have this summer; for we have had such a delightful school and such pleasant teachers, and besides I have had a piano of my own. Our examination is to come off next week on Monday. I wish you could be here at that time. Why can't you come? If you will, you can come and practise on my piano as much as you wish to. I am already gasping in view of our examination ; and although I am determined not to dread it I know it is so foolish, yet in spite of my heroic reso- lutions, I cannot avoid a few misgivings when I think of those tall, stem trustees, and when I know that I shall lose my character if I don't recite as precisely as the laws of the Medes and Persians. lO LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1845 But what matter will that be a hundred years hence ? I will distress you no longer with my fears, for you know well enough what they are without my enter- ing into any explanations. Are you practising now you are at home? I hope you are, for if you are not you would be likely to forget what you have learnt. I want very much to hear you play. I have the same instruction book that you have, Bertini, and I am getting along in it very well. Aunt S says she sha'n't let me have many tunes now, for she wants I should get over in the book a good ways first. Oh, A., if Sarah G , H , and yourself were only here this summer, what times we should have ! I wish if we can't be together all the time that we could meet once in a while at least. I wish you would all come to our house, and such times as we would have would be a caution. I want to see you all so much that it seems as if I could not wait. Have you heard anything from Miss Adams, our dear teacher? How much I would give to see her once more, but I am afraid I never shall. She is so far away. You asked me in your letter to tell you all the news worth telling, and although there is not much, yet I will endeavor to think of everything that will be new to you. In the first place, Mrs J. and Mrs S. M. have both of them a little daugh- ter. Very promising children, I understand. I don't doubt if they live they will be ornaments to society. I think they are both to be considered as embryos of future usefulness. Mrs W. M. has 1&45] 3rO MIfS SmOXG 1 1 now two grand-daughters. Is n't she to be en\ned ? ... I am sorry that you are la}-ing up H.'s sins against her. I think you had better heap coals of fire upon her head by writing to her constantly until you get an answer. I have some patience with these 'school marms.' They have so many trials. I hope you will decide to blot out her iniquities against her. I don't know about this Mr E. giv- ing you concert tickets. I think for my part it looks rather suspicious. He is a young man, I sup- pose. These music teachers are always such high- souled beings that I think they would exactly suit your fancy. My garden looks beautifully now. I wish you could see it. I would send you a bouquet if I could get a good opportunity. My house plants look very finely, too. You wished me to give you some account of S. P. She is attending school this term and studying Latin and Algebra. She is very well and happy and sends much love to you. All the girls send much love to you, and wish you to write to them. I have been working a beautiful book-mark to give to one of our school-giris. Per- haps you have seen it. It is an arrow with a beau- tiful wreath around it. Have you altered any since I have seen you ? Is n't it a funny question for one friend to ask another? I haven't altered any, I think, except that I have my hair done up, and that makes me look different. I can imagine just how you look now. I wonder what you are doing this moment. I have got an idea that you are knitting f « 12 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1845 edging. Are you? Won't you tell me when you answer my letter whether I guessed right or not? . . . You gave me a compliment in your letter in regard to my being a faithful correspondent. I must say I think I deserve it. I have been learn- ing several beautiful pieces lately. The 'Grave of Bonaparte* is one, 'Lancers Quickstep,* and 'Maiden, weep no more,* which is a sweet little song. I wish much to see you and hear you play. I hope you will come to A. before long. Why can*t you pass commencement here ? I do wish you would. . . . I have looked my letter over, and find I have written nothing worth reading. . . . Accept much love from your affectionate friend, Emily E. D. Thursday, Sept. 26, 1845. Dearest A., — As I just glanced at the clock and saw how smoothly the little hands glide over the surface, I could scarcely believe that those self- same little hands had eloped with so many of my precious moments since I received your affectionate letter, and it was still harder for me to believe that I, who am always boasting of being so faithful a cor- respondent, should have been guilty of negligence in so long delaying to answer it. ... I am very glad to hear that you are better than you have been, and I hope in future disease will not be as neigh- borly as he has been heretofore to either of us. I long to see you, dear A., and speak with you face 1845] TO MRS STRONG 1 3 to face ; but so long as a bodily interview is denied us, we must make letters answer, though it is hard for friends to be separated. I really believe you would have been frightened to have heard me scold when Sabra informed me that you had decided not to visit Amherst this fall. But as I could find no one upon whom to vent my spleen for your decision, I thought it best to be calm, and therefore have at length resigned myself to my cruel fate, though with not a very good grace. I think you do well to inquire whether anything has been heard from H. I really don't know what has become of her, unless procrastination has carried her off. I think that must be the case. I think you have given quite a novel description of the wedding. Are you quite sure Mr F., the minister, told them to stand up and he would tie them in a great bow-knot ? But I beg pardon for speaking so lightly of so solemn a cere- mony. You asked me in your letter if I did not think you partial in your admiration of Miss Helen H., ditto Mrs P. I answer, Not in the least. She was universally beloved in Amherst. She made us quite a visit in June, and we regretted more than ever that she was going where we could not see her as often as we had been accustomed. She seemed very happy in her prospects, and seemed to think distance nothing in comparison to a home with the one of her choice. I hope she will be happy, and of course she will. I wished much to see her once more, but was denied the privilege. . . . You i i I 14 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1845 asked me if I was attending school now. I am not. Mother thinks me not able to confine myself to school this term. She had rather I would exer- cise, and I can assure you I get plenty of that article by staying at home. I am going to learn to make bread to-morrow. So you may imagine me with my sleeves rolled up, mixing flour, milk, saleratus, etc., with a deal of grace. I advise you if you don't know how to make the staff of life to learn with dispatch. I think I could keep house very com- fortably if I knew how to cook. But as long as I don't, my knowledge of housekeeping is about of as much use as faith without works, which you know we are told is dead. Excuse my quoting from Scripture, dear A., for it was so handy in this case I could n't get along very well without it. Since I wrote you last, the summer is past and gone, and autumn with the sere and yellow leaf is already upon us. I never knew the time to pass so swiftly, it seems to me, as the past summer. I really think some one must have oiled his chariot wheels, for I don't recollect of hearing him pass, and I am sure I should if something had not prevented his chariot wheels from creaking as usual. But I will not expa- tiate upon him any longer, for I know it is wicked to trifle with so revered a personage, and I fear he will make me a call in person to inquire as to the remarks which I have made concerning him. Therefore I will let him alone for the present. . . . How are you getting on with your music ? Well, I 1845] TO MRS STRONG 1 5 hope and trust. I am taking lessons and am get- ting along very well, and now I have a piano, I am very happy. I feel much honored at having even a doll named for me. I believe I shall have to give it a silver cup, as that is the custom among old ladies when a child is named for them. . . . Have you any flowers now? I have had a beautiful flower- garden this summer ; but they are nearly gone now. It is very cold to-night, and I mean to pick the pret- tiest ones before I go to bed, and cheat Jack Frost of so many of the treasures he calculates to rob to-night. Won't it be a capital idea to put him at defiance, for once at least, if no more? I would love to send you a bouquet if I had an opportunity, and you could press it and write under it. The last flowers of summer. Wouldn't it be poetical, and you know that is what young ladies aim to be now- a-days. ... I expect I have altered a good deal since I have seen you, dear A. I have grown tall a good deal, and wear my golden tresses done up in a net-cap. Modesty, you know, forbids me to men- tion whether my personal appearance has altered. I leave that for others to judge. But my [word omitted] has not changed, nor will it in time to come. I shall always remain the same old six- pence. ... I can say no more now, as it is after ten, and everybody has gone to bed but me. Don't forget your affectionate friend, Emh^y E. D. 1 6 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1846 Amherst, Jan. 12, 1846. A., MY DEAR, — Since I received your precious letter another year has commenced its course, and the old year has gone never to return. How sad it makes one feel to sit down quietly and think of the flight of the old year, and the unceremonious obtrusion of the new year upon our notice I How many things we have omitted to do which might have cheered a human heart, or whispered hope in the ear of the sorrowful, and how many things have we done over which the dark mantle of regret will ever fall ! How many good resolutions did I make at the commencement of the year now flown, merely to break them and to feel more than ever convinced of the weakness of my own resolutions ! The New Year's day was unusually gloomy to me, I know not why, and perhaps for that reason a host of unpleasant reflections forced themselves upon me which I found not easy to throw off. But I will no longer sentimentalize upon the past, for I cannot recall it. I will, after inquiring for the health of my dear A., relapse into a more lively strain. I can hardly have patience to write, for I have not seen you for so long that I have worlds of things to tell you, and my pen is not swift enough to answer my purpose at all. However, I will try to make it communicate as much information as possible and wait to see your own dear self once more before I relate all my thoughts which hav^ come and gone since I last saw you. I suppose St seen a i r, so if my I rvel. . . . A 1846] TO MRS STRONG 1 7 from your letter that you are enjoying yourself finely this winter at Miss C.'s school. I would give a great deal if I was there with you. I don't go to school this winter except to a recitation in German. Mr C. has a very large class, and father thought I might never have another opportunity to study it. It takes about an hour and a half to recite. Then I take music lessons and practise two hours in a day, and besides these two I have a large stand of plants to cultivate. This is the principal round of my occupation this winter. ... I have just seen a funeral procession go by of a negro baby, ideas are rather dark you need not marvel. Old Santa Glaus was very polite to me the last Ghristmas. I hung up my stocking on the bed- post as usual. I had a perfume bag and a bottle of otto of rose to go with it,, a sheet of music, a china mug with Forget me not upon it, from S. S., — who, by the way, is as handsome, enter- taining, and as fine a piano player as in former times, — a toilet cushion, a watch case, a fortune- teller, and an amaranthine stock of pin-cushions and needlebooks, which in ingenuity and art would rival the works of Scripture Dorcas. I found abundance of candy in my stocking, which I do not think has had the anticipated effect upon my disposition, in case it was to sweeten it, also two hearts at the bottom of all, which I thought looked rather omi- nous ; but I will not enter into any more details, for they take up more room than I can spare. VOL. I. — 2 1 8 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1846 Have n't we had delightful weather for a week or two ? It seems as if Old Winter had forgotten him- self. Don't you believe he is absent-minded? It has been bad weather for colds, however. I have had a severe cold for a few days, and can sympathize with you, though I have been delivered from a stiff neck. I think you must belong to the tribe of Israel, for you know in the Bible the prophet calls them a stiff-necked generation. I have lately come to the conclusion that I am Eve, alias Mrs Adam. You know there is no account of her death in the Bible, and why am not I Eve ? If you find any statements which you think likely to prove the truth of the case, I wish you would send them to me without delay. Have you heard a word from H. M. or S. T.? I consider them lost sheep. I send them a paper every week on Monday, but I never get one in return. I am almost a mind to take a hand-car and go around to hunt them up. I can't think that they have forgotten us, and I know of no reason unless they are sick why they should delay so long to show any signs of remembrance. Do write me soon a very long letter, and tell me all about yoiu: school and yourself too. Your affectionate friend, Emily E. Dickinson. Friday Eve [summer], 1846. My dear a., — Though it is a long time since I received your affectionate epistle, yet when I give 1846] TO MRS STROXG 1 9 you my reasons for my long delay, I know you will freely forgive and forget all past offences. It seems to me that time has never flown so swiftly with me as it has the last spring. I have been busy every minute, and not only so, but hur- ried all the time. So you may imagine that I have not had a spare moment, much though my heart has longed for it, to commune with an absent friend. ... I presume you will be wondering by this time what I am doing to be in so much haste as I have declared myself to be. Well, I will tell you. I am fitting to go to South Hadley Seminary, and expect if my health is good to enter that institution a year from next fall. Are you not astonished to hear such news? You cannot imagine how much I am antici- pating in entering there. It has been in my thought by day, and my dreams by night, ever since I heard of South Hadley Seminary. I fear I am anticipat- ing too much, and that some freak of fortune may overturn all my airy schemes for future happiness. But it is my nature always to anticipate more than I realize. . . . Have you not heard that Miss Adams — dear Miss Adams — is here this term ? Oh, you cannot imagine how natural it seems to see her happy face in school once more. But it needs Harriet, Sarah, and your own dear self to complete the ancient picture. I hope we shall get you all back before Miss Adams goes away again. Have you yet heard a word from that prodigal, — H. ? . . . Your affectionate friend, Emily E. D. 20 LETTERS OF EMILY DTCKINSON [1846 I send you a memento in the form of a pressed flower, which you must keep. A converted Jew has been lecturing here for the last week. His lectures were free, and they were on the present condition of the Jews. Dr Scudder, a returned missionary, is here now, and he is lec- turing also. Have you seen a beautiful piece of poetry which has been going through the papers lately? Are we almost there ? is the title of it. . . . I have two hours to practise daily now I am in school. I have been learning a beautiful things which I long to have you hear. . . . Boston, Sept. 8, 1846. My dear Friend A., — It is a long, long time since I received your welcome letter, and it be- comes me to sue for forgiveness, which I am sure your affectionate heart will not refuse to grant. But many and unforeseen circumstances have caused my long delay. . . . Father and mother thought a jour- ney would be of service to me, and accordingly I left home for Boston week before last. I had a delightful ride in the cars, and am now getting settled down, if there can be such a state in the city. I am visiting in my aunt's family, and am happy. Happy! did I say? No; not happy, but contented. I have been here a fortnight to-day, and in that time I have both seen and heard a great many wonderful things. Perhaps you might like to know how I have spent the time here. I have 1846] TO MRS STRONG 21 been to Mount Auburn, to the Chinese Museum, to Bunker Hill ; I have attended two concerts and one Horticultural Exhibition. I have been upon the top of the State House, and almost everywhere that you can imagine. Have you ever been to Mount Auburn? If not, you can form but slight con- ception of this ' City of the Dead.* It seems as if nature had formed this spot with a distinct idea in view of its being a resting-place for her children, where, wearied and disappointed, they might stretch themselves beneath the spreading cypress, and close their eyes ' calmly as to a night*s repose, or flowers at set of sun.' The Chinese Museum is a great curiosity. There are an endless variety of wax figures made to re- semble the Chinese, and dressed in their costume. Also articles of Chinese manufacture of an innu- merable variety deck the rooms. Two of the Chinese go with this exhibition. One of them is a professor of music in China, and the other is teacher of a writing-school at home. They were both wealthy, and not obliged to labor, but they were also opium-eaters ; and fearing to continue the prac- tice lest it destroyed their lives, yet unable to break the ' rigid chain of habit * in their own land, they left their families, and came to this country. They have now entirely overcome the practice. There is something peculiarly interesting to me in their self-denial. The musician played upon two of his instruments, and accompanied them with his i 22 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1846 voice. It needed great command over my risible faculties to enable me to keep sober as this amateur was performing ; yet he was so very polite to give us some of his native music that we could not do otherwise than to express ourselves highly edified with his performances. The writing-master is con- stantly occupied in writing the names of visitors who request it, upon cards in the Chinese language, for which he charges 12 J cents apiece. He never fails to give his card besides to the persons who wish it. I obtained one of his cards for Viny and myself, and I consider them very precious. Are you still in Nor- wich, and attending to music ? I am not now taking lessons, but I expect to when I return home. Does it seem as though September had come? How swiftly summer has fled, and what report has it borne to heaven of misspent time and wasted hours? Eternity only will answer. The ceaseless flight of the seasons is to me a very solemn thought ; and yet why do we not strive to make a better im- provement of them? With how much emphasis the poet has said, ' We take no note of tim^ l^t from its loss. 'Twere wise in man to give it then a tongue. Pay no moment but in just purchase of its worth, and what its worth ask death-beds. They can tell. Part with it as with life reluctantly.' Then we have higher authority than that of man for the improvement of our time. For God has said, ' Work while the day lasts, for the night is coming in the which no man can work.* Let us strive together 1846] TO MRS STRONG 23 to part with time more reluctantly, to watch the pinions of the fleeting moment until they are dim in the distance, and the new-coming moment claims our attention. I have perfect confidence in God and His promises, and yet I know not why I feel that the world holds a predominant place in my affections. . . . Your affectionate friend, Emily E. D. Numerous postscripts are appended, as usually : — I have really suffered from the heat the last week. I think it remarkable that we should have such weather in September. There were over one hun- dred deaths in Boston last week, a great many of them owing to the heat. Mr Taylor, our old teacher, was in Amherst at Commencement time. Oh, I do love Mr Taylor. It seems so like old times to meet Miss Adams and Mr Taylor together again. I could hardly refrain from singing, 'Auld Lang Syne.* It seemed so very a propos. Have you forgotten the memorable ride we all took with Mr Taylor, ' Long, long ago * ? . . . Austin entered college last Commencement. Only think ! I have a brother who has the honor to be a Freshman ! Will you not promise me that you will come to Commencement when he graduates ? Do ! Please ! I have altered very much since you were here. I am now very tall, and wear long dresses nearly. Do you believe we shall know each other when we meet ? / Don*t forget to write soon. E. 24 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1846 Sabbath Eve, 1846. My dear a., — When I last wrote you I was in Boston, where I spent a delightful visit of four weeks. I returned home about the middle of September in very good health and spirits, for which it seems to me I cannot be sufficiently grateful to the Giver of all mercies. I expected to go into the Academy upon my return home, but as I stayed longer than I expected to, and as the school had already com- menced, I made up my mind to remain at home during the fall term and pursue my studies the win- ter term, which commences a week after Thanksgiv- ing. I kept my good resolution for once in my life, and have been sewing, practising upon the piano, and assisting mother in household affairs. I am anticipating the commencement of the next term with a great deal of pleasure, for I have been an exile from school two terms on account of my health, and you know what it is to Move school.' Miss Adams is with us now, and will remain through the winter, and we have an excellent Principal in the person of Mr Leonard Humphrey, who was the last valedictorian. We now have a fine school. I thank you a thousand times for your long and affectionate letter. ... I found a quantity of sewing waiting with open arms to embrace me, or rather for me to embrace it, and I could hardly give myself up to * Nature's sweet restorer,* for the ghosts of out- of-order garments crying for vengeance upon my \ ^ 1847] TO MRS STRONG 2$ defenceless head. However, I am happy to inform you, my dear friend, that I have nearly finished my sewing for winter, and will answer all the letters which you shall deem worthy to send so naughty a girl as myself, at short notice. . . . Write soon. Your affectionate Emily E. D. [March 15, 1847.] Sabbath Eve, 1847. Ever dear A., — . . . We have spent our vacation of a fortnight, and school has commenced again since you wrote me. I go this term, and am studying Algebra, Euclid, Ecclesiastical History, and review- ing Arithmetic again to be upon the safe side of things next autumn. We have a delightful school this term under the instruction of our former prin- cipals, and Miss R. Woodbridge, daughter of Rev. Dr W. of Hadley, for preceptress. We all love her very much. Perhaps a slight description of her might be interesting to my dear A. She is tall and rather slender, but finely proportioned, has a most witching pair of blue eyes, rich brown hair, delicate complexion, cheeks which vie with the opening rose-bud, teeth like pearls, dimples which come and go like the ripples in yonder little merry brook, and then she is so affectionate and lovely. Forgive my glowing description, for you know I am always in love with my teachers. Yet, much as we 26 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1847 love her, it seems lonely and strange without 'our dear Miss Adams.' I suppose you know that she has left Amherst, not again to return as a teacher. It is indeed true that she is to be married. Are you not astonished? Nothing was known but that she was to return to the school, until a few days before she left for Syracuse, where she has gone to make her 'wedding gear.* She is to be married the first of next April, to a very respectable lawyer in Conway, Massachusetts. She seemed to be very happy in anticipation of her future prospects, and I hope she will realize all her fond hopes. I cannot bear to think that she will never more wield the sceptre and sit upon the throne in our venerable schoolhouse, and yet I am glad she is going to have a home of her own, and a kind companion to take Hfe*s journey with her. I am delighted that she is to live so near us, for we can ride up and see her often. You can- not imagine how much I enjoyed your description of your Christmas fete at Miss CampbelPs. How magnificent the 'Christmas tree' must have been, and what a grand time you must have had, so many of you I Oh ! ! I had a great many presents, Christmas and New Year's hoUdays, both, but we had no such celebra- tion of the former which you describe. . . . Do write me soon — a long letter — and tell me how soon you are coming, and how long we can keep you when you come. Your affectionate Emily E. Dickinson. i847] TO MRS STRONG 2/ Mt Holyoke Seminary, Nov. 6, 1847. My dear a., — I am really at Mount Holyoke Seminary, and this is to be my home for a long year. Your affectionate letter was joyfully received and I wish that this might make you as happy as yours did me. It has been nearly six weeks since I left home, and that is a longer time than I was ever &way from home before now. I was very homesick for a few days, and it seemed to me I could not live here. But I am now contented and quite happy, if I can be happy when absent from my dear home and friends. You may laugh at the idea that I cannot be happy when away from home, but you must remember that I have a very dear home and that -this is my first trial in the way of absence for any length of time in my life. As you desire it, I will give you a full account of myself since I first left the paternal roof. I came to South Hadley six weeks ago next Thursday. I was much fatigued with the ride, and had a severe cold besides, which prevented me from commencing my examinations until the next day, when I began. I finished them in three days, and found them about what I had anticipated, though the old scholars say they are more strict than they ever have been before. As you can easily imagine, I was much delighted to finish without failures, and I came to the conclusion then, that I should not be at all homesick, but the reaction left me as homesick a girl as it is not usual to see. I am now quite con- 28 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1847 tented and am very much occupied in reviewing the Junior studies, as I wish to enter the middle class. The school is very large, and though quite a number have left, on account of finding the examinations more difficult than they anticipated, yet there are nearly 300 now. Perhaps you know that Miss Lyon is raising her standard of scholarship a good deal, on account of the number of applicants this year, and she makes the examinations more severe than usual. You cannot imagine how trying they are, because if we cannot go through them all in a specified time, we are sent home. 1 cannot be too thankful that I got through as soon as I did, and I am sure that I never would endure the suspense which I endured during those three days again for all the treasures of the world. I room with my cousin Emily, who is a Senior. She is an excellent room-mate, and does all in her power to make me happy. You can imagine how pleasant a good room-mate is, for you have been away to school so much. Everything is pleasant and happy here, and I think I could be no happier at any other school away from home. Things seem much more like home than I anticipated, and the teachers are all very kind and affectionate to us. They call on us frequently and urge us to return their calls, and when we do, we always receive a cor- dial welcome from them. I will tell you my order of time for the day, as you were so kind as to give i847] TO MRS STRONG 29 me yours. At 6 o'clock we all rise. We breakfast at 7. Our study hours begin at 8. At 9 we all meet in Seminary Hall for devotions. At 10 J I recite a review of Ancient History, in connection with which we read Goldsmith and Grimshaw. At 11, I recite a lesson in Pope's Essay on Man, which is merely transposition. At 12 I practise calisthenics, and at 12 J read until dinner, which is at 12 J, and after djnner, from \\ until 2, I sing in Seminary Hall. From 2 1 until 3I I practise upon the piano. At 3 J I go to Sections, where we give in all our accounts for the day, including absence, tardiness, communi- cations, breaking silent study hours, receiving com- pany in our rooms, and ten thousand other things which I will not take time or place to mention. At 4i we go into Seminary Hall and receive advice from Miss Lyon in the form of a lecture. We have supper at 6, and silent study hours from then until the retir- ing bell, which rings at 8f , but the tardy bell does not ring until 9f, so that we don*t often obey the first warning to retire. Unless we have a good and reasonable excuse for failure upon any of the items that I mentioned above, they are recorded and a black mark stands against our names. As you can easily imagine, we do not like very well to get 'excep- tions,' as they are called scientifically here. My domestic work is not difficult and consists in carrying the knives from the first tier of tables at morning and noon, and at night washing and wiping the same quantity of knives. I am quite 30 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1847 well and hope to be able to spend the year here, free from sickness. You have probably heard many reports of the food here ; and if so, I can tell you that I have yet seen nothing corresponding to my ideas on that point from what I have heard. Every- thing is wholesome and abundant and much nicer than I should imagine could be provided for almost 300 girls. We have also a great variety upon our tables and frequent changes. One thing is certain, and that is, that Miss Lyon and all the teachers seem to consult our comfort and happiness in everything they do, and you know that is pleasant. When I left home I did not think I should find a companion or a dear friend in all the multitude. I expected to find rough and uncultivated manners, and, to be sure, I have found some of that stamp, but on the whole, there is an ease and grace, a desire to make one another happy, which delights and at the same time surprises me very much. I find no Abby nor Abiah nor Mary, but I love many of the girls. Austin came to see me when I had been here about two weeks, and brought Viny and A. I need not tell you how delighted I was to see them all, nor how happy it made me to hear them say that *they were so lonely,^ It is a sweet feeling to know that you are missed and that your memory is precious at home. This week, on Wednesday, I was at my win- dow, when I happened to look towards the hotel and saw father and mother, walking over here as dignified as you please. I need not tell you that I 1848] TO MRS STRONG 3 1 danced and clapped my hands, and flew to meet them, for you can imagine how I felt. I will only ask you, do you love your parents? They wanted to surprise me, and for that reason did not let me know they were coming. I could not bear to have them go, but go they must, and so I submitted in sadness. Only to think that in 2^ weeks I shall be at my own dear home again. You will probably go home at Thanksgiving time, and we can rejoice with each other. You don't [know] how I laughed at your descrip- tion of your introduction to Daniel Webster, and I read that part of your letter to cousin Emily. You must feel quite proud of the acquaintance, and will not, I hope, be vain in consequence. However, you don't know Governor Briggs, and I do, so you are no better off than I. . . .A., you must write me often, and I shall write you as often as I have time. . . . From your affectionate Emily E. D. Mt Holyoke Female Seminary, Jan. 17, 1848. My dear a., — Your welcome epistle found me upon the eve of going home, and it is needless to say very happy. We all went home on Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and a stormy day it was, but the storm must not be in our way, so we tried to make the best of it and look as cheerful as we could. Many of the girls went very early in the morning in order to reach home the same day, and 32 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1848 when we all sat do>vn to the breakfast table^ it seemed lonely enough to see so many places vacant. After breakfast, as we were not required to keep all the family rules, a number of us met together at one of the windows in the Hall to watch for our friends, whom we were constantly expecting. No morning of my life ever passed so slowly to me, and it really seemed to me they never were coming, so impatiently did I wait their arrival. At last, almost tired out, I spied a carriage in the distance, and surely Austin was in it. You, who have been away so much, can easily imagine my delight and will not laugh, when I tell you how I dashed downstairs and almost frightened my dignified brother out of his senses. All was ready in a moment or less than a moment, and cousin Emily and myself, not for- getting the driver, were far on our way towards home. The rain fell in torrents and the wind howled around the sides of the mountain over our heads, and the brooks below, filled by the rain, rushed along their pebbly beds almost frightfully, yet nothing daunted, we rode swiftly along, and soon the colleges and the spire of our venerable meeting-house rose to my delighted vision. Never did Amherst look more lovely to me, and gratitude rose in my heart to God, for granting me such a safe return to my own dear home. Soon the carriage stopped in front of our own hpuse, and all were at the door to welcome the returned one, from mother, with tears in her eyes, down to pussy, who 1848] TO MRS STRONG 33 tried to look as gracious as was becoming her dignity. Oh, A., it was the first meeting, as it had been the first separation, and it was a joyful one to all of us. The storm did not at all subside that night, but in the morning I was waked by the glorious sunshine [itj^self, staring full in my face. We went to church in the morning and listened to an excellent sermon from our own minister, Mr Colton. At noon we returned and had a nice dinner, which, you well know, cannot be dispensed with on Thanksgiving day. We had several calls in the afternoon, and had four invitations out for the evening. Of course we could not accept them all, much to my sorrow, but decided to make two visits. At about 7 o'clock father, mother, Austin, Viny, cousin Emily, and my- self to bring up the rear, went down to Professor Warner's, where we spent an hour delightfully with a few friends, and then bidding them good eve, we young folks went down to Mrs S. M.*s, accompanied by sister Mary, There was quite a company of young people assembled when we arrived, and after we had played many games we had, in familiar terms, a * candy scrape.* We enjoyed the evening much, and returned not until the clock pealed out, 'Remem- ber ten o'clock, my dear, remember ten o'clock.' After our return, father wishing to hear the piano, I, like an obedient daughter, played and sang a few tunes, much to his apparent gratification. We then retired, and the next day and the next were as hap- pily spent as the. eventful Thanksgiving day itself. VOL. I. — 3 34 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1848 - -■ You will probably think me foolish thus to give you an inventory of my time while at home, but I did enjoy so much in those short four days that I wanted you to know and enjoy it too. Monday came so soon, and with it came a carriage to our door, and amidst tears falling thick and fast away I went again. Slowly and sadly dragged a few of the days after my return to the Seminary, and I was very homesick, but ' after a storm there comes a calm,' and so it was in my case. My sorrows were soon lost in study, and I again felt happy, if happiness there can be away from * home, sweet home.* Our term closes this week on Thursday, and Fri- day I hope to see home and friends once more. I have studied hard this term, and aside from my delight at going home, there is a sweetness in ap- l)roaching rest to me. This term is the longest in the year, and I would not wish to live it over again, I can assure you. **.! love this Seminary, and all the teachers are bound strongly to my heart by ties of affection. There are many sweet girls here, and dearly do I love some new faces, but I have not yet found the place of a/ra/ dear ones filled, nor would I wish it to be here. J am now studying Silliman's Chemistry and Cutter's Physiology, in both of which I am much interested. We finish Physi- ology before this term closes, and are to be examined in it at the spring examinations, about five weeks after the commencement of the next term. I already begin to dread that time, for an examination 1848] TO MRS STRONG 35 in Mount Holyoke Seminary is rather more public than in our old academy, and a failure would be more disgraceful then, I opine ; but I hope, to use my father's own words, 'that I shall not disgrace myself.' What' are you studying now ? You did not mention that item in your last letters to me, and consequently I am quite in the dark as regards your progress in those affairs. All I can say is, that I hope you will not leave poor me far behind. . . . Your affectionate sister, Eagly E. Dickinson. P. S. Our Section have commenced reading com- positions, and we read once in a month, during which time we write two. Intellectual brilliancy of an individual type • was already at seventeen her distinguishing characteristic, and nothing of the recluse was yet apparent. Traditions of extraordinary compositions still remain ; and it is certain that each was an epoch for those who heard, whether teachers or pupils. An old friend and schoolmate of Emily tells me that she was always surrounded by a group of girls at recess, to hear her strange and intensely funny stories, invented upon the spot. 36 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1848 Mt Holyoke Female Seminary, May 16, 1848. My dear a., — You must forgive me, indeed you must, that I have so long delayed to write you, and I doubt not you will when I give you all my reasons for so doing. You know it is customary for the first page to be occupied with apologies, and I must not depart from the beaten track for one of my own imagining. ... I had not been very well all winter, but had not written home about it, lest the folks should take me home. During the week following examinations, a friend from Amherst came over and spent a week with me, and when that friend returned home, father and mother were duly notified of the state of my health. Have you so treacherous a friend ? Not knowing that I was to be reported at home, you can imagine my amazement and consternation when Saturday of the same week Austin arrived in full sail, with orders from head-quarters to bring me home at all events. At first I had recourse to words, and a desperate battle with those weapons was waged for a few moments, between my Sophomore brother and myself. Finding words of no avail, I next resorted to tears. But woman's tears are of little avail, and I am sure mine flowed in vain. As you can imagine, Austin was victorious, and poor, de- feated I was led off in triumph. You must not imbibe the idea from what I have said that I do not love home — far from it. But I could not bear 1848] TO MRS STRONG 37 to leave teachers and companions before the close of the term and go home to be dosed and receive the physician daily, and take warm drinks and be condoled with on the state of health in general by all the old ladies in town. Have n't I given a ludicrous account of going home sick from a boarding-school ? Father is quite a hand to give medicine, especially if it is not desirable to the patient, and I was dosed for about a month after my return home, without any mercy, till at last out of mere pity my cough went away, and I had quite a season of peace. Thus I remained at home imtil the close of the term, comforting my parents by my presence, and instilling many a les- son of wisdom into the budding intellect of my only sister. I had almost forgotten to tell you that I went on with my studies at home, and kept up with my class. Last Thursday our vacation closed, and on Friday mom, midst the weeping of friends, crow- ing of roosters, and singing of birds, I again took my departure from home. Five days have now passed since we returned to Holyoke, and they have passed very slowly. Thoughts of home and friends 'come crowding thick and fast, like light- nings from the mountain cloud,* and it seems very desolate. Father has decided not to send me to Holyoke another year, so this is my last term. Can it be possible that I have been here almost a year? It startles me when I really think of the advantages I 38 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [ig^S have had, and I fear I have not improved them as I ought. But many an hour has fled with its report to heaven, and what has been the tale of me ? . . . How glad I am that spring has come, and how it calms my mind when wearied with study to walk out in the green fields and beside the pleasant streams in which South Hadley is rich ! There are not many wild flowers near, for the girls have driven them to a distance, and we are obliged to walk quite a dis- tance to find them, but they repay us by their sweet smiles and fragrance. The older I grow, the more do I love spring and spring flowers. Is it so with you ? While at home there were several pleasure parties of which I was a member, and in our rambles we found many and beautiful children of spring, which I will mention \ and see if you have found them, — the trailing arbu- / tus, adder's tongue, yellow violets, Hver-leaf, blood-? root, and many other smaller flowers. What are you reading now? I have little time to read when I am here, but while at home I had a feast in the reading line, I can assure you. Two or three of them I will mention: Evangeline^ The Princess f\ The Maiden Aunty The Epicurean^ and The Twins ^ . and Heart by Tupper, complete the list. Am not I a pedant for telling you what I have been read- ing? Have you forgotten your visit at Amherst last summer, and what delightful times we had ? I have not, and I hope you will come and make another and a longer, when I get home from Holyoke. 1850] TO MRS STRONG 39 Father wishes to have me at home a year, and then he will probably send me away again, where I know not. • . . Ever your own affectionate Emiue E. Dickinson. P. S. My studies for this series are Astronomy and Rhetoric, which take me through to the Senior studies. What are you studying now, if you are in school, and do you attend to music? I practise only one hour a day this term. Although nearly two years elapse between the last letter and the following, the hand- writing is quite unaltered, being still exceed- ingly small and clear, and averaging twenty words to a line. Amherst, Jan. 29, 1850. Very dear A., — The folks have all gone away ; they thought that they left me alone, and contrived things to amuse me should they stay long, and / be lonely. Lonely, indeed, — they did n't look, and they could n*t have seen if they had, who should bear me company. Three here, instead of one, would n't it scare them ? A curious trio, part earthly and part spiritual two of us, the other, all heaven, and no earth. God is sitting here, looking into my very soul to see if I think right thoughts. Yet I am not afraid, for I try to be right and 40 LETTERS OP EMILY DlCICmSON [1850 good ; and He knows every one of ray straggles. He ' looks very gloriously, and everything bright seems dull beside Him ; and I don't dare to look directly at Him for fear I shall die. Then you are here, dressed in that quiet black gown and cap, — that funny little cap I used to laugh at you about, — and you don't appear to be thinking about anything in particular, — not in one of your breaking-dish moods, I take it. You seem aware that I *m writing you, and are amused, I should think, at any such friendly manifestation when you are al- ready present. Success, however, even in making a fool of myself, is n't to be despised ; so I shall persist in writing, and you may in laughing at me, — if you are fully aware of the value of time as regards your immortal spirit. I can't say that I advise you to laugh; but if you are punished, and I warned you, that can be no business of mine. So I fold up ray arras, and leave you to fate — may it deal very kindly with you ! The trinity winds up with me, as you may have surmised, and I certainly would n't be at the fag-end but for civility to you. This self-sacrificing spirit will be the rain of me ! I am occupied principally with a cold just now, and the dear creature will have so much attention that my time slips away amazingly. It has heard so much of New Englanders, of their kind atten- tions to strangers, that it 's come all the way from the Alps to determine the trath of the tale. It sa)rs the half was n't told it, and I begin to be afraid it 1850] TO MRS STRONG 41 was n't. Only think — came all the way from that distant Switzerland to find what was the truth ! Neither husband, protector, nor friend accompanied it, and so utter a state of loneliness gives friends if nothing else. You are dying of curiosity ; let me arrange that pillow to make your exit easier. I stayed at home all Saturday afternoon, and treated some disagree- able people who insisted upon calling here as toler- ably as I could ; when evening shades began to fall, I turned upon my heel, and walked. Attracted by the gayety visible in the street, I still kept walking till a little creature pounced upon a thin shawl I wore, and commenced riding. I stopped, and begged the creature to alight, as I was fatigued already, and quite unable to assist others. It wouldn't get down, and commenced talking to itself: 'Can't be New England — must have made some mistake — disappointed in my reception — don't agree with accounts. Oh, what a world of decep- tion and fraud ! Marm, will you tell me the name of this country — it's Asia Minor, isn't it? I intended to stop in New England.' By this time I was so completely exhausted that I made no fur- ther effort to rid me of my load, and travelled home at a moderate jog, paying no attention whatever to it, got into the house, threw off both bonnet and shawl, and out flew my tormentor, and putting both arms around my neck, began to kiss me immoder- ately, and express so much love it completely bewildered me. Since then it has slept in my bed, 42 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1850 eaten from my plate, lived with me everywhere, and will tag me through life for all I know. I think I *11 wake first, and get out of bed, and leave it j but early or late, it is dressed before me, and sits on the side of the bed looking right into my face with such a comical expression it almost makes me laugh in spite of myself. I can't call it inter- esting, but it certainly is curious, has two peculiar- ities which would quite win your heart, — a huge pocket-handkerchief and a very red nose. The first seems so very abundant^ it gives you the idea of independence and prosperity in business. The last brings up the ' jovial bqwl, my boys,' and such an association *s worth the having. If it ever gets tired of mey I will forward it to you — you would love it for my sake, if not for its own ; it will tell you some queer stories about me, — how I sneezed so loud one night that the family thought the last trump was sounding, and climbed into the currant- bushes to get out of the way ; how the rest of the people, arrayed in long night-gowns, folded their arms, and were waiting ; but this is a wicked story, — it can tell some better ones. Now, my dear friend, let me tell you that these last thoughts are fictions, — vain imaginations to lead astray foolish young women. They are flowers of speech; they both make and tell deliberate falsehoods; avoid them as the snake, and turn aside as from the rattle-snake, and I don't think you will be harmed. Honestly, though, a snake-bite is a serious matter. 1850] TO MRS STRONG 43 and there can't be too much said or done about it. The big serpent bites the deepest ; and we get so accustomed to its bites that we don't mind about them. ' Verily I say unto you, fear him.^ Won't you read some work upon snakes ? — I have a real anxiety for you. / love those little green ones that slide around by your shoes in the grass, and make it rustle with their elbows; they are rather my favorites on the whole ; but I would n't influence you for the world. There is an air of misanthropy about the striped snake that will com- mend itself at once to your taste, — there is no monotony about it — but we will more of this again. Something besides severe colds and serpents, and we will try to find that something. It can't be a garden, can it? or a strawberry-bed, which rather belongs to a garden; nor it can't be a school- house, nor an attomey-at-law. Oh, dear ! I don't know what it is. Love for the absent don't sound like it ; but try it, and see how it goes. I miss you very much indeed ; think of you at night when the world 's nodding, nid, nid, nodding — think of you in the daytime when the cares of the world, and its toils, and its continual vexations choke up the love for friends in some of our hearts ; remember your warnings sometimes — try to do as you told me sometimes — and sometimes conclude it 's no use to try ; then my heart says it />, and new trial is followed by disappointment again. I wondered, when you had gone, why we 44 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1850 did n't talk more, — it was n't for want of a subject ; it never could de for that Too many, perhaps, — such a crowd of people that nobody heard the speaker, and all went away discontented. You astonished me in the outset, perplexed me in the continuance, and wound up in a grand snarl I shall be all my pilgrimage unravelling. Rather a dismal prospect certainly; but 'it's always the darkest the hour before day,' and this earlier sunset promises an earlier rise — a sun in splen- dor — and glory, flying out of its purple nest. Would n't you love to see God's bird, when it first tries its wings? If you were here I would tell you something — several somethings — which have hap- pened since you went away; but time and space, as usual, oppose themselves, and I put my treas- ures away till ' we two meet again.' The hope that I shall continue in love towards you, and vice versay will sustain me till then. If you are think- ing soon to go away, and to show your face no more, just inform me, will you? I would have the ' long, lingering look,* which you cast behind, — it would be an invaluable addition to my treasures, and * keep your memory green.' * Lord, keep all our memories green,' and help on our affection, and tie the Mink that doth us bind' in a tight bow-knot that will keep it from separation, and stop us from growing old; if that is impossible, make old age pleasant to us, put its arms around us i8So] TO MRS STRONG 45 kindly, and when we go home, let that home be called heaven. Your very sincere and wicked friend, Emily E. Dickinson. I have n*t thanked you for your letter yet, but not for want of gratitude. I will do so now most sin- cerely, most heartily — gladly and gratefully. You will write me another soon, that I may have four right feehngs again ! They don't come for the asking. I have been introducing you to me in this letter so far ; we will traffic in ' joys * and ' sor- rows ' some other day. Colds make one very carnal, and the spirit is always afraid of them. You will excuse all mistakes in view of ignorance; all sin, in view of ' the fall ; * all want of friendly affec- tion, in the sight of the verse, ' The deepest stream the stillest runs ; ' and other general deficiencies, on the ground of universal incapacity ! Here is surely room for charity, and the heavenly visitor would n*t have come but for these faults. ' No loss without a gain.' I called to see your cousins an evening since; they were well, and evidently delighted to see one another — and us. When your letter came, I had two Western cousins — now at South Hadley Seminary — staying their vacation with me. They took an unbounded delight in a sentence I read them ; and to pay for it, send you their love. 46 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1850 In the following letter appear farther traces of the later and almost invariable custom of using dashes, instead of conventional punctua- tion. These, however, will not be given gen- erally. In printing her poems it was found necessary to employ usual punctuation, in order that the meaning should be more easily ap- prehended ; and in the letters the same system, often for the same reason, has been adopted. Amherst, May 7, 1850. Dear Remembered, — The circumstances under which I write you this morning are at once glorious, afflicting, and beneficial, — glorious in ends^ afflict- ing in means, and beneficial, I trust, in both. Twin loaves of bread have just been bom into the world under my auspices, — fine children, the image of their mother; and here, my dear friend, is the glory. On the lounge, asleep, lies my sick mother, suf- fering intensely from acute neuralgia, except at a moment like this, when kind sleep draws near, and beguiles her, — here is the affliction. I need not draw the beneficial inference, — the good I myself derive, the winning the spirit of patience, the genial housekeeping influence stealing over my mind and soul, — you know all these things I would say, and will seem to suppose they are written, when indeed they are only thought. 1850] TO MRS STRONG 47 On Sunday my mother was taken, had been per- fectly well before, and could remember no possible imprudence which should have induced the dis- ease. Everything has been done, and though we think her gradually throwing it off, she still has much suffering. I have always neglected the cu- linary arts, but attend to them now from neces- sity, and from a desire to make everything pleasant for father and Austin. Sickness makes desolation, and the day is dark and dreary; but health will come back, I hope, and light hearts and smiling faces. We are sick hardly ever at home, and don't know what to do when it comes, — wrinkle our little brows, and stamp with our little feet, and our tiny souls get angry, and command it to go away. Mrs Brown will be glad to see it, — old ladies expect to die; 'as for us^ the young and active, with all longings "for the strife,'* we to perish by the roadside, weary with the " march of life " — no, no, my dear " Father Mortality," get out of the way if you please ; we will call if we ever want you. Good-morning, sir ! ah, good- morning ! * When I am not at work, I sit by the side of mother, provide for her little wants, and try to cheer and encourage her. I ought to be glad and grateful that I can do anything now, but I do feel so very lonely, and so anxious to have her cured. I have n't repined but once, and you shall know all the why. At noon ... I heard a well-known 48 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1850 rap, and a friend I love so dearly came and asked me to ride in the woods, the sweet, still woods, — and I wanted to exceedingly. I told him I could not go, and he said he was disappointed, he wanted me very much. Then the tears came into my eyes, though I tried to choke them back, and he said I could and should go, and it seemed to me unjust. Oh, I struggled with great temp- tation, and it cost me much of denial ; but I think in the end I conquered, — not a glorious victory, where you hear the rolling drum, but a kind of a helpless victory, where triumph would come of itself, faintest music, weary soldiers, nor a waving flag, nor a long, loud shout. I had read of Christ's temptations, and how they were like our own, only he did n't sin ; I wondered if one was like mine, and whether it made him angry. I couldn't make up my mind ; do you think he ever did ? I went cheerfully round my work, humming a little air till mother had gone to sleep, then cried with all my might — seemed to think I was much abused — that this wicked world was unworthy such devoted and terrible suffering — and came to my various senses in great dudgeon at life, and time, and love for affliction and anguish. What shall we do, my darling, when trial grows more and more, when the dim, lone light expires, and it 's dark, so very dark, and we wander, and know not where, and cannot get out of the for- est — whose is the hand to help us, and to lead, iSso] TO MRS STRONG 49 and forever guide us; they talk of a 'Jesus of Nazareth ' — will you tell me if it be he ? . . . It 's Friday, my dear A., and that in another week, yet my mission is unfulfilled — and you so sadly neglected, and don't know the reason why. Where do you think I Ve strayed, and from what new errand returned ? I have come from ' to and fro, and walking up and down ' the same place that Satan hailed from, when God asked him where he 'd been ; but not to illustrate further, I tell you I have been dreaming, dreaming a golden dream, with eyes all the while wide open, and I guess it 's almost morning ; and besides, I have been at work, providing the ' food that perisheth,* scaring the timorous dust, and being obedient and kind. I am yet the Queen of the Court, if regalia be dust and dirt, have three loyal subjects, whom I *d rather relieve from service. Mother is still an invalid, though a partially restored one ; father and Austin still clamor for food ; and I, like a martyr, am feed- ing them. Would n't you love to see me in these bonds of great despair, looking around my kitchen, and praying for kind deliverance, and declaring by ' Omai's beard ' I never was in such plight ? My kitchen, I think I called it — God forbid that it . was, or shall be, my own — God keep me from what i they call households^ except that bright one of \ ' faith ' ! Don't be afraid of my imprecations — they never did any one harm, and they make me feel so cool, VOL. I. — 4 50 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1851 and so very much more comfortable ! . . . I presume you are loving your mother, and loving the stranger and wanderer — visiting Ae poor and afflicted, and reaping whole fields oFolessings — save me a little sheaf, only a very little one ! Re- member and care for me sometimes, and scatter a fragrant flower in this wilderness life of mine by writing me, and by not forgetting, and by lingering longer in prayer, that the Father may bless one more ! Your affectionate friend, Emily. Mr Humphrey, spoken of in the following letter, is the same friend of whom Emily had already written (page 24) ; he graduated from Amherst as valedictorian in 1846, being subse- quently Principal of the well-known Amherst Academy, and still later a theological student at Andover, and tutor in Amherst College. His sudden death, November 30, 1850, caused much grief to his many friends, who admired his polished scholarship and lovable personality. [Amherst, January 2, 1851.] Tuesday Evening, I write A. to-night, because it is cool and quiet, and I can forget the toil and care of the feverish day, and then I am selfish too, because I am feeling lonely ; some of my friends are gone, and some of my friends are sleeping — sleeping the churchyard 1851] TO MRS STRONG 5 1 sleep — the hour of evening is sad — it was once my study hour — my master has gone to rest, and the open leaf of the book, and the scholar at school alone^ make the tears come, and I cannot brush them away; I would not if I could, for they are the only tribute I can pay the departed Humphrey. You have stood by the grave before ; I have walked there sweet summer evenings and read the names on the stones, and wondered who would come and give me the same memorial ; but I never have laid my friends there, and forgot that they too must die ; this is my first affliction, and indeed *tis hard to bear it. To those bereaved so often that home is no more here, and whose communion with friends is had only in prayers, there must be much to hope for, but when the unreconciled spirit has nothing left but God, that spirit is lone indeed. I don't think there will be any sunshine, or any singing-birds in the spring that *s coming. ... I will try not to say any more — my rebellious thoughts are many, and the friend I love and trust in has much now to for- give. I wish I were somebody else — I would pray the prayer of the ' Pharisee,* but I am a poor little 'Publican.' 'Son of David,* look down on me ! 'Twas a great while ago when you wrote me, I remember the leaves were falling — and now there are falling snows ; who maketh the two to differ — are not leaves the brethren of snows ? Then it canH be a great while since then, though I verily thought it was ; we are not so young as we 52 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [185 1 once were, and time seems to be growing long. I dream of being a grandame, and banding my silver hairs, and I seem to be quite submissive to the thought of growing old ; no doubt you ride rocking- horses in your present as in young sleeps — quite a pretty contrast indeed, of me braiding my own gray hairs, and my friend at play with her childhood, a pair of decayed old ladies ! Where are you, my antique friend, or my very dear and young one — just as you please to please — it may seem quite a presumption that I address you at all, knowing not if you habit here, or if my *bird has flown' in which world her wing is folded. When I think of the friends I love, and the little while we may dwell here, and then ' we go away,* I have a yearn- ing feeling, a desire eager and anxious lest any be stolen away, so that I cannot behold them. I would have you here, all here, where I can see you, and hear you, and where I can say ' Oh, no,* if the * Son of Man * ever ' cometh * ! It is not enough, now and then> at long and uncer- tain intervals to hear you *re alive and well. I do not care for the body, I love the timid soul, the blush- ing, shrinking soul ; it hides, for it is afraid, and the bold, obtrusive body — Pray, marm, did you call me ? We are very small, A. — I think we grow still smaller — this tiny, insect life the portal to another ; it seems strange — strange indeed. I 'm afraid we are jail unworthy, yet we shall ' enter in.' I can think of no other way than for you, my dear 1851] TO MRS STRONG 53 girl, to come here — we are growing away from each other, and talk even now like strangers. To forget the 'memn and teum,* dearest friends must meet sometimes, and then comes the * bond of the spirit ' which, if I am correct, is * unity.' . . . You are growing wiser than I am, and nip- ping in the bud fancies which I let blossom — per- chance to bear no fruit, or if plucked, I may find it bitter. The shore is safer, A., but I love to buffet the sea — I can count the bitter wrecks here in these pleasant waters, and hear the murmuring winds, but oh, I love the danger ! You are learning control and firmness. Christ Jesus will love you more. I 'm afraid he don't love me any / . . . Write when you willy my friend, and forget all amiss herein, for as these few imperfect words to the full communion of spirits, so this small giddy life to the better^ the life eternal, and that we may live this life, and be filled with this true communion, I shall not cease to pray. E. [August, 1851.] Tuesday Evening. * Yet a little while I am with you, and again a lit- tle while and I am not with you,' because you go to your mother ! . . . But the virtue of the text con-^ sists in this, my dear, that ' if I go^ I come again, and ye shall be with me where I am ; ' that is to say, that if you come in November, you shall be mine, and I shall be thine, and so on, vice versa, until ad 54 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1851 infinitum^ which is n't a great way off. While I think of it, my dear friend, and we are upon these subjects, allow me to remark that you have the fun- niest manner of popping into town, and the most lamentable manner of popping out again, of any one I know. It really becomes to me a matter of serious moment, this propensity of yours concerning your female friends — the 'morning cloud and the early dew ' are not more evanescent. I think it was Tuesday evening that we were so amused by the oratorical feats of three or four young gentlemen. I remember I sat by you and took great satisfaction in such seat and society — I re- member further our mutual good-nights, our prom- ises to meet again, to tell each other tales of our own heart and life, to seek and find each other after so long a time of distant separation. I can hardly realize that these are recollections, that our happy to-day joins the great band of yesterdays and marches on to the dead — too quickly flown, my bird, for me to satisfy me that you did sit and sing beneath my chamber window 1 I only went out once after the time I saw you — the morning of Mr Beecher I looked for you in vain. I discovered your Palmer cousins, but if you indeed were there, it must have been in a form to my gross sense impalpable. I was disappointed. I had been hoping much a little visit from you; when will the hour be that we shall sit together and talk of what we were and what we are and may be — with the shutters closed, dear 1851] TO MRS STRONG 55 A., and the balmiest little breeze stealing in at the window? I love those little fancies, yet I would love them more were they not quite so fanciful as they have seemed to be. I have fancied so many times, and so many times gone home to find it was only fancy, that I am half afraid to hope for what I long for. It would seem, my dear A., that out of all the moments crowding this little world, a few might be vouchsafed to spend with those we love — a separated hour, an hour more pure and true than ordinary hours, when we could pause a moment, before we journey on. We had a pleasant time talk- ing the other morning — had I known it was all my portion, mayhap I 'd improved it more, but it never 41 come back again to try, whether or no. Don't you think sometimes these brief, imperfect meetings have a tale to tell — perhaps but for the sorrow which accompanies them we should not be reminded of brevity and change, and should build the dwelling earthward whose site is in the skies — perhaps the treasure here would be too dear a treas- ure couldn't 'the moth corrupt, and the thief break through and steal ; ' and this makes me think how I found a little moth in my stores the other day, a very subtle moth that had, in ways and man- ners to me and mine unknown, contrived to hide itself in a favorite worsted basket — how long my little treasure-house had furnished an arena for its destroying labors it is not mine to tell; it had an errand there — I trust it fulfilled its mission ; it 56 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1851 taught me, dear A., to have no treasure here, or rather it tried to tell me in its little mothy way of another enduring treasure the robber cannot steal, nor time waste away. How many a lesson learned from lips of such tiny teachers — don't it make you think of the Bible, 'not many mighty, nor wise *? You met our dear Sarah T. after I saw you here. Her sweet face is the same as in those happy school-days — and in vain I search for wrinkles brought on by many cares ; we all love Sarah dearly, and shall try to do all in our power to make her visit happy. Isn't it very remarkable that in so many years Sarah has changed so little — not that she has stood still, but has made snch peaceful progress — her thoughts, though they are older, have all the charm of youth — have not yet lost their freshness, their in- nocence and peace ; she seems so pure in heart, so sunny and serene, like some sweet lark or robin, ever soaring and singing. I have not seen her much — I want to see her more — she speaks often of you, and with a warm affection. I hope no change or time shall blight those loves of ours, I would bear them all in my arms to my home in the glorious heaven and say, * Here am I, my Father, and those whom thou hast given me.' If the life which is to come is better than dwelling here, and angels are there and our friends are glorified and are singing there and praising there, need we fear to go when spirits beyond wait for us ? I was meaning .to see you more and talk about such things with you— I 1852] TO MRS STRONG 57 want to know your views and your eternal feelings — how things beyond are to you — oh, there is much to speak of in meeting one you love, and it always seems to me that I might have spoken more, and I almost always think that what we found to say might have been left unspoken. Shall it always be so, A. ? Is there no longer day given for our communion with the spirits of our love? Writing is brief and fleeting — conversation will come again, yet if it «////, it hastes and must be on its way. Earth is short, but Paradise is long — there must be many moments in an eternal day ; then sometime we shall tarry while time and tide roll on, and till then vale. Your own dear Emilie. [Written from Amherst between January i, and the middle of June, 1852.J Sunday Evening, My very dear A., — I love to sit here alone, writing a letter to you, and whether your joy in reading will amount to as much or more, or even less than mine in penning it to you, becomes to me just now a very important problem — and I will tax each power to solve the same for me ; if as happy, indeed, I have every occasion for gratitude — more so, my absent friend, I may not hope to make you, but I do hope most earnestly it may not give you less. Oh, I do know it will not, if school- 58 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1852 day hearts are warm and school-day memories pre- cious ! As I told you, it is Sunday to-day, so I find myself quite curtailed in the selection of subjects, being myself quite vain, and naturally adverting to many worldly things which would doubtless grieve and distress you : much more will I be restrained by the fact that such stormy Sundays L always remain at home, and have not those opportunities for hoard- ing up great truths which I would have otherwise. In view of these things. A., your kind heart will be lenient, forgiving all empty words and unsatisfying feelings on the Sabbath-day ground which we have just alluded to. I rejoice in one theme appropriate to every place and time — indeed it cannot intrude in the hour most unseemly for every other thought and every other feeling ; and sure I am to-day, how- e'er it may be holy, I shall not break or reproach by speaking of the links which bind us to each other, and make the very thought of you, and time when I last saw you, a sacred thing to me. And I have many memories, and many thoughts beside, which by some strange entwining, circle you round and round ; if you please, a vine of fancies, towards which dear A. sustains the part of oak, and as up each sturdy branch there climbs a little tendril so full of faith and confidence and the most holy trust, so let the hearts do also, of the dear ' estray ; * then the farther we may be from home and from each other, the nearer by that faith which ' overcometh all things * and bringeth us to itself. i8s2] TO MRS STRONG 59 Amherst and Philadelphia, separate indeed, and yet how near, bridged by a thousand trusts and a 'thousand times ten thousand' .the travellers who cross, whom you and I may not see, nor hear the trip of their feet, yet faith tells us they are there, ever crossing and re-crossing. Very likely. A., you fancy me at home in my own little chamber, writing you a letter, but you are greatly mistaken. I am on the blue Susquehanna paddling down to you ; I am not much of a sailor, so I get along rather slowly, and I am not much of a mermaid, though I verily think I shall be, if the tide overtakes me at my present jog. Hard-hearted girl ! I don't believe you care, if you did you would come quickly and help me out of this sea ; but if I drown. A., and go down to dwell in the seaweed forever and forever, I will not forget your name, nor all the wrong you did me ! Why did you go away and not come to see me? I felt so sure you would come, because you prom- ised me, that I watched and waited for you, and bestowed a tear or two upon my absentee. How very sad it is to have a confiding nature, one's hopes and feelings are quite at the mercy of all who come along ; and how very desirable to be a stolid indi- vidual, whose hopes and aspirations are safe in one's waistcoat pocket, and that a. pocket indeed, and one not to be picked ! Notwithstanding your faithlessness I should have come to see you, but for that furious snow-storm ; 6o LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1852 I did attempt in spite of it, but it conquered in spite of me, and I doffed my hood and shawl, and felt very crestfallen the remainder of the day. I did want one more kiss, one sweet and sad good-by, before you had flown away ; perhaps, my dear A., it is well that I go without it ; it might have added anguish to our long separation, or made the miles still longer which keep a friend away. I always try to think in any disappointment that had I been gratified, it had been sadder still, and I weave from such supposition, at timeSy considerable consolation ; consolation upside down as I am pleased to call it. . . . Shall I have a letter soon — oh, may I very soon, for * some days are dark and dreary, and the wind is never weary. * Emily E. [Also written before the middle of June, 1852.] Sabbath Day, I love to link you, A. and E., I love to put you together and look at you side by side — the pic- ture pleases me, and I should love to watch it until the sun goes down, did I not call to mind a very precious letter for which I have not as yet rendered a single farthing, so let me thank you that midst your many friends and cares and influenzas, you yet found time for me, and loved me. You remarked that I had written you more affectionately than wont — I have thought that word over and over, and it puzzles me now; whether our few last years have been cooler than our first ones, or whether I write 1852] TO MRS STRONG 6 1 indifferently when I truly know it not, the query troubles me. I do believe sincerely, that the friend- ship formed at school was no warmer than now, nay more, that this is warmest — they differ indeed to me as morning differs from noon — one may be fresher, cheerier, but the other fails not. You and I have grown older since school-days, and our years have made us soberer — I mean have made me so, for you were always dignified, e*en when a little girl, and / used, now and then, to cut a timid caper. That makes me think of you the very first time I saw you, and I can't repress a smile, not to say a hearty laugh, at your little girl expense. I have roused your curiosity, so I will e'en tell you that one Wednesday afternoon, in the days of that dear old Academy, I went in to be entertained by the rhetoric of the gentlemen and the milder form of the girls — I had hardly recovered myself from the dismay attendant upon entering august assemblies, when with the utmost equanimity you ascended the stairs, bedecked with dandelions, arranged, it seemed, for curls. I shall never forget that scene, if I live to have gray hairs, nor the very remarkable fancies it gave me then of you, and it comes over me now with the strangest bygone funniness, and I laugh merrily. Oh, A., you and the early flower are forever linked to me ; as soon as the first green grass comes, up firom a chink in the stones peeps the little flower, precious Meontodon,* and my heart fills toward you with a 62 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1852 warm and childlike fulness ! Nor do I laugh now ; far from it, I rather bless the flower which sweetly, slyly too, makes me come nearer you. But, my dear, I can't give the dandelion the privi- lege due to you, so good-by, little one ! I would love to see you. A., I would rather than write to you, might I with equal ease, for the weather is very warm, and my head aches a little, and my heart a little more, so taking me collectively , I seem quite miserable, but I '11 give you the sunny corners, and you must n't look at the shade. You were happy when you wrote me ; I hope so now, though I would you were in the country, and could reach the hills and fields. I can reach them, carry them home, which I do in my arms daily, and when / they drop and fade, I have only to gather fresh [ ones. Your joy would indeed be full, could you \ sit as I, at my window, and hear the boundless birds, and every little while feel the breath of some new flower ! Oh, do you love the spring, and is n't it brothers and sisters, and blessed, ministering spirits unto you and me, and us all ? I often see A. — oftener than at sometimes when friendship drooped a little. Did you ever know that a flower, once withered and freshened again, became an immortal flower, — that is, that it rises again? I think resurrections here are sweeter, it may be, than the longer and lasting one — for you expect the one, and only hope for the other. . • ,3^ I will show you the sunset if you will sit by me, but 1853] TO MRS STRONG 63 I cannot bring it there, for so much gold is heavy. Can you see it in Philadelphia ? A rather long interval seems to have elapsed between the preceding letter and the next, which was written about July 26, probably of 1853. The hand-writing is quite different from the earlier letters, more resembling that middle period of which an illustration is given (page 218), yet still somewhat smaller. The delicate and sunshiny sarcasm in this note may be the more fully appreciated by recalling that Emily Dickinson was not yet twenty-two years old. Tuesday Evening. My dear Child, — Thank you for that sweet note which came so long ago, and thank you for asking me to come and visit you, and thank you for loving me, long ago, and to-day, and too for all the sweet- ness, and all the gentleness, and all the tenderness with which you remember me, — your quaint, old- fashioned friend. I wanted very much to write you sooner, and I tried frequently, but till now in vain, and as I write to-night, it is with haste, and fear lest something still detain me. You know, my dear A., that the sum- mer has been warm, that at this pleasant season we have much company, that this irresolute body refuses to serve sometimes, and the indignant tenant can only hold its peace, — all this you know, for I 64 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1853 have often told you, and yet I say it again, if may- hap it persuades you that I do love you indeed, and have not done neglectfully. ... I think it was in June that your note reached here, and I did snatch a moment to call upon your friend. Yet I went in the dusk, and it was Saturday evening, so even then, A., you see how cares pursued me. I found her very lovely in what she said to me, and I fancied in her face so, although the gentle dusk would draw her curtain close, and I did n*t see her clearly. We talked the most of you, — a theme we surely loved, or we had not discussed it in preference to all. I would love to meet her again, and give my love to her, for your sake. You asked me to come and see you — I must speak of that. I thank you, A., but I don't go from home, unless emergency leads me by the hand, and then I do it obstinately, and draw back if I can. Should I ever leave home, which is improbable, I will, with much delight, accept your invitation ; till then, my dear A., my warmest thanks are yours, but don't expect me. I 'm so old-fash- ioned, darling, that all your friends would stare. I j should have to bring my work-bag, and my big { spectacles, and I half forgot my grandchildren, and j my pincushion, and puss — why, think of it seri- ously, A., — do you think it my duty to leave ? Will you write me again? Mother and Vinnie send their love, and here 's a kiss from me. Good-night, from Emily. CHAPTER II To Mr William Austin Dickinson THE following letters were written to Emily Dickinson's brother between the years 1847 and 1854, the earlier ones being sent from South Hadley, while he was a student in Amherst College. Later ones were written at Amherst, and sent to Boston, where he had charge of a school after graduation, 1851 and 1852; while the latest were addressed to Cam- bridge during her brother's studies at the Harvard Law School, 1853 and 1854. Dur- ing these last two years their father, the Hon. Edward Dickinson, was in Congress at Washington. * [South Hadley, Autumn, 1847.] Thursday Noon. My dear Brother Austin, — I have not really a moment of time in which to write you, and am taking time from ' silent study hours ; ' but I am determined not to break my promise again, and I generally carry my resolutions into effect. I watched you until you were out of sight Saturday evening, VOL. I. — 5 66 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1847 and then went to my room and looked over my treasures; and surely no miser ever counted his heaps of gold with more satisfaction than I gazed upon the presents from home. . . . I can't tell you now how much good your visit did me. My spirits have wonderfully lightened since then. I had a great mind to be homesick after you went home, but I concluded not to, and therefore gave up all homesick feelings. Was not that a wise determination? . . . There has been a menagerie here this week. Miss Lyon provided * Daddy Hawks * as a beau for all the Seminary girls who wished to see the bears and monkeys, and your sister, not caring to go, was obliged to decline the gallantry of said gentleman, — which I fear I may never have an- other opportunity to avail myself of. The whole company stopped in front of the Seminary and played for about a quarter of an hour, for the pur- pose of getting- custom in the afternoon, I opine. Almost all the girls went ; and I enjoyed the solitude finely. I want to know when you are coming to see me again, for I want to see you as much as I did before. I went to see Miss F. in her room yesterday. . . . I love her very much, and think I shall love all the teachers when I become better acquainted with them and find out their ways, which, I can assure you, are almost ' past finding out.' I had almost forgotten to tell you of a dream 1847] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 6/ which I dreamed last night, and I would Hke to have you turn Daniel and interpret it to me ; or if you don't care about going through all the perils which he did, I will allow you to interpret it without, provided you will try to tell no lies about it. Well, I dreamed a dream, and lo ! father had failed, and mother said that * our rye- field, which she and I planted, was mortgaged to Seth Nims.' I hope it is not true ; but do write soon and tell me, for you know I should expire of mortification to have our rye-field mortgaged, to say nothing of its faUing into the merciless hands of a loco ! Won't you please to tell me when you answer my letter who the candidate for President is ? I have been trying to find out ever since I came here, and have not yet succeeded. I don't know anything more about affairs in the world than if I were in a trance, and you must imagine with all your ' Sophomoric discernment ' that it is but little and very faint. Has the Mexican War terminated yet,^ and how? Are we beaten? Do you know of any nation about to besiege South Hadley? If so, do inform me of it, for I would be glad of a chance to escape, if we are to be stormed. I suppose Miss Lyon would furnish us all with daggers and order us to fight for our lives in case such perils should befall us. . . . Miss F. told me if I was writing to Am- herst to send her love. Not specifying to whom, you may deal it out as your good sense and discretion prompt. Be a good boy and mind me ! 68 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1847 [South Hadley, November 2, 1S47.] Tuesday Noon. My dear Brother Austin, — I have this mo- ment finished my recitation in history, and have a few minutes which I shall occupy in answering your short but welcome letter. You probably heard that I was alive and well yesterday, unless Mr E. Dickinson was robbed of a note whose contents were to that effect. But as robbers are not very plenty now-a-days, I will have no forebodings on that score, for the present. How do you get along with- out me now, and does * it seem any more like a funeral ' than it did before your visit to your humble servant in this place ? Answer me ! I want much to see you all at home, and expect to three weeks from to-morrow if nothing unusual, like a famine or a pestilence, occurs to prevent my going home. I am anticipating much in seeing you on this week Saturday, and you had better not disappoint me ! for if you do, I will harness the ' furies,' and pur- sue you with ' a whip of scorpions,' which is even worse, you will find, than the *long oat' which you may remember. . . . Tell father I am obliged to him much for his offers of pecuniary assistance, but do not need any. We are furnished with an account-book here, and obliged to put down every mill which we spend, and what we spend it for, and show it to Miss Whitman every Saturday ; so you perceive your sister is learning accounts in 1847] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 69 addition to the other branches of her education. I am getting along nicely in my studies^ and am happy, quite, for me. Do write a long letter to Your affectionate sister, Emily. Enclosed with this was a delicately written * bill of fare ' for one of the Seminary dinners. SOUTH HADLEY SEMINARY Nov. 2d, 1847 BILL OF FARE Roast Veal Potatoes Squash Gravy Wheat and Brown Bread Butter Pepper and Salt Dessert Apple Dumpling Sauce Water Is n't that a dinner fit to set before a king? 70 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1848 [South Hadley, December 11, 1847.] Saturday, P, M. My dear Brother Austin, — ... I finished my examination in Euclid last evening, and without a failure at any time. You can easily imagine how glad I am to get through with four books, for you have finished the whole forever. . . . How are you all at home, and what are you doing this vacation ? You are reading Arabian Nights, according to Viny's statement. I hope you have derived much bene- fit from their perusal, and presume your powers of imagining will vastly increase thereby. But I must give you a word of advice too. Cultivate your other powers in proportion as you allow imagination to captivate you. Am not I a very wise young lady? I had almost forgotten to tell you what my studies are now — * better late than never.' They are Chemistry, Physiology, and quarter course in Al- gebra. I have completed four studies already, and am getting along well. Did you think that it was my birthday yesterday? I don't believe I am seventeen / . . . From your affectionate sister, Emily. [South Hadley, about February 14, 1848.] Thursday Mom, My dear Austin, — You will perhaps imagine from my date that I am quite at leisure, and can do 1848] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON J I what I please even in the forenoon, but one of our teachers, who is engaged, received a visit from her intended quite unexpectedly yesterday afternoon, and she has gone to her home to show him, I opine, and will be absent until Saturday. As I happen to recite to her in one of my studies, her absence gives me a little time in which to write. Your welcome letter found me all engrossed in the study of sulphuric acid ! I deliberated for a few moments after its reception on the propriety of canying it to Miss Whitman, your friend. The re- sult of my deliberation was a conclusion to open it with moderation, peruse its contents with sobriety becoming my station, and if after a close investiga- tion of its contents I found nothing which savored of rebellion or an unsubdued will, I would lay it away in my folio, and forget I had received it. Are you not gratified that I am so rapidly gaining cor- rect ideas of female propriety and sedate deport- ment? After the proposed examination, finding it concealed no dangerous sentiments, I with great gravity deposited it with my other letters, and the impression that I once had such a letter is entirely obliterated by the waves of time. I have been quite lonely since I came back, but cheered by the thought that I am not to return another year, I take comfort, and still hope on. My visit at home was happy, very happy to me ; and had the idea of in so short a time returning been constantly in my dreams by night and day, I could 'Jl LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1848 not have been happier. ' There is no rose without a thorn' to me. Home was always dear to me, and dearer still the friends around it; but never did it seem so dear as now. All, all are kind to me, but their tones fall strangely on my ear, and their countenances meet mine not like home-faces, I can assure you most sincerely. Then when tempted to feel sad, I think of the blazing fire and .he cheerful meal and the chair empty now I am gone. I can hear the cheerful voices and the merry laugh, and a desolate feeling comes home to my heart, to think I am alone. But my good angel only waits to see the tears coming and then whispers, * Only this year ! only twenty-two weeks more, and then home again you will be to stay.' To you, all busy and excited, I suppose the time flies faster ; but to me slowly, very slowly, so that I can see his chariot wheels when they roll along, and himself is often visible. But I will no longer imagine, for your brain is full of Arabian Nights^ fancies, and it will not do to pour fuel on your already kindled imagination. . . . I suppose you have written a few and received a quantity of valentines this week. Every night have I looked, and yet in vain, for one of Cupid's mes- sengers. Many of the girls have received very beautiful ones ; and I have not quite done hoping for one. Surely my friend Thomas has not lost all his former affection for me ! I entreat you to tell ^im I am pining for a valentine. I am sure I 1848] TO MR WILUAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 73 shall not very soon forget last Valentine week, nor any the sooner the fun I had at that time. . . . Monday afternoon Mistress Lyon arose in the hall, and forbade our sending * any of those foolish notes called valentines.* But those who were here last year, knowing her opinions, were sufficiently cun- ning to write and give them into the care of D. during the vacation; so that about 150 were de- spatched on Valentine mom, before orders should be put down to the contrary effect. Hearing of this act, Miss Whitman, by and with the advice and consent of the other teachers, with frowning brow, sallied over to the Post Office to ascertain, if pos- sible, the number of the valentines, and worse still, the names of the offenders. Nothing has yet been heard as to the amoimt of her information, but as D. is a good hand to help the girls, and no one has yet received sentence, we begin to think her mission unsuccessful. I have not written one, nor do I intend to. Your injunction to pile on the wood has not been unheeded, for we have been obliged to obey it to keep from freezing up. . . . We cannot have much more cold weather, I am sure, for spring is near. . . . Professor Smith preached here last Sabbath, and such sermons I never heard in my life. We were all charmed with him, and dreaded to have him close. . . . Your affectionate sister, EMn.Y. 74 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON \\%\% [South Hadley, late May, 1848.] Monday Morn, My dear Austin, — I received a letter from home on Saturday by Mr G S , and father wrote in it that he intended to send for cousin Emily and myself on Saturday of this week to spend the Sab- bath at home. I went to Miss Whitman, after receiv- ing the letter, and asked her if we could go if you decided to come for us. She seemed stunned by my request, and could not find utterance to an answer for some time. At length she said, 'Did you not know it was contrary to the rules of the Seminary to ask to be absent on the Sabbath ? ' I told her I did not. She then took a Catalogue from her table, and showed me the law in full at the last part of it. She closed by saying that we could not go, and I returned to my room without farther ado. So you see I shall be deprived of the pleasure of a visit home, and you that of seeing me, if I may have the presumption to call it a pleasure ! The teachers are not willing to let the girls go home this term as it is the last one, and as I have only nine weeks more to spend here, we had better be contented to obey the commands. We shall only be the more glad to see one another after a longer absence, that will be all. I was highly edified with your imaginative note to me, and think your flights of fancy indeed wonderful at your age ! When are you coming to see me — it would be very pleasant to us to receive a visit from your highness 1851] TO MR WILUAM AUSTIN DICKINSON y$ if yon can be absent from home long enough for such a purpose. ... I can't write longer. Your affectionate sister, Emilie. The next letter was written three years later, and sent to Boston. [Amherst, early in 1851.] Sunday Evening, It might not come amiss, dear Austin, to have a tid- ing or two concerning our state and feelings, particu- larly when we remember that 'Jamie has gone awa*.' Our state is pretty comfortable, and our feelings are somewhat solemn, which we account for satis- factorily by calling to mind the fact that it is the Sabbath day. Whether a certain passenger in a cer- tain yesterday's stage has any sombre effect on our once merry household or the reverse, *I dinna choose to tell,* but be the case as it may, we are rather a crestfallen company, to make the best of us, and what with the sighing wind, the sobbing rain, and the whining of Nature generally, we can hardly con- tain ourselves, and I only hope and trust that your this-evening*s-lot is cast in far more cheery places than the ones you leave behind. We are enjo)ang this evening what is called a 'northeast storm' — a little north of east in case you are pretty definite. Father thinks it 's * amazin' raw,' and I 'm half disposed to think that he 's in the right about it, though I keep pretty dark and don't 'J^i LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1851 say much about it ! Vinnie is at the instrument, humming a pensive air concerning a young lady who thought she was 'almost there.' Vinnie seems much grieved, and I really suppose / ought to betake my- self to weeping ; I 'm pretty sure that I shaU if she don't abate her singing. Father's just got home from meeting and Mr Boltwood's, found the last quite comfortable and the first not quite so well. . . . There has been not much stirring since when you went away — I should venture to say prudently that matters had come to a stand — unless something new 'turns up,' I cannot see anything to prevent a quiet season. Father takes care of the doors and mother of the windows, and Vinnie and I are secure against all outward attacks. If we can get our hearts 'under,' I don't have much to fear — I 've got all but three feelings down, if I can only keep them 1 . . . I shall think of you to-morrow with four and twenty Irish boys all in a row. I miss you very much — I put on my bonnet to-night, opened the gate very desperately, and for a little while the suspense was terrible — I think I was held in check by some invisible agent, for I returned to the house without having done any harm ! If I had n't been afraid that you would ' poke fun' at my feelings, I had written a sincere letter, but since 'the world is hollow, and dollie's stuffed with sawdust,' I really do not think we had better expose our feelings. . . . Your dear sister, Emily. iSsi] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON JJ [Amherst, 1851.] Sunday Evening, I received your letter, Austin, permit me to thank you for it and to request some more as soon as it 's convenient — permit me to accord with your dis- creet opinion concerning Swedish Jennie, and to com- mend the heart brave enough to express it — com- bating the opinion of two civilized worlds and New York into the bargain must need considerable daring — indeed, it had never occurred to me that amidst the hallelujahs one tongue would dare be dumb, and much less, I assure you, that this dissenting one should be my romantic brother ! For I had looked for delight and a very high style of rapture in such a youth as you. . . . We have all been rather piqued at Jennie's singing so well, and this first calumnious whisper pleases us so well, we rejoice that we did n't come — our visit is yet before us. . . . You haven't told us yet as you promised about your home — what kind of peo- ple they are — whether you find them pleasant — whether those timid gentlemen have yet 'found tongues to say.' Do you find the life and living any more annoying than you at first expected — do you light upon any friends to help the time away — have you whipped any more bad boys — all these are solemn questions, pray give them proper heed ! Two weeks of your time are gone ; I can't help wondering sometimes if you would love to see us. 78 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1851 and come to this still home. ... A Senior levee was held at Professor and Mrs Haven's on Tuesday of last week — Vinnie played pretty well. There's another at the President's this next Friday evening. Clarum et venerabile Seniors ! [AmKerst, March, 1851.] Sunday Afternoon, ... It 's a glorious afternoon — the sky is blue and warm — the wind blows just enough to keep the clouds sailing, and the sunshine — oh such sunshine ! It isn't like gold, for gold is dim beside it; it isn't like anything which you or I have seen ! It seems to me *Ik Marvel' was bom on such a day; I only wish you were here. Such days were made on pur- pose for you and me ; then what in the world are you gone for? Oh, dear, I do not know, but this I do know, that if wishing would bring you home, you were here to-day. Is it pleasant in Boston? Of course it isn't, though. I might have known more than to make such an inquiry. No doubt the streets are muddy, and the sky some dingy hue, and I can think just how everything bangs and rattles, and goes rumbling along through stones and plank and clay ! I don't feel as if I could have you there, pos- sibly, another day. I'm afraid you'll turn into a bank, or a Pearl Street coimting-room, if you have not already assumed some monstrous shape, living in such a place. Let me see — April; three weeks until April — i8si] TO MR WILUAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 79 the very first of April — well, perhaps that will do, only be sure of the week, the whole week, and noth- ing but the week. If they make new arrangements, give my respects to them, and tell them old arrange- ments are good enough for you, and you will have them ; then if they raise the wind, why, let it blow — there's nothing more excellent than a breeze now and then ! What a time we shall have Fast day, after we get home fh)m meeting — why, it makes me dance to think of it; and Austin, if I dance so many days beforehand, what will become of me when the hour really arrives? I don't know, I *m sure ; and I don*t care, much, for that or for anything else but get you home. . . . Much love from mother and Vinnie; we are now pretty well, and our hearts are set on April, the very first of April ! Emilie. [Amherst, late March, 1851.] Thursday Night, Dear Austin, — ... I have read Ellen Middle- ton. I need n't tell you I like it, nor need I tell you more, for you know already. I thank you more and more for all the pleasures you give me — I can give you nothing, Austin, but a warm and grateful heart that is yours now and always. Love from all. Emilie. Only think, you are coming Saturday I I don't 80 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1851 know why it is that it *s always Sunday immediately you get home. I will arrange it differently. If it was n*t twelve o'clock I would stay longer. [Amherst, June 16^ 185 1.] Sunday Evening, . . . I 'm glad you are so well pleased, I 'm glad you are not delighted. I would not that foreign places should wear the smile of home. We are quite alarmed for the boys — hope you won't kill or pack away any of 'em — so near Dr Webster's bones 't is not strange you have had temptations ! . . . The country 's still just now, and the severities al- luded to will have a salutary influence in waking the people up. Speaking of getting up, how early are metropolitans expected to wake up, especially young men — more especially school-masters ? I miss my * department' mornings. I lay it quite to heart that I 've no one to wake up. Your room looks lonely enough, I do not love to go in there ; whenever I pass through I find I 'gin to whistle, as we read that little boys are wont to do in the graveyard. I am going to set out crickets as soon as I find time, that they by their shrill singing shall help disperse the gloom ; will they grow if I transplant them ? You importune me for news ; I am very sorry to say ' Vanity of vanities ' there 's no such thing as news — it is almost time for the cholera, and then things ^U take a start ! ... All of the folks send love. Your affectionate Eboly. 1851] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 8 1 [July 5, 1851.] Sunday Afternoon. I have just come in from church very hot and faded. . . . Our church grows interesting — Zion lifts her head — I overhear remarks signifying Jeru- salem, — I do not feel at liberty to say any more to-day ! ... I wanted to write you Friday, the night of Jennie Lind, but reaching home past midnight, and my room sometime after, encountering several perils starting and on the way, among which a kicking horse, an inexperienced driver, a number of Jove's thunderbolts, and a very terrible rain, are worthy to have record. All of us went — just four — add an absent individual and that will make full five. The concert commenced at eight, but knowing the world was hollow we thought we 'd start at six, and come up with everybody that meant to come up with us ; we had proceeded some steps when one of the beasts showed symptoms ; and just by the black- smith's shop exercises commenced, consisting of kicking and plunging on the part of the horse, and whips and moral suasion from the gentleman who drove — the horse refused to proceed, and your respected femily with much chagrin dismounted, advanced to the hotel, and for a season halted; another horse procured, we were politely invited to take our seats, and proceed, which we refused to do till the animal was warranted. About half through VOL. I. — 6 82 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1851 our journey thunder was said to be heard, and a suspicious cloud came travelling up the sky. What words express our horror when rain began to fall, in drops, sheets, cataracts — what fancy conceive of drippings and of drenchings which we met on the way; how the stage and its mourning captives drew up at Warner's Hotel ; how all of us alighted, and were conducted in, — how the rain did not abate, — how we walked in silence to the old Ed- wards church^ and took our seats in the same — how Jennie came out like a child and sang and sang again — how bouquets fell in showers, and the roof was rent with applause — how it thundered outside, and inside with the thunder of God and of men — judge ye which was the loudest ; how we all loved Jennie Lind, but not accustomed oft to her manner of singing did n't fancy that so well as we did her^ No doubt it was very fine, but take some notes from her Echo, the bird sounds from the Bird Songy and some of her curious trills, and I *d rather have a Yankee. Herself and not her music was what we seemed to love — she has an air of exile in her mild blue eyes, and a something sweet and touching in her native accent which charms her many friends. Give me my thatched cottage as she sang she grew so earnest she seemed half lost in song, and for a tran- sient time I fancied she had found it and would be 1 Evidently a slip of the pen, as Jenny Lind sang in the old First Church at Northampton on that occasion. 1851] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 83 seen * na mair ; ' and then her foreign accent made her again a wanderer — we will talk about her some- time when you come. Father sat all the evening looking mady and yet so much amused you would have died a-laughing. ... It wasn't sarcasm ex- actly, nor it was n't disdain, it was infinitely funnier than either of those virtues, as if old Abraham had come to see the show, and thought it was all very well, but a little excess of monkey / She took ;J4,ooo for tickets at Northampton aside from all expenses. . . . About our coming to Boston — we think we shall probably come — we want to see our friends, your- self and Aunt L.'s family. We don't care a fig for the Museum, the stillness, or Jennie Lind. . . . Love from us all. Your affectionate sister, Emily. [Late July, 1851.] Sunday Evening. . . . Oh how I wish I could see your world and its little kingdoms, and I wish I could see the king — Stranger ! he was my brother ! I fancy little boys of several little sizes, some of them clothed in blue cloth, some of them clad in gray — I seat them round on benches in the school-room of my mind — then I set them all to shaking — on peril of their lives that they move their lips or whisper; then I clothe you with authority and empower you to 84 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1851 punish, and to enforce the law, I call you ' Rabbi, Master/ and the picture is complete ! It would seem very funny, say for Vinnie and me to come round as Committee — we should enjoy the terrors of fifty little boys, and any specimens of discipline in your way would be a rare treat for us. I should love to know how you managed — whether govern- ment as a science is laid down and executed, or whether you cuff and thrash as the occasion dic- tates I whether you use pure law as in the case of commanding, or whether you enforce it by means of sticks and stones as in the case of agents. I sup- pose you have authority bounded but by their lives. ... I should think you *d be tired of school and teaching and such hot weather. I really wish you were here, and the Endicott school where you found it. Whenever we go to ride in our beautiful family carriage we think if ' wishes were horses ' we four ' beggars would ride.* We shall enjoy brimful every- thing now but half full, and to have you home once more will be like living again. We are having a pleasant summer — without one of the five it is yet a lonely one. Vinnie says some- times — Did n't we have a brother — it seems to me we did, his name was Austin — we call but he answers not again — echo, Where is Austin? laugh- ing, ' Where is Austin ?*...! wish they need not exhibit just for once in the year, and give you up on Saturday instead of the next week Wednesday; but keep your courage up and show forth those 1851] TO MR WILUAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 85 Emerald Isles till school committees and mayors are blinded with the dazzling ! Would n't I love to be there ! . . . Our apples are ripening fast I am fully con- vinced that with your approbation they will not only pick themselves, but arrange one another in baskets and present themselves to be eaten. Love from all. Emilie. [August, 1851.] Sunday Afternoon, At my old stand again, dear Austin, and happy as a queen to know that while I speak those whom I love are listening, and I am happier still if I shall make them happy. I have just finished reading your letter which was brought in since church. I like it grandly — very — because it is so long, and also it *s so funny — we have all been laughing till the old house rung again at your delineation of men, women, and things. I feel quite like retiring in presence of one so grand, and casting my small lot among small birds and fishes; you say you don't comprehend me, you want a simpler style — gratitude indeed for all my fine philosophy ! I strove to be exalted, thinking I might reach you, and while I pant and struggle and climb the nearest cloud, you walk out very leisurely in your slippers from Empyrean, and without the slightest notice, request me to get down ! As sim- ple as you please, the simplest sort of simple — I 'D 86 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1851 be a little ninny, a little pussy catty, a little Red Riding Hood ; I Ul wear a bee in my bonnet, and a rose-bud in my hair, and what remains to do you shall be told hereafter. Your letters are richest treats, send them always just such warm days — they are worth a score of fans and many refrigerators — the only difl&culty they are so queer^ and laughing such hot weather is anything but amusing. A little more of earnest, and a little less of jest until we are out of August, and then you may joke as freely as the father of rogues himself, and we will banish care, and daily die a-laughing ! It is very hot here now ; I don 't believe it *s any hotter in Boston than it is here. . . . Vinnie suggests that she may sometimes occur to mind when you would like more collars made. I told her I would n't tell you — I have n*t, however, decided whether I will or not. I often put on five knives and forks, and another tumbler, forgetting for the moment that *we are not all here.' It occurs to me, however, and I remove the extra, and brush a tear away in memory of my brother. We miss you now and always. When God be- stows but three, and one of those is withdrawn, the others are left alone. . . . Father is as uneasy when you are gone away as if you catch a trout and put him in Sahara. When you first went away he came home very frequently — walked gravely 1851] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 8/ towards the bam, and returned looking very stately — then strode away down street as if the foe was coming; now he is more resigned — contents him- self by fancying that *we shall hear to-day/ and then when we do not hear, he wags his head pro- found, and thinks without a doubt there will be news ' to-morrow.' * Once one is two,* once one will be two — ah, I have it here ! I wish you could have some cherries — if there was any way we would send you a basket of them — they are very large and delicious, and are just ripen- ing now. Little Austin Grout comes every day to pick them, and mother takes great comfort in call- ing him by name, from vague association with her departed boy. Austin, to tell the truth, it is very still and lonely — I do wish you were here. . . . The railroad is *a-workin*.* My love to all my friends. I am on my way downstairs to put the tea-kettle boiling — writing and taking tea cannot sympathize. If you forget me now, your right hand shall its cunning. Emiue. [Written after a visit of the sisters in Boston. Amherst, September 24, 185 i.j Tuesday Evening, We have got home, dear Austin. It is very lonely here — I have tried to make up my mind which was better, home and parents and country, or city and smoke and dust shared with the only being whom I 88 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1851 can call my brother. The scales donU poise very evenly, but so far as I can judge, the balance is in your favor. The folks are much more lonely than while we were away — they say they seemed to feel that we were straying together and together would return, and the unattended sisters seemed very sad to them. . . . They have had a number of friends to call and visit with them. Mother never was busier than while we were away — what with fruit and plants and chickens and sympathizing friends she really was so hurried she hardly knew what to do. Vinnie and I came safely, and met with no mishap — r the bouquet was not withered nor was the bottle cracked. It was fortunate for the freight car that Vinnie and I were there, ours being the only bag- gage passing along the line. The folks looked very funny who travelled with us that day — they were dim and faded, like folks passed away — the conductor seemed so grand with about half a dozen tickets which he dispersed and demanded in a very small space of time — I judged that the minority were travelling that day, and could n't hardly help smiling at our ticket friend, however sorry I was at the small amount of people passing along his way. He looked as if he wanted to make an apology for not having more travellers to keep him company. The route and the cars seemed strangely — there were no boys with fruit, there were no boys with pamphlets; one fearful little fellow ventured into 1851] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 89 the car with what appeared to be publications and tracts; he offered them to no one, and no one inquired for them, and he seemed greatly relieved that no one wanted to buy them. . . . Mother sends much love, and Vinnie. Your lonely sister, Emily. [Amherst, Autumn, 1851.] Saturday Morn, Dear Austin, — IVe been trying to think this morning how many weeks it was since you went away — I fail in calculations; it seems so long to me since you went back to school that I set down days for years, and weeks for a score of years — not reckoning time by minutes, I don*t know what to think of such great discrepancies between the actual hours and those which * seem to be.* It may seem long to you since you returned to Boston — how I wish you would stay and never go back again. Everything is so still here, and the clouds are cold and gray — I think it will rain soon. Oh, I am so lonely ! . . . You had a windy evening going back to Boston, and we thought of you many times and hoped you would not be cold. Our fire burned so cheerfully I couldn't help thinking of how many were here, and how many were away, and I wished so many times during that long evening that the door would open and you come walking in. Home I is a holy thing, — nothing of doubt or distrust can 90 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1851 enter its blessed portals. I feel it more and more aa the great world goes on, and one and another for- sake in whom you place your trust, here seems in-) deed to be a bit of Eden which not the sin of any J can utterly destroy, — smaller it is indeed, and it may be less fair, but fairer it is and brighter than all the world beside. I hope this year in Boston will not impair your health, and I hope you will be as happy as you used to be before. I don't wonder it makes you sober to leave this blessed air — if it were in my power I would on every morning transmit its purest breaths fragrant and cool to you. How I wish you could have it — a thousand little winds waft it to me this morning, fragrant with forest leaves and bright autumnal berries. I would be willing to give you my portion for to-day, and take the salt sea's breath in its bright, bounding stead. . . . Your affectionate Embly. . . . Mother sends her love and your waistcoat, thinking you '11 like the one, and quite likely need the other. [Amherst, October 2, 1851.] Wednesday Noon, We are just through dinner, Austin, I want to write so much that I omit digestion, and a dyspepsia will probably be the result. ... I received your letter iSsi] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 9 1 yesterday. . . . You say we must n*t trouble to send you any fruit, also your clothes must give us no uneasiness. I don't ever want to have you say any more such things. They make me feel like crying. If you 'd only teased us for it, and declared that you would have it, I should n*t have cared so much that we could find no way to send you any, but you resign so cheerfiiUy your birthright of purple grapes, and do not so much as murmur at the departing peaches, that I hardly can taste the one or drink the juice of the other. They are so beautiful, Austin, — we have such an abundance 'while you perish with hunger.* I do hope some one will make up a mind to go before our peaches are quite gone. The world is full of people travelling everywhere, until it occurs to you that you will send an errand, and then by * hook or crook * you can't find any traveller who, for money or love, can be induced to go and carry the oppro- brious package. It 's a very selfish age, that is all I can say about it. Mr Storekeeper S has been 'almost persuaded' to go, but I believe he has put it off 'till a more convenient -seasoil,' so to show my disapprobation I sha'n'.t buy any more gloves at Mr S 's store ! Don't you think it will seem very cutting to see me pass by his goods and pur- chase at Mr K 's? I don't think I shall retract should he regret his course and decide to go to- morrow, because it is the principle of disappointing people which I disapprove ! . . . 92 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1851 The peaches are very large — one side a rosy cheek, and the other a golden, and that peculiar coat of velvet and of down which makes a peach so beautiful. The grapes, too, are fine, juicy, and suck a purple — I fancy the robes of kings are not a tint more royal. The vine looks like a kingdom, with ripe round grapes for kings, and hungry mouths for subjects — the first instance on record of subjects devouring kings ! You shall have some grapes, dear Austin, if I have to come on foot in order to bring them to you. The apples are very fine — it is n't quite time to pick them — the cider is almost done — we shall have some I guess by Saturday, at any rate Sunday noon. The vegetables are not gathered, but will be before very long. The horse is doing nicely; he travels * like a bird * to use a favorite phrase of your delighted mother's. You ask about the leaves — shall I say they are falling? They had begun to fall before Vinnie and I came home, and we walked up the steps through little brown ones rustling. . . . Vinnie tells me she has detailed the news — she reserved the deaths for me, thinking I might fall short of my usual letter somewhere. In accordance with her wishes I acquaint you with the decease of your aged friend Deacon . He had no disease that we know of, but gradually went out. . . . Mon- day evening we were all startled by a violent church- bell ringing, and thinking of nothing but fire, rushed out in the street to see. The sky was a beautiful 1851] TO MR WILL/AM AUSTIN DICKINSON 93 red, bordering on a crimson, and rays of a gold pink color were constantly shooting off from a kind of sun in the centre. People were alarmed at this beautiful phenomenon, supposing that fires somewhere were coloring the sky. The exhibition lasted for nearly fifteen minutes, and the streets were full of people wondering and admiring. Father happened to see it among the very first, and rang the bell himself to call attention to it. You will have a full account from the pen of Mr Trumbull, who, I have not a doubt, was seen with a long lead pencil a-noting down the sky at the time of its highest glory. . . . You will be here now so soon — we are impatient for it — we want to see you, Austin, how much I cannot say here. Your affectionate Emily. [Amherst, early October, 1851.] Friday Morning* Dear Austin, — ... I would not spend much strength upon those little school-boys — you will need it all for something better and braver after you get away. It would rejoice my heart if on some pleasant morning you'd turn the school-room key on Irish boys, nurse and all, and walk away to free- dom and the sunshine here at home. Father says all Boston would n't be a temptation to you another year — I wish it would not tempt you to stay another day. Oh, Austin, it is wrong to tantalize you so while 94 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1851 you are braving all things m tx^ing to fulfil duty. \ Duty is black and brown — home is bright and shin- ing, 'and the spirit and the bride say noro , and let him that' wandereth come, fo- ^1 jld ^^v things are ready/ We are having such lovely weather — the air is as sweet and still — now and then a gay leaf falling — the crickets sing all day long — high in a crimson tree a belated bird is singing — a thousand little painters are tingeing hill and dale. I admit now, Austin, that autumn is most beautiful, and spring is but the least, yet they ' differ as stars ' in their distinctive glories. How happy if you were here to share these pleasures with us — the fruit should be more sweet, and the dying day more golden — merrier the falling nut if with you we gathered it and hid it down deep in the abyss of basket ; but you complain not, wherefore do we ? Tuesday evening we had a beautiful time reading and talking of the good times of last summer, and we anticipated — boasted ourselves of to-morrow — of the future we created, and all of us went to ride in an air-bubble for a carriage. We cherish all the past, we glide a-down the present, awake yet dream- ing; but the future of ours together — there the bird sings loudest, and the sun shines always there. . . . I had a dissertation from E. C. a day or two ago — don't know which was the author, Plato or Soc- rates— rather think Jove had a finger in it. . . . They all send their love. Vinnie sends hers. How soon you will be here ! Days, flee away — 'lest with I85^] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 95 a whip of scorpioHiS 1 o^'^rtake your lingering.' I am in a hurry — this pen is too slow for me — 'it hath done wb "^ it "ould.* ^ci\\r^ affectionate Emily. [Amherst, before * Cattle Show/ 185 1.] Friday Mormng. . . . The breakfast is so warm, and pussy is here a-singuig, and the tea-kettle sings too, as if to see which was loudest, and I am so afraid lest kitty should be beaten — yet a shadow falls upon my morning picture — where is the youth so bold, the •bravest of our fold — a seat is empty here — spectres sit in your chair, and now and then nudge &ther with their long, bony elbows. I wish you were here, dear Austin ; the dust falls on the bureau in your deserted room, and gay, frivolous spiders spin away in the comers. I don't go there after dark whenever I can help it, for the twilight seems to pause there, and I am half afraid ; and if ever I have to go, I hurry with all my might, and never look be- hind me, for I know who I should see. Before next Tuesday — oh, before the coming stage, will I not brighten and brush it, and open the long-closed blinds, and with a sweeping broom will I not bring each spider down from its home so high, and tell it it may come back again when master has gone — and oh, I will bid it to be a tardy spider, to tarry on the way ; and I will think 96 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1851 my eye is fuller than sometimes, though why I can- not tell, when it shall rap on the window and come to live again. I am so happy when I know how soon you are coming that I put away my sewing and go out in the yard to think. I have tried to delay the frosts, I have coaxed the fading flowers, I thought I could detain a few of the crimson leaves until you had smiled upon them ; but their companions call them, and they cannot stay away. You will find the blue hills, Austin, with the autumnal shadows silently sleeping on them, and there will be a glory lingering round the day, so you '11 know autumn has been here ; and the setting sun will tell you, if you don't get home till evening. ... I thank you for such a long letter, and yet if I might choose, the next should be a longer. I think a letter just about three days long would make me happier than any other kind of one, if you please, — dated at Boston, but thanks be to our Father you may conclude it here. Everything has changed since my other letter, — the doors are shut this morning, and all the kitchen wall is covered with chilly flies who are trying to warm themselves, — poor things, they do not understand that there are no summer mornings remaining to them and me, and they have a bewildered air which is really very droll, did n't one feel sorry for them. You would say 't was a gloomy morning if you were sitting here, — the frost has been severe, and the few lingering leaves seem anxious to be going, and wrap their iSsi] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 97 &ded cloaks more closely about them as if to shield them from the chilly northeast wind. The earth looks like some poor old lady who by dint of pains has bloomed e'en till now, yet in a forgetful mo- ment a few silver hairs from out her cap come stealing, and she tucks them back so hastily and thinks nobody sees. The cows are going to pasture, and little boys with their hands in their pockets are whistling to try to keep warm. Don't think that the sky will frown so the day when you come home ! She will smile and look happy, and be full of sun- shine then, and even should she frown upon her child returning, there is another sky, ever serene and fair, and there is another sunshine, though it be darkness there ; never mind faded forests, Austin, never mind silent fields — here is a little forest, whose leaf is ever green ; here is a brighter garden, where not a frost has been ; in its unfading flowers I hear the bright bee hum ; prithee, my brother, into my garden come ! Your very affectionate sister. [November, 1851.] Thursday Evening. Dear Axjstin, — Something seems to whisper * He is thinking of home this evening,* perhaps because it rains, perhaps because it 's evening and the orchestra of winds perform their strange, sad music. I would n't wonder if home were thinking vox. I. — 7 98 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1851 of him ; and it seems so natural for one to think of the other, perhaps it is no superstition or omen of this evening, — no omen 'at all, at all,' as Mrs Mack would say. Father is staying at home this evening it is so inclement — Vinnie diverts his mind with little snatches of music ; and mother mends a garment to make it snugger for you — and what do you think / do among this family circle? I am think- ing of you with all my might, and it just occurs to me to note a few of my thoughts for your own inspec- tion. ' Keeping a diary ' is not familiar to me as to your sister Vinnie, but her own bright example is quite a comfort to me, so I '11 try. I waked up this morning thinking for all the world I had had a letter from you — just as the seal was breaking, father rapped at my door. I was sadly disappointed not to go on and read ; but when the four black horses came trotting into town, and their load was none the heavier by a tiding for me — I was not disappointed then, it was harder to me than had I been disappointed. ... I found I had made no provision for any such time as that. . . . The weather has been unpleasant ever since you went away — Monday morning we waked up in the midst of a furious snow-storm — the snow was the depth of an inch ; oh, it looked so wintry ! By-and-by the sun came out, but the wind blew violently and it grew so cold that we gathered all the quinces, put up the stove in the sitting-room. 1851] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 99 and bade the world good-by. Kind clouds came over at evening ; still the sinking thermometer gave terrible signs of what would be on the morning. At last the morning came, laden with mild south winds, and the winds have brought the rain, so here we are. . . . Your very hasty letter just at your return rejoiced us — that you were ' better — happier — heartier.* What made you think of such beautiful words to tell us how you were, and how cheerful you were feeling? It did us a world of good. How Httle the scribe thinks of the value of his line — how many eager eyes will search its every meaning, how much swifter the strokes of 'the little mystic clock, no human eye hath seen, which ticketh on and ticketh on, from morning until e'en.' If it were not that I could write you, you could not go away ; therefore pen and ink are very excellent things. We had new brown bread for tea — when it came smoking on and we sat around the table, how I did wish a slice could be reserved for you ! You shall have as many loaves as we have eaten slices if you will but come home. This suggests Thanksgiving, you will soon be here ; then I can't help thinking of how, when we rejoice, so many hearts are break- ing next Thanksgiving day. What will you say,i Austin, if I tell you that Jennie Grout and merry Martha Kingman will spend the day above ? They are not here — 'While we delayed to let them forth, angels beyond stayed for them.' . . . Your affectionate Emily. lOO LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1851 [Amherst, November 17, 185 1.] Sunday Afternoon, Dear Austin, — We have just got home from meeting — it is very windy and cold — the hills from our kitchen window are just crusted with snow, which with their blue mantillas makes them seem so beautiful. You sat just here last Sunday, where I am sitting now ; and our voices were nimbler tlian our pens can be, if they try never so hardly. I should be quite sad to-day, thinking about last Sun- day, did n*t another Sabbath smile at me so pleasantly, promising me on its word to present you here again when * six days' work is done.' Father and mother sit in state in the sitting- room perusing such papers, only, as they are well assured, have nothing carnal in them; Vinnie is eating an apple which makes me think of gold, and accompanying it with her favorite Observer, which, if you recollect, deprives us many a time of her sisterly society. Pussy has n't returned from the afternoon assembly, so you have us all just as we are at present. We were very glad indeed to hear from you so soon, glad that a cheerful fire met you at the door. I do well remember how chilly the west wind blew, and how everything shook and rattled before I went to sleep, and I often thought of you in the midnight car, and hoped you were not lonely. . . . We are thinking most of Thanksgiving than anything else just now — how 1851] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON lOI full will be the circle, less then by none — how the things will smoke — how the board will groan with the thousand savory viands — how when the day is done, lo, the evening cometh, laden with merrie laugh and happy conversation, and then the sleep and the dream each of a knight or * Ladie ' — how I love to see them, a beautiful company coming down the hill which men call the Future, with their hearts full of joy and their hands of gladness. Thanksgiving indeed to a family united once more together before they go away. . . . Don*t mind the days — some of them are long ones, but who cares for length when breadth is in store for him? Or who minds the cross who knows he *11 have a crown? I wish I could imbue you with all the strength and courage which can be given men — I wish I could assure you of the constant remem- brance of those you leave at home — I wish — but oh ! how vainly — that I could bring you back again and never more to stray. You are tired now, dear Austin, with my incessant din, but I can't help saying any of these things. The very warmest love from Vinnie and every one of us. I am never ready to go. Reluctant Emily. 102 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [185* [December, 1851]. Monday Morning, Dear Austin, — ... I was so glad to get your letter. I had been making calls all Saturday after- noon, and came home very tired, and a little disconsolate, so your letter was more than wel- come. ... Oh Austin, you don't know how we all wished for you yesterday. We had such a splendid sermon from Professor Park — I never heard any- thing like it, and don't expect to again, till we stand at the great white throne, and ' he reads from the Book, the Lamb's Book.' The students and chapel people all came to our church, and it was very full, and still, so still the buzzing of a fly would have boomed like a cannon. And when it was all over, and that wonderful man sat down, people stared at each other, and looked as wan and wild as if they had seen a spirit, and wondered they had not died. How I wish you had heard him — I thought of it all the time. . . . Affectionately, Emhje. [Amherst, January, 1852.] Monday Morning.^ Did you think I was tardy, Austin ? For two Sim- day afternoons it has been so cold and cloudy that I did n't feel in my very happiest mood, and so I did not write until next Monday morning, determin- iJS*] TO MR WILUAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 103 ing in my heart never to write to you in any but cheerful spirits. Even this morning, Austin, I am not in merry pase, for it snows slowly and solemnly, and hardly an outdoor thing can be seen a-stirring — now and then a man goes by with a large cloak wrapped around him, and shivering at that; and now and then a stray kitten out on some urgent errand creeps through the flakes and crawls so fast as may crawl half frozen away. I am glad for the sake of your body that you are not here this morning, for it is a trying time for fingers and toes — for the heart's sake I would verily have you here. You know there are winter mornings when the cold without only adds to the warm within, and the more it snows and the harder it blows brighter the fires blaze, and chirps more merrily the 'cricket on the hearth.* It is hardly cheery enough for such a scene this morning, and yet methinks it would be if you were only here. The future full of sleigh-rides would chase the gloom from our minds which only deepens and darkens with every flake that falls. Black Fanny would * toe the mark ' if you should be here to-morrow ; but as the prospects are, I pre- sume Black Fanny's hoofs will not attempt to fly. Do you have any snow in Boston ? Enough for a ride, I hope, for the sake of 'Auld Lang Syne.' Perhaps the ' ladie ' of curls would not object to a drive. . . . We miss you more and more, we do not become accustomed to separation from you. I04 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1852 I almost wish sometimes we needn't miss you so much, since duty claims a year of you entirely to herself; and then again I think that it is pleasant to miss you if you must go away, and I would not have it otherwise, even if I could. In every pleasure and pain you come up to our minds so wishfully — we know you 'd enjoy our joy, and if you were with us, Austin, we could bear little trials more cheerfully. . . . When I know of anything funny I am just as apt to cry, far more so than to laugh, for I know who loves jokes best, and who is not here to enjoy them. We don't have many jokes, though, now, it is pretty much all sobriety ; and we do not have much poetry, father having made up his mind that it's pretty much all real life. Father's real hfe and mine sometimes come into collision but as yet escape un- hurt. ... I am so glad you are well and in such happy spirits — both happy and well is a great com- fort to us when you are far away. Emilie. [February 6, 1852.] Friday Morning, . . . Since we have written you the grand rail- road decision is made, and there is great rejoicing throughout this town and the neighboring; that is, Sunderland, Montague, and Belchertown. Every- body is wide awake, everything is stirring, the streets are full of people walking cheeringly, and you should really be here to partake of the jubilee. The event 1852] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 105 was celebrated by D. Warner and cannon ; and the silent satisfaction in the hearts of all is its crowning attestation. Father is really sober from excessive satisfaction, and bears his honors with a most becoming air. Nobody believes it yet, it seems like a fairy tale, a most miraculous event in the lives of us all. The men begin working next week; only think of it, Austin ; why, I verily believe we shall fall down and worship the first ' son of Erin ' that comes, and the first sod he turns will be preserved as an emblem of the struggle and victory of our heroic fathers. Such old fellows as Col. S. and his wife fold their arms complacently and say, 'Well, I declare, we have got it after all.* Got it, you good-for-nothings ! and so we have, in spite of sneers and pities and insults from all around ; and we will keep it too, in spite of earth and heaven ! How I wish you were here — it is really too bad, Austin, at such a time as now. I miss your big hurrahs, and the famous stir you make upon all such occasions ; but it is a comfort to know that you are here — that your whole soul is here, and though apparently absent, yet present in the highest and the truest sense. . . . Take good care of yourself, Austin, and think much of us all, for we do so of you. Emilie. Several subsequent letters, all piquant and breezy, but dealing quite entirely with family I06 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1852 matters, experiences with callers, and other personal subjects, have been omitted. [March 24, 1852.] Wednesday Morn, You would n't think it was spring, Austin, if you were at home this morning, for we had a great snow- storm yesterday, and things are all white this morn- ing. It sounds funny enough to hear birds singing and sleigh-bells at a time. But it won't last long, so you need n't think 't will be winter at the time when you come home. I waited a day or two, thinking I might hear from you, but you will be looking for me, and wondering where I am, so I sha'n't wait any longer. We 're rejoiced that you 're coming home — the first thing we said to father when he got out of the stage was to ask if you were coming. I was sure you would all the while, for father said * of course you would,' he should * consent to no other arrangement,* and as you say, Austin, 'what father says he means.' How very soon it will be now — why, when I really think of it, how near and how happy it is ! My heart grows light so fast that I could mount a grass- hopper and gallop around the world, and not fatigue him any ! The sugar weather holds on, and I do believe it will stay until you come. . . . ' Mrs S.' is very feeble ; * can't bear allopathic treatment, can't have homoeopathic, don't want hydropathic,' oh. ttja] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON lO/ what a pickle she is in. Should n't think she would deign to live, it is so decidedly vulgar ! They have not yet concluded where to move — Mrs W. will perhaps obtain board in the celestial city, but I 'm sure I can't imagine what will become of the rest. . • • Much love from us all. Emilie. [May 10, 1852.] Monday Marningf 5 o'c. Dear Austin, — ... Vinnie will tell you all the news, so I will take a little place to describe a thun- der-shower which occurred yesterday afternoon, — the very first of the season. Father and Vinnie were at meeting, mother asleep in her room, and I at work by my window on a 'Lyceum lecture.' The air was really scorching, the sun red and hot, and you know just how the birds sing before a thun- der-storm, a sort of hurried and agitated song — pretty soon it began to thunder, and the great * cream-colored heads* peeped out of their win- dows. Then came the wind and rain, and I hurried around the house to shut all the doors and win- dows. I wish you had seen it come, so cool and so refreshing — and everything glistening from it as with a golden dew — I thought of you all the time. This morning is fair and delightful. You will awake in dust, and with it the ceaseless din of the untiring city. Wouldn't you change your dwelling for my palace in the dew? Good-by for now. I shall see you so soon. E. I08 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1853 Mr Edward Dickinson was in Baltimore when the following letter was written, in attendance upon the Whig Convention which sought, unsuccessfully, the nomination of Daniel Webster for the presidency. [Amherst, June 21, 1852.] Sunday Morning, . . . Father has not got home, and we don't know when to expect him. We had a letter from him yesterday, but he did n't say when he should come. He writes that he * should think the whole world was there, and some from other worlds.* He says he meets a great many old friends and acquaintances, and forms a great many new ones — he writes in very fine spirits, and says he enjoys himself very much. ... I wish you could have gone with him, you would have enjoyed it so, but I did not much suppose that selfish old school would let you. . . . Last week the Senior levee came off at the President's. I believe Professor H^ven is to give one soon — and there is to be a reception at Professor Tyler's next Tuesday evening which I shall attend. You see Amherst is growing lively, and by the time you come everything will be in a buzz. . . . We all send you our love. Emilie. 1852] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON IO9 [Amherst, July 23, 1852.] Sunday Night. . . . You 'd better not come home ; I say the law will have you, a pupil of the law o'ertaken by the law, and brought to condign punishment, — scene for angels and men, or rather for archangels, who being a little higher would seem to have a Vantage so far as view 's concerned. *Are you pretty comfortable, though,* — and are you deaf and dumb and gone to the asylum where such afflicted persons learn to hold their tongues ? ♦ The next time you are n't going to write me, I 'd thank you to let me know — this kind of protracted insult is what no man can bear. Fight with me like a man — let me have fair shot, and you are caput mortuum et cap-a-pie, and that ends the business ! If you really think I so deserve this silence, tell me why — how — I *11 be a thorough scamp or else I won't be any, just which you prefer. T of S 's class went to Boston yesterday ; it was in my heart to send an apple by him for your private use, but father overheard some of my inten- tions, and said they were ' rather small * — whether this remark was intended for the apple, or for my noble self I did not think to ask him ; I rather think he intended to give us both a cut — however, he may not ! You are coming home on Wednesday, as perhaps you know, and I am very happy in prospect of your no LETTERS OF EMILY DICICINSON [1852 coming, and hope you want to see us as much as we do you. Mother makes* nicer pies with refer- ence to your coming, I arrange my thoughts in a convenient shape, Vinnie grows only perter and more pert day by day. The horse is looking finely — better than in his life — by which you may think him dead unless I add before. The carriage stands in state all covered in the chaise-house — we have one foundling hen into whose young mind I seek to instil the fact that * Massa is a-comin ! ' The garden is amazing — we have beets and beans, have had splendid potatoes for three weeks now. Old Amos weeds and hoes and has an oversight of all thoughtless vegetables. The apples are fine and large in spite of my impression that father called them 'small.* Yesterday there was a fire. At about three in the afternoon Mr Kimberly's bam was discovered to be on fire ; the wind was blowing a gale directly from the west, and having had no rain, the roofs [were] as dry as stubble. Mr Palmer's house was charred — the little house of father's — and Mr Kimberly's also. The engine was broken, and it seemed for a little while as if the whole street must go ; the Kimberlys' bam was burnt down, and the house much charred and injured, though not at all destroyed — Mr Palmer's bara took fire, and Deacon Leland's also, but were extinguished with only part burned roofs. We all feel very thankful at such a narrow escape. 1853] TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON HI Father says there was never such imminent danger, and such miraculous escape. Father and Mr Frink took charge of the fire — or rather of the water, since fire usually takes care of itself. The men all worked like heroes, and after the fire was out father gave commands to have them march to Howe's where an entertainment was provided for them. After the whole was over they gave * three cheers for Edward Dickinson,* and three more for the insur- ance company. On the whole, it is very wonderful that we did n*t all bum up, and we ought to hold our tongues and be very thankful. If there must be a fire, I 'm sorry it could n't wait until you had got home, because you seem to enjoy such things so very much. There is nothing of moment now which I can find to tell you, except a case of measles in Hartford. ^ . . . Good-by, Sir. Fare you well. My benison to your school. [Amherst, Spring, 1853.] Tuesday Nooiu Dear Austin, — . . . How soon now you are com- ing, and how happy we are in the thought of seeing you ! I can't realize that you will come, it is so still and lonely it does n't seem possible it can be other- wise ; but we shall see, when the nails hang full of coats again, and the chairs hang full of hats, and I can count the slippers under the chair. Oh, Austin, how we miss them all, and more than them, some- 1 12 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1853 body who used to hang them there, and get many a hint ungentle to carry them away. Those times seem far off now, a great way, as things we did when chil- dren. I wish we were children now — I wish we were always children, how to grow up I don't know. . . . Cousin J. has made us an ^olian harp which plays beautifully whenever there is a breeze. Austin, you must n't care if your letters do not get here just when you think they will — they are always new to us, and delightful always, and the more you send us the happier we shall be. We all send our love to you, and think much and say much of seeing you again — keep well till you come, and if knowing that we all love you makes you happier, then, Austin, you may sing the whole day long ! Affectionately, Emiue. [Amherst, March 18, 1853.] Friday Morning, Dear Austin, — I presume you remember a story that Vinnie tells of a breach of promise case where the correspondence between the parties consisted of a reply from the girl to one she had never received but was daily expecting. Well, / am writing an an- swer to the letter I have n't had, so you will see the force of the accompanying anecdote. I have been looking for you ever since despatching my last, but this is a fickle world, and it *s a great source of com- placency that 't will all be burned up by and by. I 1853] TO MR WILUAM AUSTIN DICKINSON II3 should be pleased with a line when you Ve published your work to father, if it 's perfectly convenient ! Your letters are very funny indeed — about the only jokes we have, now you are gone, and I hope you will send us one as often as you can. Father takes great delight in your remarks to him — puts on his spectacles and reads them o'er and o'er as if it was a blessing to have an only son. He reads all the letters you write, as soon as he gets them, at the post-office, no matter to whom addressed ; then he makes me read them aloud at the supper table again, and when he gets home in the evening, he cracks a few walnuts, puts his spectacles on, and with your last in his hand, sits down to enjoy the evening. . . . I beheve at this moment, Austm, that there *s nobody living for whom father has such respect as for you. But my paper is getting low, and I must hasten to teU you that we are very happy to hear good news from you, that we hope you 41 have pleasant times and learn a great deal while you 're gone, and come back to us greater and happier for the life lived at Cambridge. We miss you more and more. I wish that we could see you, but letters come the next — write them often, and tell us everything. Affectionately, Emo^ie. TOL. I. — 8 114 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1853 [June 14, 1853.] . . . We have been free from company by the * Amherst and Belchertown Railroad* since J. went home, though we live in constant fear of some other visitation. 'Ob, would some power the giftie gie' folks to see themselves as we see them. — Bums. I have read the poems, Austin, and am going to read them again. They please me very much, but I must read them again before I know just what I think of 'Alexander Smith.* They are not very coherent, but there *s a good deal of exquisite frenzy,, and some wonderful figures as ever I ineFlri my life. We will talk about it again. The grove looks nicely, Austin, and we think must certainly grow. We love to go there — it is a charming place. Everything is singing now, and everything is beautiful that can be in its life. . . . The time for the New London trip has not been fixed upon. I sincerely wish it may wait until you get home from Cambridge if you would like to go. The cars continue thriving — a good many passen- gers seem to arrive from somewhere, though nobody knows from where. Father expects his new buggy to arrive by the cars every day now, and that will help a little. I expect all our grandfathers and all their country cousins will come here to spend Com- mencement, and don't doubt the stock will rise several per cent that week. If we children could obtain board for the week in some 'vast wilderness/ 1853] TO MR WILUAM AUSTIN DICKINSON II5 I think we should have good times. Our house is crowded daily with the members of this world, the high and the low, the bond and the free, the ' poor in this world's goods,' and the ' almighty dollar ; ' and what in the world they are after continues to be unknown. But I hope they will pass away as insects or vegetation, and let us reap together in golden harvest time. You and I and our sister Vinnie must have a pleasant time to be unmolested together when your school-days end. You must come home from school, not stopping to play by the way. . . . We all send our love to you, and miss you very much, and think of seeing you again very much. Write me again soon. I have said a good deal to-day. Emiue. The new railroad was opened for the first regular trip from Palmer to Amherst, May 9, 1853. Mr Edward Dickinson wrote on that day, * We have no railroad jubilee till we see whether all moves right, then we shall glorify becomingly.' Everything was apparently sat- isfactory, for the celebration occurred early in June, when more than three hundred New London people visited Amherst. In the fol- lowing letter from Emily are indications of her growing distaste to mingle in a social tniUey despite genuine interest in itself and its cause. 1 16 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1853 [June 20, 1853.] Monday Morning. My dear Austin, — ... The New London day passed off grandly, so all the people said. It was pretty hot and dusty, but nobody cared for that. Father was, as usual, chief marshal of the day, and went marching around with New London at his heels like some old Roman general upon a triumph day. Mrs H. got a capital dinner, and was very much praised. Carriages flew like sparks, hither and thither and yon, and they all said 'twas fine. I ' spose ' it was. I sat in Professor Tyler's woods and saw the train move off, and then came home again for fear somebody would see me, or ask me how I did. Dr Holland was here, and called to see us — was very pleasant indeed, inquired for you, and asked mother if Vinnie and I might come and see them in Springfield. . . . We all send you our love. Emilie. [Postmarked, July 2, 1853.] Friday Afternoon. Dear Austin, — ... Some of the letters you Ve sent us we have received, and thank you for affec- tionately. Some we have not received, but thank you for the memory, of which the emblem perished. Where all those letters go, yours and ours, somebody surely knows, but we do not. There 's a new post- master to-day, but we don't know who 's to blame. 1853] TO MR WILUAM AUSTIN DICKINSON WJ You never wrote me a letter, Austin, which I liked half so well as the one father brought me. We think of your coming home with a great deal of happiness, and are glad you want to come. Father said he never saw you looking in better health or seeming in finer spirits. He didn't say a word about the Hippodrome or the Museum, and he came home so stem that none of us dared to ask him, and besides grandmother was here, and you certainly don't think I 'd allude to a Hippodrome in the presence of that lady 1 I 'd as soon think of popping fire-crackers in the presence of Peter the Great. But you'll tell us when you get home — how soon — how soon ! . . . I admire the ' Poems * very much. We all send our love to you — shall write you again Sunday. Emilie. [Summer, 1853.] Sunday Afternoon, ... It is cold here to-day, Austin, and the west wind blows — the windows are shut at home, and the fire bums in the kitchen. How we should love to see you — how pleasant it would be to walk to the grove together. We will walk there when you get home. We all went down this morning, and the trees look beautifiiUy — every one is growing, and when the west wind blows, the pines lift their light leaves and make sweet music. Pussy goes down there too, and seems to enjoy much in her own observations. Il8 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1853 Mr Dwight has not answered yet ; he probably will this week. I do think he will come, Austin, and shall be so glad if he will. . . . We all wish you here always, but I hope *t will seem only dearer for missing it so long. Father says you will come in three weeks — that won't be long now — keep well and happy, Austin, and remember us all you can, and much love from home and Emilie. Thursday Evening. . . . G. H. has just retired from an evening's visit here, and I gather my spent energies to write a word to you. ' Blessed are they that are persecuted for right- eousness* sake, for they shall have their reward ! * Dear Austin, I don't feel funny, and I hope you won't laugh at anything I say. I am thinking of you and Vinnie — what nice times you are having, sitting and talking together, while I am lonely here, and I wanted to sit and think of you, and fancy what you were saying, all the evening long, but — ordained otherwise. I hope you will have grand times, and don't forget the unit without you, at home. I have had some things from you to which I per- ceive no meaning. They either were very vast, or they did n't mean anything, I don't know certainly which. What did you mean by a note 3rou sent me day before yesterday? Father asked me what you *853l TO MR WILUAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 1 19 wrote, and I gave it to bim to read. He looked very much confused, and finally put on his spectacles, which did n't seem to help him much — I don't think a telescope would have assisted him. I hope you will write to me — I love to hear from you, and now Vinnie is gone I shall feel very lonely. . . . Love for them all if there are those to love and think of me, and more and most for you, from Emily. Tuesday Evening, Well, Austin, dear Austin, you have got back again, codfish and pork and all — all but the slip- pers, so nicely wrapped to take, yet found when you were gone imder the kitchen chair. I hope you won't want them. Perhaps you have some more there — I will send them by opportunity, should there be such a thing. Vinnie proposed franking them, but I fear they are rather large ! What should you think of it ? It is n't every day that we have a chance to sponge Congress, . . . but Caesar is such 'an honorable man ' that we may all go to the poor- house for all the American Congress will lift a finger to help us. . . . The usual rush of callers, and this beleaguered family as yet in want of time. I do hope im- mortality will last a little while, but if the A s should happen to get there first, we shall be driven there. . . . Emhje. 120 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1854 [March 17, 1854.] . . . Since you went back to Cambridge the weather has been wonderful, — the thermometer every noon between 60 and 70 above zero, and 'the air full of birds. To-day has not seemed like a day. It has been most unearthly, — so mild, so bright, so still, the windows open, and fires uncomfortable. Since supper it lightens frequently. In the south you can see the lightning — in the north the north- em lights. Now a furious wind blows just from the north and west, and winter comes back again. . . . There is to be a party at Professor Haven's to- morrow night, for married people merely. Celibacy excludes me and my sister. Father and mother are invited. Mother will go. . . . Mother and Vinnie send love. They are both getting ready for Wash- ington. Take care of yourself. Emilie. Already Emily seems to have exhibited dis- inclination for journeys, as, in a letter to his son in Cambridge, dated at Washington, March 13, 1854, Mr Edward Dickinson said, *I have written home to have Lavinia come with your mother and you, and Emily, too, if she will, but that I will not insist upon her coming.' Emily, however, did go to Washington with her family, later in the spring, as a subsequent letter to Mrs Holland will show. i854l TO MR WILLIAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 121 [Amherst, March 27, 1854.] Sunday Evening. Well, Austin, — it's Sunday evening. Vinnie is sick with the ague — mother taking a tour of the second story as she is wont. Sabbath evening — the wind is blowing high, the weather very cold, and I am rather cast down in view of all these circum- stances. ... I went to meeting alone all day. I assure you I felt very solemn. I went to meeting five minutes before the bell rang, morning and after- noon, so not to have to go in after all the people had got there. I wish you had heard Mr Dwight's sermons to-day. He has preached wonderfully, and I thought all the afternoon how I wished you were there. ... I will tell you something funny. You know Vinnie sent father [at Washington] a box of maple sugar — she got the box at the store, and it said on the outside of it, 'i doz. genuine Quaker Soap.' We did n't hear from the box, and so many days passed we began to feel anxious lest it had never reached him ; and mother, writing soon, alluded in her letter to the 'sugar sent by the girls,' and the funniest letter from father came in answer to hers. It seems the box went straightway, but father not knowing the hand, merely took off the papers in which the box was wrapped, and the label 'Quaker Soap' so far imposed upon him that he put the box in a drawer with his shaving materials, and supposed himself well stocked with an excellent Quaker Soap. 122 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1854 . . . We all send our love to you, and want you should write us often. Good-night, from Emilie. . . . The Germanians gave a concert here the evening of exhibition day. Vinnie and I went with J. I never heard sounds before. They seemed like brazen robms, all wearing broadcloth wings, and I think they were, for they all flew away as soon as the concert was over. [Late Spring, 1854.] Saturday Noon, Dear Axjstin, — I rather thought from your letter to me that my essays, together with the lectures at Cambridge, were too much for you, so I thought I would let you have a little vacation; but you must have got rested now, so I shall renew the series. Father was very severe to me ; he thought I *d been trifling with you, so he gave me quite a trimming about * Uncle Tom ' and ' Charles Dickens * and these ' modem literati * who, he says, are noth- ing, compared to past generations who flourished when he was a boy. Then he said there were ' some- body's rev-e-ries,' he did n't know whose they were, that he thought were very ridiculous — so I 'm quite in disgrace at present, but I think of that ' pinnacle ' on which you always mount when anybody insults you, and that 's quite a comfort to me. . . . 1854] TO MR WILUAM AUSTIN DICKINSON 12 3 After a page or two of information about friends in the village, the letter continues : This is all the news I can think of, but there is one old story, Austin, which you may like to hear — it is that we think about you the whole of the live- long day, and talk of you when we 're together. And you can recollect when you are busy studying that those of us at home not so hard at work as you are, get much time to be with you. We all send our love to you. Emiue. [Amherst, May, 1854.] Saturday Morn, Dear Austin, — A week ago we were all here — to-day we are not all here — yet the bee hums just as merrily, and all the busy things work on as if the same. They do not miss you, child, but there is a humming-bee whose song is not so merry, and there are busy ones who pause to drop a tear. Let us thank God, to-day, Austin, that we can love our friends, our brothers and our sisters, and weep when they are gone, and smile at their return. It is indeed a joy which we are blest to know. To-day is very beautiful — just as bright, just as blue, just as green and as white and as crimson as the cherry-trees full in bloom, and the half-opening peach-blossoms, and the grass just waving, and sky and hill and cloud can make it, if they try. How I 124 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1854 wish you were here, Austin ; you thought last Satur- day beautiful, yet to this golden day 't was but one single gem to whole handfuls of jewels. You will ride to-day, I hope, or take a long walk somewhere, and recollect us all, — Vinnie and me and father and mother and home. Yes, Austin, every one of us, for we all think of you, and bring you to recol- lection many times each day — not bring you to recollection, for we never put you away, but keep recollecting on. . . . You must think of us to-night while Mr Dwight takes tea here, and we will think of you far away down in Cambridge. Don't mind the can, Austin, if it is rather dry, don't mind the daily road though it is rather dusty, but remember the brooks and the hills, and re- member while you 're but one, we are but four at home ! Emilie. CHAPTER III To Mrs Gordon L, Ford, Mr Bowdoin, Mrs Anthon^ and Miss Lavinia Dickinson WITH a number of early letters to herself, Mrs Ford of Brooklyn sent me also a short sketch of her remembrance of Emily Dickinson's girlhood, which seems to show her in a somewhat different aspect from any- thing which other friends have given. Mrs Ford was a daughter of the late Pro- fessor Fowler of Amherst College, and her recollections, making a pleasant picture of life in Amherst nearly fifty years ago, have all the charm of early friendship and intercourse in the days when plain living and high thinking were not an exceptional combination. In speaking of several letters which she could not find, Mrs Ford wrote, * The other things which I wish I could put my hand on were funny — sparkling with fun, and that is a new phase to the public; but she cer- tainly began as a humorist.' Although sent to me for publication in this volume of Letters^ 126 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON Mrs Ford had hoped to revise and perhaps shorten the sketch in the proof; and her sud- den death, within a few days after writing it, lends a saddened interest to these memories of a vanished friendship. *My remembrances of my friend Emily Dickinson are many and vivid, and delightful to me personally, yet they are all of trifles in themselves, and only interesting to the general public as they cast light on the growth and changes in her soul. * Our parents were friends, and we knew each other from childhood, but she was several years younger, and how and when we drew together I cannot recall, but I think the friendship was based on certain sympathies and mutual ad- mirations of beauty in nature and ideas. She loved the great aspects of nature, and yet was full of interest and affection for its smaller details. We often walked together over the lovely hills of Amherst, and I remember especially two excursions to Mount Norwot- tock, five miles away, where we found the climbing fern, and came home laden with pink and white trilliums, and later, yellow lady's-slippers. She knew the wood-lore of the region round about, and could name the haunts and the habits of every wild or garden MRS GORDON L, FORD 12/ growth within her reach. Her eyes were wide open to nature's sights, and her ears to nature's voices. * My chief recollections of her are connected with these woodland walks, or out-door excur- sions with a merry party, perhaps to Sunder- land for the ** sugaring off" of the maple sap, or to some wild brook in the deeper forest, where the successful fishermen would after- ward cook the chowder. She was a free talker about what interested her, yet I cannot remember one personal opinion expressed of her mates, her home, or her habits. * Later we met to discuss books. The Atlantic Monthly was a youngster then, and our joy over a new poem by Lowell, Long- fellow, and Whittier, our puzzles over Emer- son's " If the red slayer think he slays," our laughter at Oliver Wendell Holmes, were full and satisfying. Lowell was especially dear to us, and once I saw a passionate fit of crying brought on, when a tutor of the College, who died while contesting the sena- torship for Louisiana,^ told us from his eight years of seniority, that "Byron had a much 1 The Hon. Henry M. Spofford, Justice of the Supreme Court of Louisiana, a graduate of Amherst College in the Class of 1840, and brother of Mr Ainsworth R. Spofford, the Librarian of Congress. 128 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON better style," and advised us " to leave Lowell, Motherwell and Emerson alone." Like other young creatures, we were ardent partisans. 'There was a fine circle of young people in Amherst, and we influenced each other strongly. We were in the adoring mood, and I am glad to say that many of those idols of our girlhood have proved themselves golden. The eight girls who composed this group had talent enough for t>yice their number, and in their respective spheres of mothers, authors or women, have been noteworthy and admi- rable. Three of them have passed from earth, but the others live in activity and usefulness. 'This group started a little paper in the Academy, now the village High School, which was kept up for two years. Emily Dickinson was one of the wits of the school, and a humorist of the " comic column." Fanny Montague often made the head title of the paper — Forest Leaves — in leaves copied from nature, and fantasies of her own pen- work. She is now a wise member of art circles in Baltimore, a manager of the Museum of Art, and the appointed and intelligent critic of the Japanese exhibit at the Exposition in Chicago. Helen Fiske (the " H. H." of later days) did no special work on the paper for various reasons. MRS GORDON L. FORD 1 29 * This paper was all in script, and was passed around the school, where the contributions were easily recognized from the handwriting, which in Emily's case was very beautiful — small, clear, and finished. Later, though her writing retained its elegance, it became diffi- cult to read. I wish very much I could find a copy of Forest Leaves^ but we recklessly gave the numbers away, and the last one I ever saw turned up at the Maplewood Insti- tute in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, where they started a similar paper. Emily's contributions were irresistible, but I cannot recall them. One bit was stolen by a roguish editor for the College paper, where her touch was instantly recognized ; and there were two paragraphs in The Springfield Republican, * We had a Shakespeare Club — a rare thing in those days, — and one of the tutors pro- posed to take all the copies of all the members and mark out the questionable passages. This plan was negatived at the first meeting, as far as " the girls " spoke, who said they did not want the strange things emphasized, nor their books spoiled with marks. Finally we told the men to do as they liked — "we shall read everything." I remember the lofty air with which Emily took her departure, saying, " There 's nothing wicked in Shakespeare, and VOL. I. — 9 130 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON if there is I don't want to know it." The men read for perhaps three meetings from their expurgated editions, and then gave up their plan, and the whole text was read out boldly. * There were many little dances, with cake and lemonade at the end, and one year there was a valentine party, where the lines of vari- ous authors were arranged to make apparent sense, but absolute nonsense, the play being to guess the names and places of the misap- propriated lines. 'Emily was part and parcel of all these gatherings, and there were no signs, in her life and character, of the future recluse. As a prophetic hint, she once asked me if it did not make me shiver to hear a great many people talk — they took " all the clothes off their souls " — and we discussed this matter. She mingled freely in all the companies and excursions of the moment, and the evening frolics. * Several of this group had beauty, all had intelligence and character, and others had charm. Emily was not beautiful, yet she had great beauties. Her eyes were lovely auburn, soft and warm, her hair lay in rings of the same color all over her head, and her skin and teeth were fine. At this time she had a demure manner which brightened easily into fun where she felt at home, but among strangers MRS GORDON L, FORD 1 3 1 she was rather shy, silent, and even depreca- ting. She was exquisitely neat and careful in her dress, and always had flowers about her, another pleasant habit of modernity. * I have so many times seen her in the morning at work in her garden where every- thing throve under her hand, and wandering there at eventide, that she is perpetually asso- ciated in my mind with flowers — a flower herself, — especially as for years it was her habit to send me the first buds of the arbutus which we had often hung over together in the woods, joying in its fresh fragrance as the very breath of coming spring. 'My busy married life separated me from these friends of my youth, and intercourse with them has not been frequent ; but I rejoice that my early years were passed in scenes of beautiful nature, and with these mates of simple life, high cultivation and noble ideals. In Emily as in others, there was a rare com- bination of fervor and simplicity, with good practical living, great conscience and direct- ness of purpose. She loved with all her might, there was never a touch of the world- ling about her, and we all knew and trusted her love. * Dr Holland once said to me, " Her poems are too ethereal for publication." I replied, 132 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON "They are beautiful — so concentrated — but they remind me of air-plants that have no roots in earth." " That is true," he said, " a perfect description ; " and I think these lyrical ejaculations, these breathed-out projectiles, sharp as lances, would at that time have fallen into idle ears. But gathered in a volume where many could be read at once as her philosophy of life, they explain each other, and so become intelligible and delightful to the public. *The first poem I ever read was the robin chorister^ (published in the first volume) which she gave my husband years ago. I think in spite of her seclusion, she was longing for poetic sympathy, and that some of her later habits of life originated in this suppressed and ungratified desire. * I only wish the interest and delight her poems have aroused could have come early enough in her career to have kept her social and communicative, and at one with her friends. Still, these late tributes to her mem- ory are most welcome to the circle that loved her, even though they are but laurels to lay on her grave. ' E. E. F. F.' 1 * Some keep the Sabbath going to church, etc.* — Poems , First Series, page 74. 1848] TO MRS GORDON L. FORD 1 33 The first letter was written in 1848; the others at intervals until 1853. Though placed in order, they were not dated by Mrs Ford. [1848.] Dear Emily, — I said when the barber came I would save you a little lock, and fulfilling my prom- ise, I send you one to-day. I shall never give you anything again that will be half so full of sunshine as this wee lock of hair, but I wish no hue more sombre might ever fall to you. All your gifts should be rainbows if I owned half the shine, and but a bit of sea to furnish raindrops for one. Dear Emily, this is all — it will serve to make you remember me when locks are crisp and gray, and the quiet cap, and the spectacles, and * John Anderson my Jo ' are all that is left of you. I must have one of yours. Please spare me a little lock sometime when you have your scissors and there is one to spare. Your very affectionate Emiue. The buds are small, dear Emily, but will you please accept one for your cousin and yourself? I quite forgot the rosebugs when I spoke of the buds, last evening, and I found a family of them taking an early breakfast on my most precious bud, with a smart little worm for landlady, so the sweetest are gone, but accept my love with the smallest, and I 'm Your affectionate Emilie. 134 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON ti849 Tuesday Morn. Dear Emily, — I come and see you a great many times every day, though I don*t bring my body with me, so perhaps you don't know I *m there. But I love to come just as deariy, for nobody sees me then, and I sit and chat away, and look up in your face, and no matter who calls if * my Lord the King,' he does n't interrupt me. Let me say, dear Emily, both mean to come at a time, so you shall be very sure I am sitting by your side, and not have to trust the fancy. . . . Affectionately, E. [1849?] TTiursday Morning. Dear Emily, — I fear you will be lonely this dark and stormy day, and I send this little messenger to say you must not be. The day is long to me. I have wanted to come and see you. I have tried earnestly to come, but always have been detained by some ungenerous care, and now this falling snow sternly and silently lifts up its hand between. How glad I am affection can always leave and go. How glad that the drifts of snow pause at the outer door and go no farther, and it is as warm within as if no winter came. . . . Let us think of the pleas- ant summer whose gardens are far away, and whose robins are singing always. If it were not for blos- soms . . . and for that brighter sunshine above, f849] TO MRS GORDON L, FORD 1 35 beyond^ away, these days were dark indeed ; but I try to keep recollecting that we are away from home, and have many brothers and sisters who are expect- ing ns. Dear Emilie, don't weep, for you will both be so happy where * sorrow cannot come.' Vinnie left her Testament on a little stand in our room, and it made me think of her, so I thought I would open it, and the first words I read were in those sweetest verses, * Blessed are the poor — Blessed are they that mourn — Blessed are they that weep, for they shall be comforted.* Dear Emily, I thought of you, and I hastened away to send this message to you. Emiue. TTiursday Morn. Dear Emily, — I can't come in this morning, be- cause I am so cold, but you will know I am here ringing the big front door-bell, and leaving a note for you. Oh, I want to come in, I have a great mind now to follow little Jane into your warm sitting-room ; are you there, dear Emily? No, I resist temptation and run away from the door just as fast as my feet will carry me, lest if I once come in I shall grow so happy that I shall stay there always and never go home at all. You will have read this note by the time I reach the office^ and you can't think how fast I run. Affectionately, Emily. 136 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1849 P. S. I have just shot past the comer, and now all the wayside houses, and the little gate flies open to see me coming home. Saturday Mom, It has been a long week, dear Emily, for I have not seen your face, but I have contrived to think of you very much instead, which has half reconciled me to not seeing you for so long. I was coming several times, but the snow would start the first, and then the paths were damp, and then a friend would drop in to chat, and the short afternoon was gone before I was aware. Did Mr D give you a message from me ? He promised to be faithful, but I don't suppose divines think earthly loves of much consequence. My flowers come in my stead to-day, dear Emily. I hope you will love to see them, and whatever word of love or welcome kindly you would extend to me, ' do even so to them/ They are small, but so full of meaning if they only mean the half of what I bid them. Very affectionately, Emily. Thursday Morning, . . . When I am as old as you, and have had so many friends, perhaps they won't seem so precious, and then I sha'n't write any more little billets-doux like these, but you will forgive me now, because I can't find many so dear to me as you. Then I know I can't have you always; some day a * brave dra- iSso] TO MR BOWDOIN 1 37 goon * will be stealing you away, and I will have farther to go to discover you at all, so I shall recol- lect all these sweet opportunities, and feel so sorry if I did n't improve them. ... About this time (December, 1849), the fol- lowing little note was sent to Mr Bowdoin, a law student in Mr Dickinson's office, * on re- turning Jane Eyre, The leaves mentioned were box leaves.' [December, 1849.] Mr Bowdoin, — If all these leaves were altars, and on every one a prayer that Currer Bell might be saved, and you were God — would you answer it ? Mr Bowdoin, who was considered by the young girls at that time 'a confirmed bache- lor,* also received the accompanying valentine from Emily. Valentine Week [1850]. Awake, ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine, Unwind the solemn twine, and tie my Valentine. Oh the earth was made for lovers, for damsel, and hopeless swain, For sighing, and gentle whispering, and unity made of twain. All things do go a courting, in earth or sea, or air, God hath made nothing single but thee in His world so fair ! 138 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1850 The bride and then the bridegroom^ the two^ and then the oncy Adam, and Eve, his consort, the moon and then the sun; The life doth prove the precept, who obey shall happy be, Who will not serve the sovereign, be hanged on fatal tree. The high do seek the lowly, the great do seek the small, None cannot find who seeketh, on this terrestrial ball; The bee doth court the flower, the flower his suit receives, And they make a merry wedding, whose guests are hundred leaves ; The wind doth woo the branches, the branches they are won, And the father fond demandeth the maiden for his son. The storm doth walk the seashore humming a mourn- ful tune. The wave with eye so pensive, looketh to see the moon, Their spirits meet together, they make them solemn vows. No more he singeth mournful, her sadness she doth lose. The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride. 1850] TO MR BOWDOIN 1 39 Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide ; Earth is a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true, And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue. Now to the appHcation, to the reading of the roll, To bringing thee to justice, and marshalling thy soul : Thou art a human solo, a being cold, and lone. Wilt have no kind companion, thou reapest what thou hast sown. Hast never silent hours, and minutes all too long, And a deal of sad reflection, and wailing instead of song? There *s Sarah, and Eliza, and Emeline so fair, And Harriet and Sabra, and she with curling hair. Thine eyes are sadly blinded, but yet thou mayest see Six true and comely maidens sitting upon the tree ; Approach that tree with caution, then up it boldly climb, And seize the one thou lovest, nor care for space, or time. Then bear her to the greenwood, and build for her a bower, And give her what she asketh, jewel, or bird, or flower — And bring the fife, and trumpet, and beat upon the drum — And bid the world Goodmorrow, and go to glory home ! 140 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1852 Valentines seemed ever near the thoughts of the young people of this generation, and another clever one, written by Emily in 1852, somehow found its way into The Republican^ probably through some friend. It was origi- nally sent to Mr William Rowland. [1852.] Sic transit gloria mundi. How doth the busy bee — Dum vivimus vivamus, I stay mine enemy. Oh, veni, vidiy vici^ Oh, caputs cap-a-pie, And oh, memento mori When I am far from thee. Hurrah for Peter Parley, Hurrah for Daniel Boone, Three cheers, sir, for the gentlemen Who first observed the moon. Peter put up the sunshine, Pattie arrange the stars, Tell Luna tea is waiting. And call your brother Mars. Put down the apple, Adam, And come away with me ; So shall thou have a pippin From off my father's tree. 185a] TO MR WILLIAM HOWLAND I41 I dimb the hill of science I ' view the landscape o'er/ Such transcendental prospect I ne'er beheld before. Unto the Legislature My country bids me go. I '11 take my india-rubbers, In case the wind should blow. During my education, It was announced to me That gravitation, stumbling. Fell from an apple-tree. The earth upon its axis Was once supposed to turn, By way of a gymnastic In honor to the sun. It was the brave Columbus, A-sailing on the tide. Who notified the nations Of where I would reside. Mortality is fatal. Gentility is fine. Rascality heroic. Insolvency sublime. Our fathers being weary Lay down on Bunker Hill, And though full many a morning, Yet they are sleeping still. 142 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [185a The trumpet, sir, shall wake them. In dream I see them rise. Each with a solemn musket A-marching to the skies. A coward will remain, sir. Until the fight is done. But an immortal hero Will take his hat and run. Good-by, sir, I am going — My country calleth me. Allow me, sir, at parting To wipe my weeping e'e. In token of our friendship Accept this Bonnie Doon, And when the hand that plucked it Has passed beyond the moon, The memory of my ashes Will consolation be. Then farewell, Tuscarora, And farewell, sir, to thee. To Mrs Ford Sunday Afternoon [1852]. I have just come home from meeting, where I have been all day, and it makes me so happy to think of writing you that I forget the sermon and 185a] TO MRS GORDON L. FORD 1 43 minister and all^ and think of none but you. . . . I miss you always, dear Emily, and I think now and then that I can't stay without you, and half make up my mind to make a little bundle of all my earthly things, bid my blossoms and home good-by, and set out on foot to find you. But we have so much matter of fact here that I don't dare to go, so I keep on sighing, and wishing you were here. I know you would be happier amid this darling spring than in ever so kind a city, and you would get well much faster drinking our morning dew — and the world here is so beautiful, and things so sweet and fair, that your heart would be soothed and comforted. I would tell you about the spring if I thought it might persuade you even now to return, but every bud and bird would only afflict you and make you sad where you are, so not one word of the robins, and not one word of the bloom, lest it make the city darker, and your own home more dear. But nothing forgets you, Emily, not a blossom, not a bee ; for in the merriest flower there is a pensive air, and in the bonniest bee a sorrow — they know that you are gone, they know how well you loved them, and in their little faces is sadness, and in their mild eyes, tears. But another spring, dear friend, you must and shall be here, and nobody can take you away, for I will hide you and keep you — and who would think of taking you if I hold you tight in my arms? 144 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1852 Your home looks very silent — I try to think of things funny, and turn the other way when I am passing near, for sure I am that looking would make my heart too heavy, and make my eyes so dim. How I do long once more t'- liv^ai the household voices, and see you there at twilight sitting in the door — and I shall when the leaves fall, sha'n't I, and the crickets begin to sing? You must not think sad thoughts, dear Emily. I fear you are doing so, from your sweet note to me, and it almost breaks my heart to have you so far away, where I cannot comfort you. All will be well, I know, and I know all will be happy, and I so wish I was near to convince my dear friend so. I want very much to hear how Mr Ford is now. I hope you will tell me, for it's a good many weeks since I have known anything of him. You and he may come this way any summer ; and how I hope he may — and I shall pray for him, and for you, and for your home on earth, which will be next the one in heaven. Your very aifectionate, Emiue. I thank you for writing me, one precious little 'forget-me-not' to bloom along my way. But one little one is lonely — pray send it a blue-eyed mate, that it be not alone. Here is love from mother and father and Vinnie and me. . . . i8s3l TO MRS GORDON L. PORD 145 [i8S3-] Wednesday Eve, Dear Emily, — Are you there, and shall you always stay there, and is, J); pot dear Emily any more, but Mrs Ford of Connecticut, and must we stay alone, and will you not come back with the birds and the butterflies, when the days grow long and warm ? Dear Emily, we are lonely here. I know Col. S is left, and Mr and Mrs K , but pussy has run away, and you do not come back again, and the world has grown so long ! I knew you would go away, for I know "the roses are gathered, but I guessed not yet, not till by expectation we had become resigned. Dear Emily, when it came, and hidden by your veil you stood before us all and made those promises, and when we kissed you, all, and went back to our homes, it seemed to me trans- lation, not any earthly thing, and if a little after you *d ridden on the wind, it would not have surprised me. And now five days have gone, Emily, and long and silent, and I begin to know that you will not come back again. There's a verse in the Bible, Emily, I don't know where it is, nor just how it goes can I remember, but it's a little like this — 'I can go to her, but she cannot come back to me.* I guess that is n't right, but my eyes are full of tears, and I *m sure I do not care if I make mistakes or not. Is it happy there, dear Emily, and is the fireside VOL. I. — 10 146 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1859 warm, and have you a little cricket to chirp upon the hearth? How much we think of you — how dearly love you — how often hope for you that it may all be happy. Sunday evening your father came in — he stayed a Uttle while. I thought he looked solitary. I thought he had grown old. How lonely he must be — I *m sorry for him. Mother and Vinnie send their love, and hope you are so happy. Austin has gone away. Father comes home to-morrow. I know father will miss you. He loved to meet you here. ' So fades a summer cloud away, So smiles the gale when storms are o'er, So gently shuts the eye of day, So dies a wave along the shore.' Kiss me, dear Emily, and remember me if you will, with much respect, to your husband. Will you write me sometime? Affectionately, Emily. To Mrs Anthon Amherst [1859]. . . . Sweet at my door this March night another candidate. Go home ! We don't like Katies here ! Stay ! My heart votes for you, and what am I, indeed, to dispute her ballot ! What are your qualifications ? Dare you dwell in the East where we dwell? Are you afraid of the 1859] TO MRS ANTHON 1 47 sun? When you hear the new violet sucking her way among the sods, shall you be resolute ? All we are strangers, dear, the world is not acquainted with us, because we are not acquainted with her; and pilgrims. Do you hesitate? And soldiers, oft — some of us victors, but those I do not see to-night, owing to the smoke. We are hungry, and thirsty, sometimes, we are barefoot and cold — will you still come ? Theiiy bright I record you — Kate, gathered in March ! It is a small bouquet, dear, but what it lacks in size it gains in fadelessness. Many can boast a hollyhock, but few can bear a rose ! And should new flower smile at limited associates, pray her remember were there many, they were not worn upon the breast, but tilled in the pasture. So I rise wearing her — so I sleep holding, — sleep at last with her fast in my hand, and wake bearing my flower. Emilie. To the Same There are two ripenings, one of sight. Whose forces spheric wind, Until the velvet product Drops spicy to the ground, A homelier maturing, A process in the burr That teeth of frosts alone disclose On far October air. Emilie. 148 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [i86o To the Same [i860.] The prettiest of pleas, dear, but with a lynx like me quite unavailable. Finding is slow, facilities for losing so frequent, in a world like this, I hold with extreme caution. A prudence so astute may seem unnecessary, but plenty moves those most, dear, who have been in want, and Saviour tells us, Kate, the poor are always with us. Were you ever poor? I have been a beggar, and rich to-night, as by God's leave I believe I am, the ' lazzaroni's ' faces haunt, pursue me still ! You do not yet 'dislimn,' Kate. Distinctly sweet your face stands in its phantom niche — I touch your hand — my cheek your cheek — I stroke your vanished hair. Why did you enter, sister, since you must depart? Had not its heart been torn enough but you must send your shred? Oh, our condor Kate ! Come from your crags again ! Oh, ,dew upon the bloom fall yet again a summer's night ! Of such have been the frauds which have vanquished £aces, sown plant of flesh the church-yard plats, and occasioned angels. There is a subject,, dear, on which we never touch. Ignorance of its pageantries does not deter me. I too went out to meet the dust early in the morning. I too in daisy mounds possess hid treasure, therefore I guard you more. You did not tell me you had i86i] TO MRS ANTHON 1 49 once been a 'millionaire.* Did my sister think that opulence could be mistaken? Some trinket will remain, some babbling plate or jewel. I write you from the summer. The murmuring leaves fill up the chinks through which the winter red shone when Kate was here, and F was here, and frogs sincerer than our own splash in their Maker's pools. It 's but a little past, dear, and yet how far from here it seems, fled with the snow ! So through the snow go many loving feet parted by 'Alps.* How brief, from vineyards and the sun ! Parents and Vinnie request love to be given girl. Emiue. [1861 ?] To the Same Katie, — Last year at this time I did not miss you, but positions shifted, until I hold your black in strong hallowed remembrance, and trust my colors are to you tints slightly beloved. You cease, indeed, to talk, which is a custom prevalent among things parted and torn, but shall I class this, dear, among elect exceptions, and bear you just as usual unto the kind Lord ? We dignify our faith when we can cross the ocean with it, though most prefer ships. How do you do this year ? . . . How many years, I wonder, will sow the moss upon them, before we bind again, a little altered, it may be, elder a little 1 50 LETTERS OP EMILY DICICINSON [1861 it will be, and yet the same, as suns which shine be- tween our lives and loss, and violets — not last year's, but having the mother's eyes. Do you find plenty of food at home ? Famine is unpleasant. It is too late for frogs — or what pleases me better, dear, not quite early enough ! The pools were full of you for a brief period, but that brief period blew away, leaving me with many stems, and but a few foliage ! Gentlemen here have a way of plucking the tops of the trees, and putting the fields in their cellars annually, which in point of taste is execrable, and would they please omit, I should have fine vegetation and foliage all the year round, and never a winter month. Insanity to the sane seems so unnecessary — but I am only one, and they are ' four and forty,' which little affair of num- bers leaves me impotent. Aside from this, dear Katie, inducements to visit Amherst are as they were — I am pleasantly located in the deep sea, but love will row you out, if her hands are strong, and don't wait till I land, for I *m going ashore on the other side. Emilie. Following are letters written to her sister, Miss Lavinia Dickinson, while Emily was re- ceiving treatment for her eyes in Boston. She was there for this purpose twice, — during the summer of 1864, and again in 1865, usually 1S64] TO MISS LAVINIA DICKINSON 1 51 writing of these years as * when I was sick so long,* which has given many persons the idea of an invalidism she never had. [1864.] Dear Vinnie, — Many write that they do not write because that they have too much to say, I that I have enough. Do you remember the whippoor- will that sang one night on the orchard fence, and then drove to the south, and we never heard of him afterward? He will go home, and I shall go home, perhaps in the same train. It is a very sober thing to keep my summer in strange towns — what, I have not told, but I have found friends in the wilderness. You know Elijah did, and to see the ' ravens ' mend- ing my stockings would break a heart long hard. Fanny and Lou are solid gold, and Mrs B and her daughter very kind, and the doctor enthusiastic about my getting well. I feel no gayness yet — I suppose I had been discouraged so long. You remember the prisoner of Chillon did not know liberty when it came, and asked to go back to jaiL C and A came to see me and brought beautiful flowers. Do you know what made them remember me ? Give them my love and gratitude. They told me about the day at Pelham, you, dressed in daisies, and Mr McD . I could n't see you, Vinnie. I am glad of all the roses you find, 152 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1865 while your primrose is gone. How kind Mr C grew. Was Mr D dear? Emily wants to be well — if any one alive wants to get well more, I would let him, first. Give my love to father and mother and Austin. Tell Margaret I remember her, and hope Richard is well. . . . How I wish I could rest all those who are! tired for me. Emily. To the Same [1865.] Dear Vinnie, — The hood is far under way, and the girls think it a beauty. ... I hope the chimneys are done, and the hemlocks set, and the two teeth filled in the front yard. How astonishing it will be to me ! . . . The pink lily you gave Lou has had five flowers since I came, and has more buds. The girls think it my influence. Lou wishes she knew father's view of Jeff Davis* capture — thinks no one but him can do it justice. She wishes to send a photograph of the arrest to Austin, including the skirt and spurs, but fears he will think her trifling with him. I advised her not to be rash. How glad I should be to see you all, but it won't be long, Vinnie. You will be willing, won't you, for a little while? It has rained and been very hot, and mosquitoes, as in August. I hope the flowers are well. The tea-rose I gave Aunt L has a flower 1865] TO MISS LAVINIA DICKINSON 1 53 now. Is the lettuce ripe ? Persons wear no bonnets here. Fanny has a blade of straw with handle of ribbon. Affectionately, Emily. To the Same . . . Father told me you were going. I wept for the little plants, but rejoiced for you. Had I loved them as well as I did, I could have begged you to stay with them, but they are foreigners now, and all, a foreigner. I have been sick so long I do not know the sun. I hope they may be alive, for home would be strange except them, now the world is dead. A N lives here since Saturday, and two new people more, a person and his wife, so I do little but fly, yet always find a nest. I shall go home in two weeks. You will get me at Palmer? Love for E and Mr D . Sister. To the Same . . . The Doctor will let me go Monday of Thanks- giving week. He wants to see me Sunday, so I can- not before. . . . Love for the Middletown pearls. Shall write E after Tuesday, when I go to the Doctor. Thank her for sweet note. The drums keep on for the still man — but Emily must stop. Love of Fanny and Lou. Sister. 154 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1865 Soon after the close of the war, a friend, Mrs Vanderbilt of Long Island, met with a very serious bodily accident. Upon her re- covery she received the following welcome to the realm of health : — To this world she returned, But with a tingle of that ; A compound manner, As a sod Espoused a violet That chiefer to the skies Than to himself allied, Dwelt, hesitating. Half of dust. And half of day, the bride. Emily. On the occasion of another friend's departure from Amherst after a visit, Emily's good-by was embodied in the following lines, accompanied by an oleander blossom tied with black ribbon : We '11 pass without a parting, So to spare Certificate of absence. Deeming where I left her I could find her If I tried. This way I keep from missing Those who died. Emily. CHAPTER IV To Dr y. G. Holland and Mrs Holland TPHE dates of these letters can be approx- -*• imated only by the hand-writing — which varies from the early style, about 1853, to the latest — and by events mentioned, the time of whose occurrence is known. Mrs Hol- land writes that there were many other letters, even more quaint and original, but unhappily not preserved. [About 1853.] Friday Evening. Thank you, dear Mrs Holland — Vinnie and I will come, if you would like to have us. We should have written before, but mother has not been well, and we hardly knew whether we could leave her, but she is better now, and I write quite late this evening, that if you still desire it, Vinnie and I will come. Then, dear Mrs Holland, if agreeable to you, we will take the Amherst train on Tuesday moming, for Springfield, and be with you at noon. The cars leave here at nine o'clock, and I think IS6 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1853 reach Springfield at twelve. I can think just how we dined with you a year ago from now, and it makes my heart beat faster to think perhaps we *11 see you so little while from now. To live a thousand years would not make me forget the day and night we spent there, and while I write the words, I don't believe I *m coming, so sweet it seems to me. I hope we shall not tire you ; with all your other cares, we fear we should not come, but you will not let us trouble you, will you, dear Mrs Holland ? Father and mother ask a very warm remembrance to yourself and Dr Holland. We were happy the grapes and figs seemed ac- ceptable to you, and wished there were many more. I am very sorry to hear that 'Kate' has such excellent lungs. With all your other cares, it must be quite a trial to you. It is also a source of pleasure to me that Annie goes to sleep, on account of the 'interregnum* it must afford to you. Three days and we are there — happy — very happy ! To-morrow I will sew, but I shall think of you, and Sunday sing and pray — yet I shall not forget you, and Monday's very near, and here's to me on Tuesday ! Good-night, dear Mrs Hol- land — I see I 'm getting wild — you will forgive me all, and not forget me all, though ? Vinnie is fast asleep, or her love would be here — though she is, it is. Once more, if it is fair, we will come on Tuesday, i853] TO DR AND MRS J. G, HOLLAND 1 57 and you love to have us, but if not convenient, please surely tell us so. Affectionately, Emiue. Tuesday Evening. Dear Dr and Mrs Holland, — dear Minnie — it is cold to-night, but the thought of you so warm, that I sit by it as a fireside, and am never cold any more. I love to write to you — it gives my heart a holiday and sets the bells to ringing. If prayers had any answers to them, you were all here to-night, but I seek and I don't find, and knock and it is not opened. Wonder if God is just — presume He is, however, and 't was only a blunder of Matthew's. I think mine is the case, where when they ask an egg, they get a scorpion, for I keep wishing for you, keep shutting up my eyes and looking toward the sky, asking with all my might for you, and yet you do not come. I wrote to you last week, but thought you would laugh at me, and call me sentimental, so I kept my lofty letter for 'Adolphus Hawkins, Esq.' If it was n't for broad daylight, and cooking- stoves, and roosters, I'm afraid you would have occasion to smile at my letters often, but so sure as 'this mortal' essays immortality, a crow from a neigh- boring farm-yard dissipates the illusion, and I am here again. And what I mean is this — that I thought of you 158 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1855 all last week, until the world grew rounder than it sometimes is, and I broke several dishes. Monday, I solemnly resolved I would be sensible^ so I wore thick shoes, and thought of Dr Humphrey, and the Moral Law. One glimpse of The Republican makes me break things again — I read in it every night. Who writes those funny accidents, where railroads meet each other unexpectedly, and gentlemen in factories get their heads cut off quite informally? The author, too, relates them in such a sprightly way, that they are quite attractive. Vinnie was disappointed to-night, that there were not more accidents — I read the news aloud, while Vinnie was sewing. The Republican seems to us like a letter from you, and we break the seal and read it eagerly. . • . Vinnie and I talked of you as we sewed, this afternoon. I said — * how far they seem from us,' but Vinnie answered me 'only a little way.* . . . I *d love to be a bird or bee, that whether hum or sing, still might be near you. Heaven is large — is it not? Life is short too, isn't it? Then when one. is done, is there not another, and — and — then if God is willing, we are neighbors then. Vinnie and mother send their love. Mine too is here. My letter as a bee, goes laden. Please love us and remember us. Please write us very soon, and tell us how you are. . . . Affectionately, Emiue. 4U»#^ 0f€y^9 ,^4CZ Ac^^fiJ* ^^ vi. r ^2^ f X ^^'fc#»'4^^*-r^> {Spring, 1854.] Philadelphia. Dear Mrs Holland and Minnie, and Dr Holland too — I have stolen away from company to write a note to you ; and to say that I love you still. I am not at home — I have been away just five 1854] TO DR AND MRS J. G. HOLLAND 1 63 weeks to-day, and shall not go quite yet back to Massachusetts. Vinnie is with me here, and we have wandered together into many new ways. We were three weeks in Washington, while father was there, and have been two in Philadelphia. We have had many pleasant times, and seen much that is fair, and heard much that is wonderful — many sweet ladies and noble gentlemen have taken us by the hand and smiled upon us pleasantly — and the sun shines brighter for our way thus far. I will not tell you what I saw — the elegance, the grandeur ; you will not care to know the value of the diamonds my Lord and Lady wore, but if you have n't been to the sweet Mount Vernon, then I will tell you how on one soft spring day we glided down the Potomac in a painted boat, and jumped upon the shore — how hand in hand we stole along up a tangled pathway till we reached the tomb of General George Washington, how we paused beside it, and no one spoke a word, then hand in hand, walked on again, not less wise or sad for that marble story ; how we went within the door — raised the latch he lifted when he last went home — thank the Ones in Light that he 's since passed in through a brighter wicket I Oh, I could spend a long day, if it did not weary you, telling of Mount Vernon — and I will sometime if we live and meet again, and God grant we shall 1 I wonder if you have all forgotten us, we have stayed away so long. I hope you have n*t — I tried l64 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1854 to write so hard before I went from home, but the moments were so busy, and then they flew so. I was sure when days did come in which I was less busy, I should seek your forgiveness, and it did not occur to me that you might not forgive me. Am I too late to-day? Even if you are angry, I shall keep praying you, till from very weariness, you will take me in. It seems to me many a day since we were in Springfield, and Minnie and the dumb-bells seem as vague — as vague ; and sometimes I wonder if I ever dreamed — then if I *m dreaming now, then if I always dreamed, and there is not a world, and not these darling friends, for whom I would not count my life too great a sacrifice. Thank God there is a world, and that the friends we love dwell forever and ever in a house above. I fear I grow incongruous, but to meet my friends does delight me so that I quite forget time and sense and so forth. Now, my precious friends, if you won't forget me until I get home, and become more sensible, I will write again, and more properly. Why did n't I ask before, if you were well and happy? Forgetful Emiije. [November, 1854.] Saturday Eve, I come in flakes, dear Dr Holland, for verily it snows, and as descending swans, here a pinion and 1854] TO DR AND MRS J, G, HOLLAND 165 there a pinion, and anon a plume, come the bright inhabitants of the white home. I know they fall in Springfield ; perhaps you see them now — and therefore I look out again, to see if you are looking. How pleasant it seemed to hear your voice — so said Vinnie and I, as we as individuals, and then collectively, read your brief note. Why did n't you speak to us before ? We thought you had forgotten us — we concluded that one of the bright things had gone forever more. That is a sober feeling, and it must n't come too often in such a world as this. A violet came up next day, and blossomed in our garden, and were it not for these same flakes, I would go in the dark and get it, so to send to you. Thank Him who is in Heaven, Katie Holland lives 1 Kiss her on every cheek for me — I really can't remember how many the bairn has — and give my warmest recollection to Mrs Holland and Min- nie, whom to love, this Saturday night, is no trifling thing. I 'm very happy that you are happy — and ] that you cheat the angels of another one. ( I would the many households clad in dark attire ; had succeeded so. You must all be happy and strong and well. I love to have the lamps shine on your evening table. I love to have the sun shine on your daily walks. The ' new house ' ! God bless it ! You will leave the ' maiden and married life of Mary Powell ' be- hind. Love and remember Emhje. 1 66 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1855 While the family lived for many years in the old mansion built by Emily Dickinson's grand- father, the Hon. Samuel Fowler Dickinson, they had moved away from it about 1840; and the following letter describes their return after fifteen years to their early home, where Emily was born, and where she died : — [1855] Sabbath Day. Your voice is sweet, dear Mrs Holland — I wish I heard it oftener. One of the mortal musics Jupiter denies, and when indeed its gentle measures fall upon my ear, I stop the birds to listen. Perhaps you think I have no bird, and this is rhetoric — pray, Mr Whately, what is that upon the cherry-tree? Church is done, and the winds blow, and Vinnie is in that pallid land the simple call 'sleep.*. They will be wiser by and by, we shall all be wiser ! While I sit in the snows, the summer day on which you came and the bees and the south wind, seem fabulous as Heaven seems to a sinful world — and I keep remembering it till it assumes a spectral air, and nods and winks at me, and then all of you turn to phantoms and vanish slow away. We cannot talk and laugh more, in the parlor where we met, but we learned to love for aye, there, so it is just as well. 1855] TO DR AND MRS J. G, HOLLAND 1 67 We shall sit in a parlor *not made with hands ' unless we are very careful ! I cannot tell you how we moved. I had rather not remember. I believe my * effects * were brought in a bandbox, and the * deathless me,* on foot, not many moments after. I took at the time a memo- randum of my several senses, and also of my hat and coat, and my best shoes — but it was lost in the melee f and I am out with lanterns, looking for myself. Such wits as I reserved, are so badly shattered that repair is useless — and still I can't help laugh- ing at my own catastrophe. I supposed we were going to make a ' transit,* as heavenly bodies did — but we came budget by budget, as our fellows do, till we fulfilled the pantomime contained in the word * moved.* It is a kind of gone- to- Kansas feeling, and if I sat in a long wagon, with my family tied behind, I should suppose without doubt I was a party of emigrants ! They say that ' home is where the heart is.* I think it is where the house is, and the adjacent buildings. But, my dear Mrs Holland, I have another story, and lay my laughter all away, so that I can sigh. Mother has been an invalid since we came home, and Vinnie and I ' regulated,* and Vinnie and I ' got settled,* and still we keep our father*s house, and mother lies upon the lounge, or sits in her easy- chair. I don't know what her sickness is, for I am 1 68 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1856 but a simple child, and frightened at myself. I often wish I was a grass, or a toddling daisy, whom all these problems of the dust might not terrify — and should my own machinery get slightly out of gear, please, kind ladies and gentlemen, some one stop the wheel, — for I know that with belts and bands of gold, I shall whizz triumphant on the new stream ! Love for you — love for Dr Holland — thanks for his exquisite hymn — tears for your sister in sable, and kisses for Minnie and the bairns. From your mad Emilie. [Spring, 1856?] . . . February passed like a skate and I know March. Here is the * light ' the stranger said ' was not on sea or land.* Myself could arrest it, but will not chagrin him. . . . Cousin Peter told me the Doctor would address Commencement — trusting it insure you both for papa's fite I endowed Peter. We do not always know the source of the smile that flows to us. . . . My flowers are near and foreign, and I have but to cross the floor to stand in the Spice Isles. The wind blows gay to-day and the jays bark like blue terriers. I tell you what I see — the landscape of the spirit requires a lung, but no tongue. I hold you few I 1856] TO DR AND MRS J. G. HOLLAND 1 69 love, till my heart is red as February and purple as March. Hand for the Doctor. Emily. [Late Summer, 1856.] Sabbath Night, Don't tell, dear Mrs Holland, but wicked as I am, I read my Bible sometimes, and in it as I read to-day, I found a verse like this, where friends should 'go no more out ; ' and there were ' no tears,* and I wished as I sat down to-night that we were there — not here — and that wonderful world had com- menced, which makes such promises, and rather than to write you, I were by your side, and the ' hundred and forty and four thousand' were chatting pleasantly, yet not disturbing us. And I 'm half tempted to take my seat in that Paradise of which the good man writes, and begin forever and ever now, so wondrous does it seem. My only sketch, profile, of Heaven is a large, blue sky, bluer and larger than the biggest I have seen in June, and in it are my friends — all of them — every one of them — those who are with me now, and those who were ' parted * as we walked, and 'snatched up to Heaven.' If roses had not faded, and frosts had never come, and one had not fallen here and there whom I could not waken, there were no need of other Heaven than the one below — and if God had been here this sum- mer, and seen the things that / have seen — I guess that He would think His Paradise superfluous. Don't 170 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1856 tell Him, for the world, though, for after all He's said about it, I should like to see what He was building for us, with no hammer, and no stone, and no joume)rman either. Dear Mrs Holland, I love, to-night — love you and Dr Holland, and *time and sense ^ — and fading things, and things that do not fade. I *m so glad you are not a blossom, for those in my garden fade, and then a ' reaper whose name is Death' has come to get a few to help him make a bouquet for himself, so I *m glad you are not a rose — and I *m glad you are not a bee, for where they go when summer 's done, only the thyme knows, and even were you a robin, when the west winds came^ you would coolly wink at me, and away, some morning ! As * little Mrs Holland,' then, I think I love you most, and trust that tiny lady will dwell below while we dwell, and when with many a wonder we seek the new Land, her wistful face, with ours, shall look the last upon the hills, and first upon — well. Home! Pardon my sanity, Mrs Holland, in a world insane, and love me if you will, for I had rather de loved than to be called a king in earth, or a lord in Heaven. Thank you for your sweet note — the clergy are very well. Will bring such fragments from them as shall seem me good. I kiss my paper here for you and Dr Holland — would it were cheeks instead. Dearly, Emiue. P. S. The bobolinks have gone. 1857] TO DR AND MRS J. G. HOLLAND I7I [1857 ?] Dear Sister, — After you went, a low wind war- bled through the house like a spacious bird, making it high but lonely. When you had gone the love came. I supposed it would. The supper of the heart is when the guest has gone. Shame is so intrinsic in a strong affection we must all experience Adam's reticence. I suppose the street that the lover travels is thenceforth divine, incapable of turnpike aims. That you be with me annuls fear and I await Commencement with merry resignation. Smaller than David you clothe me with extreme Goliath. Friday I tasted life. It was a vast morsel. A circus passed the house — still I feel'the red in my mind though the drums are out. The book you mention, I have not met. Thank you for tenderness. The lawn is full of south and the odors tangle, and I hear to-day for the first the river in the tree. You mentioned spring's delaying — I blamed her for the opposite. I would eat evanescence slowly. Vinnie is deeply afflicted in the death of her dap- pled cat, though I convince her it is immortal which assists her some. Mother resumes lettuce, involving my transgression — suggestive of yourself, however, which endears disgrace. 'House' is being 'cleaned.' I prefer pestilence. That is more classic and less fell. U f 172 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1859 Yours was my first arbutus. It was a rosy boast. I will send you the first witch hazel. A woman died last week, young and in hope but a little while — at the end of our garden. I thought since of the power of Death, not upon affection, but its mortal signal. It is to us the Nile. You refer to the unpermitted delight to be with those we love. I suppose that to be the license not granted of God. Count not that far that can be had. Though sunset lie between — Nor that adjacent, that beside. Is further than the sun. Love for your embodiment of it. p [1859.] God bless you, dear Mrs Holland ! I read it in the paper. I 'm so glad it *s a little boy, since now the little sisters have some one to draw them on the sled — and if a grand old lady you should live to be, there *s something sweet, they say, in a son's arm. I pray for the tenants of that holy chamber, the wrestler, and the wrestled for. I pray for distant father's heart, swollen, happy heart ! Saviour keep them all I Emily. [Autumn, 1859.] Dear Hollands, — Belong to me ! We have no fires yet, and the evenings grow cold. To-mor- row, stoves are set. How many barefoot shiver I 1859] TO DR AND MRS J, G. HOLLAND 1 73 trust their Father knows who saw not fit to give them shoes. Vinnie is sick to-night, which gives the world a russet tinge, usually so red. It is only a headache, but when the head aches next to you, it becomes important. When she is well, time leaps. When she is ill, he lags, or stops entirely. Sisters are brittle things. God was penurious with me, which makes me shrewd with Him. One is a dainty sum ! One bird, one cage, one flight ; one song in those far woods, as yet suspected by faith only ! This is September, and you were coming in Sep- tember. Come ! Our parting is too long. There has been frost enough. We must have summer now, and ' whole legions * of daisies. The gentian is a greedy flower, and overtakes us all. Indeed, this world is short, and I wish, until I tremble, to touch the ones I love before the hills are red — are gray — are white — are * bom again ' ! If we knew how deep the crocus lay, we never should let her go. Still, crocuses stud many mounds whose gardeners till in anguish some tiny, vanished bulb. We saw you that Saturday afternoon, but heed- lessly forgot to ask where you were going, so did not know, and could not write. Vinnie saw Minnie flying by, one afternoon at Palmer. She supposed you were all there on your way from the sea, and untied her fancy ! To say that her fancy wheedled her is superfluous. y^ 174 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [i860 We talk of you together, then diverge on life, then hide in you again, as a safe fold. Don't leave us long, dear friends ! You know we 're children still, and children fear the dark. Are you well at home ? Do you work now? Has it altered much since I was there ? Are the children women, and the women thinking it will soon be afternoon ? We will help each other bear our unique burdens. Is Minnie with you now ? Take her our love, if she is. Do her eyes grieve her now ? Tell her she may have half ours. Mother's favorite sister is sick, and mother will have to bid her good-night. It brings mists to us all ; — the aunt whom Vinnie visits, with whom she spent, I fear, her last inland Christmas. Does God take care of those at sea? My aunt is such a timid woman ! Will you write to us? I bring you all their loves — many. They tire me. Emilie. [i860.] How is your little Byron? Hope he gains his foot without losing his genius. Have heard it ably argued that the poet's genius lay in his foot — as the bee's prong and his song are concomitant. Are you stronger than these? To assault so minute a creature seems to me malign, unworthy of Nature — but the frost is no respecter of persons. i86i] TO DR AND MRS J, G, HOLLAND 175 I should be glad to be with you, or to open your letter. Blossoms belong to the bee, if needs be by habeas corpus. ^^^^^ Probably about 1861 came this brilliant, yet half pathetic, arraignment of the friends who had not written when Emily expected to hear. Who could resist such a plea? Friday, Dear Friends, — I write to you. I receive no letter. I say * they dignify my trust.* I do not disbelieve. I go again. Cardinals wouldn't do it. Cockneys would n*t do it, but I can't stop to strut, in a world where bells toll. I hear through visitor in town, that * Mrs Holland is not strong.' The little peacock in me, tells me not to inquire again. Then I remember my tiny friend — how brief she is — how dear she is, and the peacock quite dies away. Now, you need not speak, for perhaps you are weary, and * Herod ' requires all your thought, but if you are well — let Annie draw me a little picture of an erect flower ; if you are ///, she can hang the flower a little on one side ! Then, I shall understand, and you need not stop to write me a letter. Perhaps you laugh at me ! Perhaps the whole United States are laughing at me too ! / can't stop for that ! My business is to love. I found a bird, this morning, down — down i^ 176 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1864 — on a little bush at the foot of the garden, and wherefore sing, I said, since nobody hears ? One sob in the throat, one flutter of bosom — *My business is to sing* — and away she rose! How do I know but cherubim, once, themselves, as patient, listened, and applauded her unnoticed hymn ? Emily. [1864?] Dear Sister, — Father called to say that our steel- yard was fraudulent, exceeding by an ounce the rates of honest men. He had been selling oats. I can- not stop smiling, though it is hours since, that even our steelyard will not tell the truth. Besides wiping the dishes for Margaret, I wash them now, while she becomes Mrs Lawler, vicarious papa to four previous babes. Must she not be an adequate bride? I winced at her loss, because I was in the habit of her, and even a new rolling-pin has an embarrass- ing element, but to all except anguish, the mind soon adjusts. It is also November. The noons are more laconic and the sundowns sterner, and Gibraltar lights make the village foreign. November always seemed to me the Norway of the year. is still with the sister who put her child in an ice nest last Monday forenoon. The redoubtable God ! I notice where Death has been introduced, he frequently calls, mak- ing it desirable to forestall his advances. 1864I TO DR AND MRS J, G. HOLLAND 177 It is hard to be told by the papers that a friend is failing, not even know where the water lies. Inci- dentally, only, that he comes to land. Is there no voice for these ? Where is Love to-day? Tell the dear Doctor we mention him with a for- eign accent, party already to transactions spacious and untold. Nor have we omitted to breathe shorter for our little sister. Sharper than dying is the death for the dying's sake. News of these would comfort, when convenient or possible. Emily. Dear Sister, — It was incredibly sweet that Austin had seen you, and had stood in the dear house which had lost its friend. To see one who had seen you was a strange assurance. It helped dispel the fear that you departed too, for notwithstanding the loved notes and the lovely gift, there lurked a dread that you had gone or would seek to go. 'Where the treasure is,* there is the prospective. Austin spoke very warmly and strongly of you, and we all felt firmer, and drew a vocal portrait of Kate at Vinnie's request, so vivid that we saw her. . . . Not all die early, dying young, Maturity of fate Is consummated equally In ages or a night. A hoary boy I Ve known to drop Whole-statured, by the side Of junior of fourscore — 't was act. Not period, that died. VOL. I. — 12 Emily. 178 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1868 Will some one lay this little flower on Mrs Holland's pillow? Emilie. In handwriting similar to the letters about 1862-68, are several poems, enclosed to the Hollands, among them, — Away from home are some and I, An emigrant to be In a metropolis of homes Is common possibility. The habit of a foreign sky We, difficult, acquire. As children who remain in face. The more their feet retire. And— Though my destiny be fustian Hers be damask fine — Though she wear a silver apron, I, a less divine. Still, my little gypsy being, I would far prefer. Still my little sunburnt bosom, To her rosier. For when frosts their punctual fingers On her forehead lay. You and I and Doctor Holland Bloom eternally. 1876] TO DR AND MRS J. G. HOLLAND 179 Roses of a steadfast summer In a steadfast land, Where no autumn lifts her pencil, And no reapers stand. In addition to these, many other poems were sent to the Hollands which have already been published ; all of them, however, showing slight changes from copies which she retained. [Autumn, 1876.] Saturday Eve, Dear Hollands, — Good-night ! I can't stay any longer in a world of death. Austin is ill of fever. I buried my garden last week — our man, Dick, lost a little girl through the scarlet fever. I thought perhaps that you were dead, and not know- ing the sexton's address, interrogate the daisies. Ah ! dainty — dainty Death 1 Ah ! democratic Death ! Grasping the proudest zinnia from my purple garden, — then deep to his bosom calling the serfs child ! Say, is he everywhere? Where shall I hide my things? Who is alive? The woods are dead. Is Mrs H. alive ? Annie and Katie — are they below, or received to nowhere? I shall not tell how short time is, for I was told by lips which sealed as soon as it was said, and the open revere the shut. You were not here in summer. Summer ? My memory flutters — had I — was there l8o LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1877 a summer? You should have seen the fields go — gay little entomology ! Swift little ornithology ! Dancer, and floor, and cadence quite gathered away, and I, a phantom, to you a phantom, rehearse the story ! An orator of feather unto an audience of fuzz, — and pantomimic plaudits. * Quite as good as a play,' indeed ! Tell Mrs Holland she is mine. Ask her if vice versa ? Mine is but just the thief s request — ' Remember me to-day.' Such are the bright chirographies of the 'Lamb's Book.' Good- night ! My ships are in ! — My window overlooks the wharf! One yacht, and a man-of-war; two brigs and a schooner ! * Down with the topmast ! Lay her a* hold, a* hold ! ' Emiue. A letter from Mrs Holland to Emily and her sister jointly, in 1877, called forth this unique protest. Sister, — A mutual plum is not a plum. I was too respectful to take the pulp and do not like a stone. Send no union letters. The soul must go by Death alone, so, it must by life, if it is a soul. If a committee — no matter. I saw the sunrise on the Alps since I saw you. Travel why to Nature, when she dwells with us? Those who lift their hats shall see her, as devout do God. I trust you are merry and sound. The chances iS78] TO DR AND MR^ J. G. HOLLAND i8l are all against the dear, when we are not with them, though paws of principalities cannot affront if we are by. Dr Vaill called here Monday on his way to your house to get the Doctor to preach for him. Shall search The Republican for a brief of the sermon. To-day is very homely and awkward as the homely are who have not mental beauty. Then follows, — 'The sky is low, the clouds are mean,' printed at page 103 of the Poems^ First Series. [Spring, 1878.] I thought that 'Bimam Wood* had 'come to Dunsinane.' Where did you pick arbutus? In Broadway, I suppose. They say that God is every- where, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse. ... It is hard not to hear again that vital * Sam is coming * — though if grief is a test of a priceless life, he is compensated. He was not ambitious for redemption — that was why it is his. ' To him that hath, shall be given.* Were it not for the eyes, we would know of you oftener. Have they no remorse for their selfishness ? * This taber- nacle * is a blissful trial, but the bliss predominates. I suppose you will play in the water at Alexandria Bay, as the baby does at the tub in the drive. . . . Speak to us when your eyes can spare you, and 1 82 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1879 *keep us, at home, or by the way/ as the cler- gyman says, when he folds the church till another Sabbath. Lovingly, Emily. [August, 1879.] Loved and Little Sister, — Vinnie brought in a* sweet pea to-day, which had a pod on the *oflf' side. Startled by the omen, I hasten to you. An unexpected impediment to my reply to your dear last, was a call from my Aunt Elizabeth — * the only male relative on the female side,* and though many days since, its flavor of court-martial still sets my spirit tmgling. With what dismay I read of those columns of kindred in the Bible — the Jacobites and the Jebu- sites and the Hittites and the Jacqueminots ! I am sure you are better, for no rheumatism in its senses would stay after the thermometer struck ninety ! We are revelling in a gorgeous drought. The grass is painted brown, and how nature would look in other than the standard colors, we can all infer. ... I bade call on you, but Vinnie said you were *the other side the globe,' yet Vinnie thinks Vermont is in Asia, so I don't intend to be disheartened by trifles. Vinnie has a new pussy that catches a mouse an hour. We call her the * minute hand.' . . • i88i] TO MRS J, G. HOLLAND 183 Dr Holland's death, in October of 1881, brought grief to many loving hearts, but to the quiet Amherst household peculiar pain, voiced in the notes to follow. We read the words but know them not. We are too frightened with sorrow. If that dear, tired one 1 must sleep, could we not see him first ? Heaven is but a little way to one who gave it, here. ' Inasmuch,* to him, how tenderly fulfilled ! Our hearts have flown to you before — our break- ing voices follow. How can we wait to take you all in our sheltering arms ? Could there be new tenderness, it would be for you, but the heart is full — another throb would split it — nor would we dare to speak to those whom such a grief removes, but we have somewhere heard ' A little child shall lead them.' Emh-y. Thursday. After a while, dear, you will remember that there is a heaven — but you can't now. Jesus will excuse it. He will remember his shorn lamb. The lost one was on such childlike terms with the Father in Heaven. He has passed from confiding ^^ to comprehending — perhaps but a step. ^ The safety of a beloved lost is the first anguish. \ With you, that is peace. I shall never forget the Doctor's prayer, my first \ I 1 84 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1881 mpming with you — so simple, so believing. That God must be a friend — that was a different God — and I almost felt warmer myself, in the midst of a tie so sunshiny. I am yearning to know if he knew he was fleeing — if he spoke to you. Dare I ask if he suffered? Some one will tell me a very little, when they have the strength. . . . Cling tight to the hearts that will not let you fall. EAflLY. Panting to help the dear ones and yet not know- ing how, lest any voice bereave them but that loved voice that will not come, if I can rest them, here is down — or rescue, here is power. One who only said ' I am sorry ' helped me the most when father ceased — it was too soon for language. Fearing to tell mother, some one disclosed it un- known to us. Weeping bitterly, we tried to console her. She only replied ' I loved him so.' Had he a tenderer eulogy? Emily. ... I know you will live for our sake, dear, you would not be willing to for your own. That is the duty which saves. While we are tr5dng for others, power of life comes back, very faint at first, like the new bird, but by and by it has wings. How sweetly you have comforted me — the toil i88i] TO MRS J. G. HOLLAND 185 to comfort you, I hoped never would come. A sorrow on your sunny face is too dark a miracle — but how sweet that he rose in the morning — accom- panied by dawn. How lovely that he spoke with you, that memorial time ! How gentle that he left the pang he had not time to feel ! Bequest of darkness, yet of light, since unbome by him. * Where thou goest, we will go ' — how mutual, how intimate ! No solitude receives him, but neighbor- hood and friend. Relieved forever of the loss of those that must have fled, but for his sweet haste. Knowing he could not spare them, he hurried like a boy from that unhappened sorrow. Death has mislaid his sting — the grave forgot his victory. Because the flake fell not on him, we will accept the drift, and wade where he is lain. Do you remember the clover leaf? The little hand that plucked it will keep tight hold of mine. Please give her love to Annie, and Kate, who also gave a father. Emily. [To Mrs Holland, on the marriage of her daughter Annie, December 7, 1881 ] Sweet Sister, — We were much relieved to know that the dear event had occurred without over- whelming any loved one, and perhaps it is sweeter and safer so. I feared much for the parting, to you, to whom parting has come so thickly in the 1 86 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1881 last few days. I knew all would be beautiful, and rejoice it was. Few daughters have the immortality of a father for a bridal gift. Could there be one more costly? As we never have ceased to think of you, we will more tenderly, now. Confide our Jiappiness to Annie, in her happiness. We hope the unknown balm may ease the balm withdrawn. You and Katie, the little sisters, lose her, jret ob- tain her, for each new width of love largens all the rest. Mother and Vinnie think and speak. Vinnie hopes to write. Would that mother could, but her poor hand is idle. Shall I return to you your last and sweetest words — * But I love you all * ? Emily. [Christmas, 1881.] Dare we wish the brave sister a sweet Christmas, who remembered us punctually in sorrow as in peace ? The broken heart is broadest. Had it come all the way in your little hand, it could not have reached us perfecter, though had it, we should have clutched the hand and forgot the rest. Fearing the day had associations of anguish to you, I was just writing when your token came. Then, humbled with wonder at your self-forgetting, I delayed till now. Reminded again of gigantic Emily Bronte, of whom her Charlotte said ' Full of ruth for others, on herself she had no mercy.* The 1883] "^0 MRS J. G. HOLLAND 187 hearts that never lean, must fall. To moan is justified. To thank you for remembering imder the piercing circumstances were a profanation. God bless the hearts that suppose they are beating and are not, and enfold in His infinite tenderness those that do not know they are beating and are. Shall we wish a triumphant Christmas to the brother withdrawn ? Certainly he possesses it. How much of Source escapes with thee — ^ How chief thy sessions be — For thou hast borne a universe Entirely away. With wondering love, Whom seeing not, we * clasp. Emh^y. Emily. [1883?] Concerning the little sister, not to assault, not to adjure, but to obtain those constancies which exalt friends, we followed her to St Augustine, since which the trail was lost, or says George Steams of his alligator, * there was no such aspect.' The beautiful blossoms waned at last, the charm of all who knew them, resisting the effort of earth or air to persuade them to root, as the great florist says ' The flower that never will in other climate grow.' 1 88 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1883 To thank you for its fragrance would be impos- sible, but then its other blissful traits are more than can be numbered. And the beloved Christmas, too, for which I never thanked you. I hope the little heart is well, — big would have been the width, — and the health solaced ; any news of her as sweet as the first arbutus. Emily and Vinnie give the love greater every hour. CHAPTER V \y To Mr Samuel Bowles and Mrs Bowles AS Emily Dickinson approached middle life, and even before her thirtieth year, it seemed to become more and more impos- sible for her to mingle in general society ; and a growing feeling of shyness, as early as 1862 or 1863, caused her to abstain, sometimes, from seeing the dearest friends who came to the house. In spite of her sympathy with sadness, and her deep apprehension of the tragic element in life, she was not only keenly humorous and witty, as already said, but, while made serious by the insistence of life's pathos, she was yet at heart as ecstatic as a bird. This combination of qualities made her companionship, when she vouchsafed it, peculiarly breezy and stimulating. Such a nature must inevitably know more pain than pleasure. Passionately devoted to her friends, her hap- piness in their love and trust was at times almost too intense to bear ; and it will already IQO LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1858 have been seen how disproportionately great pain was caused by even comparatively slight separations- With her, pathos lay very near raillery and badinage, — sadness very near delight- Whether, in writing her poems, the joy of creating was sufficient, or whether a thought of future and wider recognition ever came, it is certain that during life her friends made her audience. She cared more for appreciation and approval from the few who were dear than for any applause from an impersonal public. She herself writes, * My friends are my estate.* All her letters show this rare loyalty of soul, those in the preceding chapter particularly, but none perhaps more strongly than those to Mr and Mrs Bowles. Beginning about 1858, the letters cover a period of twenty-six or twenty- seven years. Often a single short poem com- prises the entire letter, — sometimes only four lines, and without title, date, or signature, but unmistakably pertinent to a special occasion or subject- [Late August, 1858 ?] Amherst. Dear Mr Bowles, — I got the little pamphlet. I think you sent it to me, though unfamiliar with your hand — I may mistake. 1858] TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 191 Thank you, if I am right. Thank you, if not, since here I find bright pretext to ask you how you are to-night, and for the health of four more, elder and minor Mary, Sallie and Sam, tenderly to inquire. I hope your cups are fulL I hope your vintage is untouched. In such a porcelain life one likes to be sure that all is well lest one stumble upon one's hopes in a pile of broken crockery. My friends are my estate. Forgive me then the avarice to hoard them ! They tell me those were poor early have different views of gold. I don't know how that is. God is not so wary as we, else He would give us no friends, lest we forget Him ! The charms of the heaven in the bush are superseded, I fear, by the heaven in the hand, occasionally. Summer stopped since you were here. Nobody noticed her — that is, no men and women. Doubt- less, the fields are rent by petite anguish, and 'mourners go about' the woods. But this is not for us. Business enough indeed, our stately resur- rection ! A special courtesy, I judge, from what the clergy say ! To the * natural man ' bumblebees would seem an improvement, and a spicing of birds, but far be it from me to impugn such majestic tastes ! Our pastor says we are a ' worm.' How is that reconciled ? ' Vain, sinful worm ' is possibly of another species. -; 192 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1858 Do you think we shall 'see God'? Think of Abraham strolling with Him in genial promenade ! The men are mowing the second hay. The cocks are smaller than the first, and spicier. I would distil a cup, and bear to all my friends, drinking to her no more astir, by beck, or bum, or moor ! Good-night, Mr Bowles. This is what they say who come back in the morning ; also the closing paragraph on repealed lips. Confidence in day- break modifies dusk. Blessings for Mrs Bowles, and kisses for the bairns' lips. We want to see you, Mr Bowles, but spare you the rehearsal of * familiar truths.* Good-night, Emily. [Winter, 1858 ?] Monday Eve. Dear Mrs Bowles, — You send sweet messages. Remembrance is more sweet than robins in May orchards. I love to trust that round bright fires, some, braver than I, take my pilgrim name. How are papa, mamma, and the little people? . . . It storms in Amherst five days — it snows, and then it rains, and then soft fogs like veils hang on all the houses, and then the days turn topaz, like a lady's pin. Thank you for bright bouquet, and afterwards verbena. I made a plant of a little bough of yellow 1859] TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 1 93 heliotrope which the bouquet bore me, and call it Mary Bowles. It is many days since the summer day when you came with Mr Bowles, and before another summer day it will be many days. My garden is a little knoll with faces under it, and only the pines sing tunes, now the birds are absent. I cannot walk to the distant friends on nights piercing as these, so I put both hands on the window-pane, and try to think how birds fly, and imitate, and fail, like Mr *Rasselas.' I could make a balloon of a dandelion, but the fields are gone, and only ' Pro- fessor Lowe ' remains to weep with me. If I built my house I should like to call you. I talk of all these things with Carlo, and his eyes grow meaning, and his shaggy feet keep a slower pace. Are you safe to-night? I hope you may be glad. I ask God on my knee to send you much prosperity, few winter days, and long suns. I have a childish hope to gather all I love together and sit down beside and smile. . . . Will you come to Amherst? The streets are very Gold now, but we will make you warm. But if you never came, perhaps you could write a letter, saying how much you would like to, if it were * God's will.' I give good-night, and daily love to you and Mr Bowles. Emiue. 11859.] Amherst. I should like to thank dear Mrs Bowles for the little book, except my cheek is red with shame VOL. I. — 13 194 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1859 because I write so often. Even the * lilies of the field ' have their dignities. Why did you bind it in green and gold? The immortal colors. I take it for an emblem. I never read before what Mr Parker wrote. I heard that he was * poison.* Then I like poison very well. Austin stayed from service yesterday afternoon, and I . . . found him reading my Christ- mas gift. ... I wish the * faith of the fathers * did n't wear brogans, and carry blue umbrellas. I give you all * New Year ! ' I think you kept gay Christmas^ from the friend's account, and can only sigh with one not present at ' John Gilpin,' ' and when he next doth ride a race,' etc. You picked your berries from my holly. Grasping Mrs Bowles ! To-day is very cold, yet have I much bouquet / upon the window-pane of moss and fern. I call them saints' flowers, because they do not romp as other flowers do, but stand so still and white. The snow is very tall, . . . which makes the trees so low that they tumble my hair, when I cross the bridge. I think there will be no spring this year, the flowers are gone so far. Let us have spring in our heart, and never mind the orchises ! . . . Please have my love, mother's, and Vinnie's. Carlo sends a brown kiss, and pussy a gray and white one, to each of the children. Please, now I write so often, make lamplighter of me, then I shall not have lived in vain. i86i] TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 195 Dear Mrs Bowles, dear Mr Bowles, dear Sally — Sam and Mamie, now all shut your eyes, while I do benediction ! Lovingly, Emily. [Written in 1861, on the birth of a son.] Dear Mary, — Can you leave your flower long enough just to look at mine? Which is the prettiest? I shall tell you myself, some day. I used to come to comfort you, but now to tell you how glad I am, and how glad we all are. . . . You must not stay in New York any more — you must come back now, and bring the blanket to Massachusetts where we can all look. What a responsible shepherd ! Four lambs in one flock ! Shall you be glad to see us, or shall we seem old- fashioned, by the face in the crib? Tell him I 've got a pussy for him, with a spotted gown; and a dog with ringlets. We have very cold days since you went away, and I think you hear the wind blow far as the Brevoort House, it comes from so far, and crawls so. Don't let it blow baby away. Will you call him Robert for me ? He is the bravest man alive, but his boy has no mamma. That makes us all weep, don't it? Good-night, Mary. Emily. One of the very few of Emily Dickinson's verses named by herself was sent Mrs Bowles soon after the preceding letter. 196 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1861 BABY. Teach him, when he makes the names, Such an one to say On his babbling, berry lips As should sound to me — Were my ear as near his nest As my thought, to-day — As should sound — * forbid us not ' — Some like ' Emily.* [August, 1861.] Mary, — I do not know of you, a long while. I remember you — several times. I wish I knew if you kept me? The doubt, like the mosquito, buzzes round my faith. We are all human, Mary, until we are divine, and to some of us, that is far off, and to some as near as the lady ringing at the door ; perhaps that V what alarms. I say I will go myself — I cross the river, and climb the fence — now I am at the gate, Mary — now I am in the hall — now I am looking your heart in the eye 1 Did it wait for me — did it go with the company? Cruel company, who have the stocks, and farms, and creeds — and /'/ has just its heart ! I hope you are glad, Mary ; no pebble in the brook to-day — no film on noon. I can think how you look ; you can't think how I look ; I Ve got more freckles, since you saw me, i86i] TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 197 playing with the school-boys; then I pare the ' Juneatmg ' to make the pie, and get my fingers * tanned.* Summer went very fast — she got as far as the woman from the hill, who brings the blueberry, and that is a long way. I shall have no winter this year, on account of the soldiers. Since I cannot weave blankets or boots, I thought it best to omit the season. Shall present a ' memorial ' to God when the maples turn. Can I rely on your * name ' ? How is your garden, Mary? Are the pinks true, and the sweet williams faithful ? I Ve got a ge- ranium like a sultana, and when the humming- birds come down, geranium and I shut our eyes, and go far away. Ask * Mamie ' if I shall catch her a butterfly with a vest like a Turk? I will, if she will build him a house in her 'morning-glory.' Vinnie would send her love, but she put on a white frock, and went to meet to-morrow — a few minutes ago ; mother would send her love, but she is in the ' eave spout,' sweeping up a leaf that blew in last November; I brought my own, myself, to you and Mr Bowles. Please remember me, because I remember you — always. Then follows the poem beginning * My river runs to thee/ published in the First Series of the Poems^ page 54. 198 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1861 Don*t cry, dear Mary. Let us do that for you, because you are too tired now. We don't know how dark it is, but if you are at sea, perhaps when we say that we are there, you won't be as afraid. The waves are very big, but every one that covers you, covers us, too. Dear Mary, you can't see us, but we are close at your side. May we comfort you? Lovingly, Emily. [Autumn, 1861.] Friend, Sir, — I did not see you. I am very sorry. Shall I keep the wine till you come again, or send it in by Dick ? It is now behind the door in the library, also an unclaimed flower. I did not know you were going so soon. Oh 1 my tardy feet. Will you not come again? Friends are gems, infrequent. Potosi is a care, sir. I guard it reverently, for I could not afford to be poor now, after affluence. I hope the hearts in Springfield are not so heavy as they were. God bless the hearts in Springfield. I am happy you have a horse. I hope you will get stalwart, and come and see us many years. 1 have but two acquaintance, the * quick and the dead' — and would like more. I write you frequently, and am much ashamed. My voice is not quite loud enough to cross so many 1862] TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 199 fields, which will, if you please, apologize for my pencil. Will you take my love to Mrs Bowles, whom I remember every day? Emilie. Vinnie hallos from the world of night-caps, * don't forget her love.' [January, 1862.] Dear Friend, — Are you willing? I am so far from land. To offer you the cup, it might some Sabbath come my turn. Of wine how solemn-full ! Did you get the doubloons — did you vote upon ' Robert * ? You said you would come in February, Only three weeks more to wait at the gate ! While you are sick, we — are homesick. Do you look out to-night? The moon rides like a girl through a topaz town. I don't think we shall ever be merry again — you are ill so long. When did the dark happen? I skipped a page to-night, because I come so often, now, I might have tired you. That page is fullest, though. Vinnie sends her love. I think father and mother care a great deal for you, and hope you may be well. When you tire with pain, to know that eyes would cloud, in Amherst — might that comfort, some ? Emily. We never forget Mary. 200 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1863 Dear Mr Bowles, — Thank you. Faith is a fine inyention When gentlemen can see t But microscopes are prudent In an emergency I ^ You spoke of the * East.' I have thought about it this winter. Don't you think you and I should be shrewder to take the mountain road? That bareheaded life, under the grass, worries one like a wasp. The rose is for Mary. £mily. The zeros taught us phosphorus — We learned to like the fire By plapng glaciers when a boy, And tinder guessed by power Of opposite to balance odd, If white, a red must be ! ^ Paralysis, our primer dumb Unto vitality. I could n't let Austin's note go, without a word. Emily. 1 Second Series, page 53. ^ The poems enclosed in letters to friends are often slightly different from her own copies preserved in the manuscript volumes. This line, for instance, in another place reads 'Eclipses suns imply.' i862] TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 201 Sunday Night. Dear Mary, — Could you leave 'Charlie* long enough? Have you time for mel I sent Mr Bowles a little note, last Saturday morning, asking him to do an errand for me. I forgot he was going to Washington, or I should n*t have troubled him, so late. Now, Mary, I fear he did not get it, and you tried to do the errand for me — and it troubled you. Did it? Will you tell me ? Just say with your pencil ' It did n't tire me, Emily,* and then I shall be sure, for with all your care, I would not have taxed you for the world. You never refused me, Mary, you cherished me many times, but I thought it must seem so selfish to ask the favor of Mr Bowles just as he went from home, only I forgot that. Tell me to-night just a word, Mary, with your own hand, so I shall know I harassed none — and I will be so glad. Austin told us of CharHe — I send a rose for his small hands. Put it in, when he goes to sleep, and then he will dream of Emily, and when you bring him to Amherst we shall be ' old friends.* Don't love him so well, you know, as to forget us. We shall wish he was n't there, if you do, I *m afraid, sha'n't we ? I '11 remember you, if you like me to, while Mr Bowles is gone, and that will stop the lonely, some, but I cannot agree to stop when he gets home from Washington. 202 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [iSfo Good- night, Mary. You won't forget my little note, to-morrow, in the mail. It will be the first one you ever wrote me in your life, and yet, was I the little friend a long time? Was I, Mary? Emily. [March, 1862.] Perhaps you thought I did n*t care — because I stayed out, yesterday. I did care, Mr Bowles. I pray for your sweet health to Allah every morning, but something troubled me, and I knew you needed light and air, so I did n't come. Nor have I the conceit that you noticed me — but I could n't bear that you, or Mary, so gentle to me, should think me forgetful. It *s little at the most, we can do for ours, and we must do that flying, or our things are flown I Dear friend, I wish you were well. It grieves me till I cannot speak, that you are suffering. Won't you come back? Can't I bring you something? My little balm might be o'erlooked by wiser eyes, you know. Have you tried the breeze that swings the sign, or the hoof of the dandelion ? / own 'em — wait for mine ! This is all I have to say. Kinsmen need say nothing, but ' Swiveller ' may be sure of the ' Marchioness.' Love for Mary. Dear Friend, — . . . Austin is disappointed — he expected to see you to-day. He is sure you i862] TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 203 won't go to sea without first speaking to him. I presume if Emily and Vinnie knew of his writing, they would entreat him to ask you not. Austin is chilled by Frazer's murder.^ He says his brain keeps saying over • Frazer is killed * — ' Frazer is killed/ just as father told it to him. Two or three words of lead, that dropped so deep they keep weighing. Tell Austin how to get over them ! He is very sorry you are not better. He cares for you when at the office, and afterwards, too, at home ; and sometimes wakes at night, with a worry for you he did n't finish quite by day. He would not like it that I betrayed him, so you'll never tell. . . . Mary sent beautiful flowers. Did she tell you? [Spring, 1862.] Dear Friend, — The hearts in Amherst ache to- night— you could not know how hard. They thought they could not wait, last night, until the engine sang a pleasant tune that time, because that you were coming. The flowers waited, in the vase, and love got peevish, watching. A railroad person rang, to bring an evening paper — Vinnie tipped pussy over, in haste to let you in, and I, for joy and dignity, held tight in my chair. My hope put out a petal. You would come, to-day, — but ... we don't be- ^ A son of President Steams of Amherst College, who was killed during the war, 13th March, 1862. i^ 204 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1862 lieve it, now ; * Mr Bowles not coming ! ' Would n't you, to-morrow, and this but be a bad dream, gone by next morning? Please do not take our spring away, since you blot summer out ! We cannot count our tears for this, because they drop so fast. . . . Dear friend, we meant to make you brave, but moaned before we thought.*. . . If you'll be sure and get well, we '11 try to bear it. If we could only care the less, it would be so much easier. Your letter troubled my throat. It gave that little scald- ing we could not know the reason for till we grew far up. I must do my good-night in crayon I meant to in red. Love for Mary. Emily. After Mr Bowles had sailed for Europe, Emily sent this quaintly consoling note to Springfield. [Early Summer, 1862.] Dear Mary, — When the best is gone, I know that other things are not of consequence. The heart wants what it wants, or else it does not care. You wonder why I write so. Because I cannot help. I like to have you know some care — so when your life gets faint for its other life, you can lean on us. We won't break, Mary. We look very small, but the reed can carry weight. i862] TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 205 Not to see what we love is very terrible, and talk- ing does n't ease it, and nothing does but just itself. The eyes and hair we chose are all there are — to us. Is n't it so, Mary? I often wonder how the love of Christ is done when that below holds so. I hope the little ' Robert ' coos away the pain. Perhaps your flowers help, some. . . . The frogs sing sweet to-day — they have such pretty, lazy times — how nice to be a frog ! . . . Mother sends her love to you — she has a sprained foot, and can go but little in the house, and not abroad at all. Don't dishearten, Mary, we '11 keep thinking of you. Kisses for all. Emily. [To Mr Bowles, June, 1862] Dear Friend, — You go away — and where you go we cannot come — but then the months have names — and each one comes but once a year' — and though it seems they never could, they sometimes do, go by. We hope you are more well than when you lived in America, and that those foreign people are kind, and true, to you. We hope you recollect each life you left behind, even ours, the least. We wish we knew how Amherst looked, in your memory. Smaller than it did, maybe, and yet things swell, by leaving, if big in themselves. 206 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1863 We hope you will not alter, but be the same we grieved for when the China sailed. If you should like to hear the news, we did not die here — we did not change. We have the guests we did, except yourself — and the roses hang on the same stems as before you went. Vinnie trains the honeysuckle, and the robins steal the string for nests — quite, quite as they used to. I have the errand from my heart — I might forget to tell it. Would you please to come home? The long life's years are scant, and fly away, the Bible says, like a told story — and sparing is a solemn thing, somehow, it seems to me — and I grope fast, with my fingers, for all out of my sight I own, to get it nearer. I had one letter from Mary. I think she tries to be patient — but you would n*t want her to succeed, would you, Mr Bowles? It 's fragrant news, to know they pine, when we are out of sight. It is 'most Commencement. The little cousin from Boston has come, and the hearts in Pelham have an added thrill. We shall miss you, most, dear friend, who annually smiled with us, at the gravities. I question if even Dr Vaill have his wonted applause. Should anybody, where you go, talk of Mrs Browning, you must hear for us, and if you touch her grave, put one hand on the head, for me — her unmentioned mourner. i862] TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 207 Father and mother, and Vmnie and Carlo, send their love to you, and warm wish for your health — and I am taking lessons in prayer, so to coax God to keep you safe. Good-night, dear friend. You sleep so far, how can I know you hear? Emily. Dear Friend, — I cannot see you. You will not less believe me. That you return to us alive is better than a summer, and more to hear your voice below than news of any bird. Emily. [August, 1862.] Dear Mr Bowles, — Vinnie is trading with a tin peddler — buying water-pots for me to sprinkle geraniums with when you get home next winter, and she has gone to the war. Summer is n't so long as it was, when we stood looking at it before you went away; and when I finish August, we '11 hop the autumn very soon, and then 't will be yourself. I don't know how many will be glad to see you, — because I never saw your whole friends, but I have heard that in large cities noted persons chose you — though how glad those I know will be, is easier told. I tell you, Mr Bowles, it is a suffering to have a sea — no care how blue — between your soul and you. The hills you used to love when you were in Northampton, miss their old lover, could they r" / 208 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSOl^ [i86a speak; and the puzzled look deepens in Carlo's forehead as the days go by and you never come. I Ve learned to read the steamer place in news- papers now. It *s *most like shaking hands with you, or more like your ringing at the door. We reckon your coming by the fruit When the grape gets by, and the pippin and the chestnut — when the days are a little short by the clock, and a little long by the want — when the sky has new red gowns, and a purple bonnet — then we say you will come. I am glad that kind of time goes by. It is easier to look behind at a pain, than to see it coming. A soldier called, a morning ago, and asked for a nosegay to take to battle. I suppose he thought we kept an aquarium. How sweet it must be to one to come home, whose home is in so many houses, and every heart a * best room.* I mean you, Mr Bowles. . . . Have not the clovers names to the bees? Emily. Before he comes We weigh the time, T is heavy, and *t is light. When he departs An emptiness Is the superior freight. Emily. i862] TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 209 While asters On the hill Their everlasting fashions set, And covenant gentians frill 1 Emily. [Late Autumn, 1862.J So glad we are, a stranger 'd deem 'T was sorry that we were ; For where the holiday should be There publishes a tear ; Nor how ourselves be justified, Since grief and joy are done So similar, an optizan Could not decide between. [Early Winter, 1862.] Dear Friend, — Had we the art like you, to endow so many, by just recovering our health, 'twould give us tender pride, nor could we keep the news, but carry it to you, who seem to us to own it most. I So few that live have life, it seems of quick im- portance not one of those escape by death. And since you gave us fear, congratulate us for ourselves — you give us safer peace. How extraordinary that life's large population' contain so few of power to us — and those a vivid species who leave no mode, like Tyrian dye. Remembering these minorities, permit our grati- VOL. I. — 14 210 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1862 tude for you. We ask that you be cautious, for many sakes, excelling ours. To recapitulate the stars were useless as supreme. Yourself is yours, dear friend, but ceded, is it not, to here and there a minor life ? Do not defraud these, for gold may be bought, and purple may be bought, but the sale of the spirit never did occur. Do not yet work. No public so exorbitant of any as its friend, and we can wait your health. Besides, there is an idleness more tonic than toil. The loss of sickness — was it loss ? Or that ethereal gain You earned by measuring the grave, Then measuring the sun. Be sure, dear friend, for want you have estates of lives. Emily. [With Flowers.] If she had been the mistletoe. And I had been the rose. How gay upon your table My velvet life to close ! Since I am of the Druid, And she is of the dew, I '11 deck tradition's buttonhole. And send the rose to you. E. Dear Mr Bowles, — I can't thank you any more. You are thoughtful so many times you i862] TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 211 grieve me always ; ticHv the old words are numb, and there are n't any new ones. Brooks are useless in freshet time. When you come to Amherst — please God it were to-day — I will tell you about the picture — if I can^ I will. Speech is a prank of Parliament, Tears a trick of the nerve, — But the heart with the heaviest freight on Does n*t always swerve. Emily. Perhaps you think me stooping ! I 'm not ashamed of that ! Christ stooped until he touched the grave ! Do those at sacrament Commemorate dishonor — Or love, annealed of love. Until it bend as low as death Re-royalized above ? The juggler's hat her country is, The mountain gorse the bee *s. I stole them from a bee, Because — thee ! Sweet plea — He pardoned me ! Emily. Besides the verses given here, many others were sent to Mr and Mrs Bowles, as to the Hollands, which, having already been published 212 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [i86; in one or the other volume of the Poems will not be reprinted. [Summer, 1863.] Dear Friends, — I am sorry you came^ because you went away. Hereafter, I will pick no rose, lest it fade or pricl me. I would like to have you dwell here. Though it is almost nine o'clock, the skies arc gay and yellow, and there *s a purple craft or so, ir which a friend could sail. To-night looks like ' Jerusalem' ! . . . I hope we may all behave so as to reach Jerusalem. How are your hearts to-day? Ours are prettj well. I hope your tour was bright, and gladdened Mrs Bowles. Perhaps the retrospect will call you back some morning. You shall find us all at the gate if you come in a hundred years, just as we stood that day. If it become of 'jasper' previously, you will not object, so that we lean there still, looking after you. I rode with Austin this morning. He showed me mountains that touched the sky, and brooks that sang like bobolinks. Was he not very kind? I will give them to you, for they are mine, and ' all things are mine,' excepting ' Cephas and ApoUos,' for whom I have no taste. Vinnie's love brims mine. Take Emuie. 1863] TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 213 Dear Mrs Bowles, — Since I have no sweet flower to send you, I enclose my heart. A little one, sunburnt, half broken sometimes, yet close as the spaniel to its friends. Your flowers come from heaven, to which, if I should ever go, I will pluck you palms. My words are far away when I attempt to thank you, so take the silver tear instead, from my full eye. You have often remembered me. I have little dominion. Are there not wiser than I, who, with curious treasure, could requite your gift? Angels All the hand that loaded Emily's. Nature and God, I neither knew, Yet both, so well knew me They startled, Uke executors Of an identity. Yet neither told, that I could learn ; My secret as secure As Herschel's private interest. Or Mercury's affair. [1863.] Dear Friend, — You remembei; the little ' meet- ing ' we held for you last spring ? We met again, Saturday. 'Twas May when we 'adjourned,' but then ad- journs are all. The meetings were alike, Mr Bowles. 214 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1863 The topic did not tire us, so we chose no new, We voted to remember you so long as both should live, including immortality; to count you as our- selves, except sometimes more tenderly, as now, when you are ill, and we, the haler of the two — and so I bring the bond we sign so many times, for V'ou to read when chaos comes, or treason, or decay, still witnessing for^ morning. . . . We hope our joy to see you gave of its own degree to you. We pray for your new health, the prayer that goes not down when they shut the church. We offer you our cups — stintless, as to the bee, — the lily, her new liquors. Would you like summer? Taste of ours. Spices? Buy here ! Ill ! We have berries, for the parching I Weary ! Furloughs of down ! Perplexed ! Estates of violet trouble ne'er looked on ! Captive ! We bring reprieve of roses 1 Fainting ! Flasks of air ! Even for Death, a fairy medicine. But, which is it, sir? Emily. I *11 send the feather from my hat ! Who knows but at the sight of that My sovereign will relent? As trinket, worn by faded child. Confronting eyes long comforted Blisters the adamant ! Emily. 1864] TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 21$ Her breast is fit for pearls, But I was not a diver. Her brow is fit for thrones, But I had not a crest. Her heart is fit for rest — I, a sparrow, build there Sweet of twigs and twine, My perennial nest. [1864 ?] Dear Friend, — How hard to thank you — but the large heart requites itself. Please to need me. I wanted to ask you to receive Mr Browning from me, but you denied ray Bronte — so I did not dare. Is it too late now? I should like so much to remind you how kind you had been to me. You could choose — as you did before — if it would not be obnoxious — except where you ' measured by your heart,* you should measure this time by mine. I wonder which would be biggest ! Austin told, Saturday morning, that you were not so well. *T was sundown, all day, Saturday — and Sunday such a long bridge no news of you could cross ! Teach us to miss you less because the fear to miss you more haunts us all the time. We did n*t care so much, once. I wish it was then, now, but you kept tightening, so it can't be stirred to-day. You did n't mean to be worse, did you ? Was n*t it a mistake ? 2l6 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1864 Won't you decide soon to be the strong man we first knew? *T would lighten things so much — and yet that man was not so dear — I guess you'd better not. We pray for you, every night. A homely shrine our knee, but Madonna looks at the heart first Dear friend — don't discourage ! Affectionately, Emily. No wilderness can be Where this attendeth thee — No desert noon. No fear of frost to come Haunt the perennial bloom, But certain June I Emily. The following lines, sent with flowers, have almost as quaint and * seventeenth century ' a flavor as the now famous quatrain beginning, — ' A death-blow is a life-blow to some.' If recollecting were forgetting Then I remember not. And if forgetting, recollecting, How near I had forgot ! And if to miss were merry, And if to mourn were gay. How very blithe the fingers That gathered this, to-day ! Emilie. 1864] TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 21/ Other verses, sent at different times, were written in the same general hand, — that of the early middle period, from about 1863 to 1870; among them : — * They have not chosen me,* he said, * But I have chosen them.* Brave, broken-hearted statement Uttered in Bethlehem ! / could not have told it, But since Jesus dared. Sovereign ! know a daisy Thy dishonor shared. Emily. Saturday. Mother never asked a favor of Mr Bowles before — that he accept from her the little barrel of apples. ' Sweet apples,* she exhorts me, with an occasional Baldwin for Mary and the squirrels. Emily. Just once — oh ! least request ! Could adamant refuse So small a grace. So scanty put. Such agonizing terms? Would not a God of flint Be conscious of a sigh. As down his heaven dropt remote, 'Just once, sweet Deity? * ^1 I It; r I* M I . • 1 1 1 1 I ^ ^^ ^ ^ ^r:^^^ f:>:f /^- ^ • -^35^ 'g^ ^^ iv-- 1865I TO MR AND MRS BOWLES 219 A spray of white pine was enclosed with this note : — A feather from the whippoorwill That everlasting sings ! Whose galleries are sunrise, Whose opera the springs, Whose emerald nest the ages spin Of mellow, murmuring thread, Whose beryl egg, what school boys-hunt In * recess ' overhead ! Emily. We part with the river at the flood through a timid custom, though with the same waters we have often played. Emily. [1865?] Dear Friend, — Vinnie accidentally mentions that you hesitated between the Theophilus and the Junius. Would you confer so sweet a favor as to accept that too, when you come again? I went to the room as soon as you left, to conflrm your presence, recalling the Psalmist's sonnet to God beginning I have no life but this — ' To lead it here, Nor any death but lest Dispelled from there. Nor tie to earths to come, Nor action new, Except through this extent — The love of you. 220 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1869 It is Strange that the most mtangible thing is the most adhesive. Your ' rascal.' I washed the adjective. [1868 ?] I should think you would have few letters, for your own are so noble that they make men afraid. And sweet as your approbation is, it is had in fear, lest your depth convict us. You compel us each to remember that when water ceases to rise, it has commenced falling. That is the law of flood. The last day that I saw you was the newest and oldest of my life. Resurrection can come but once, first, to the same house. Thank you for leading us by it. Come always, dear friend, but refrain from going. You spoke of not liking to be forgotten. Could you, though you would? Treason never knew you. I1869?) Dear Friend, — You have the most triumphant face out of Paradise, probably because you are there constantly, instead of ultimately. Ourselves we do inter with sweet derision the channel of the dust; who once achieves, invali- dates the balm of that religion, that doubts as fervently as it believes. Emu^y. 1873] ^<5 ^^ ^^^ ^^^ BOWLES 221 Wednesday. Dear Mr Bowles's note, of itself a blossom, came only to-night. I am glad it lingered, for each was all the heart could hold. Emily. Of your exquisite act there can be no acknowl- edgment but the ignominy that grace gives. Emily. Could mortal lip divine The undeveloped freight Of a delivered syllable, 'T would crumble with the weight ! [1873-] Dear Friend, — It was so delicious to see you — a peach before the time — it makes all seasons possible, and zones a caprice. We, who arraign the Arabian Nights for their un- derstatement, escape the stale sagacity of supposing them sham. We miss your vivid face, and the besetting accents you bring from your Numidian haunts. Your coming welds anew that strange trinket of life which each of us wear and none of us own ; and the phosphorescence of yours startles us for its permanence. Please rest the life so many own — for gems abscond. 222 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1874 In your own beautiful words — for the voice is the palace of all of us, — * Near, but remote.' Emily. [1874] Dear Friend, — The paper wanders so I cannot write my name on it, so I give you father's portrait instead. As summer into autumn slips And yet we sooner say ' The summer * than ' the autumn,' lest We turn the sun away. And almost count it an affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved, — So we evade the charge of years. One, one attempting shy The circumvention of the shaft Of life's declivity. Emily. If we die, will you come for us, as you do for father ? ' Not bom,' yourself ' to die,' you must reverse us all. Last to adhere When summers swerve away — Elegy of Integrity. 1878I TO MRS BOWLES 223 To remember our own Mr Bowles is all we can do. With grief it is done, so warmly and long, it can never be new. Emily. In January of 1878, Mr Bowles died, leaving a sense of irreparable loss, not only to his friends, but to his great constituency through The Republican^ into whose success he had woven the very tissue of his own magnetic personality. [January, 1878.] I hasten to you, Mary, because no moment must be lost when a heart is breaking, for though it broke so long, each time is newer than the last, if it broke truly. To be willing that I should speak to you was so generous, dear. Sorrow almost resents love, it is so inflamed. 1 I am glad if the broken words helped you. I had not hoped so much, I felt so faint in uttering them, thinking of your great pain. Love makes us ' heavenly ' without our trying in the least. *T is easier than a Saviour — it does not stay on high and call us to its distance ; its low ' Come unto me * begins in every place. It makes but one mistake, it tells us it is ' rest ' — perhaps its toil is rest, but what we have not known we shall know again, that divine 'again* for which we are all breathless. I am glad you *work.' Work is a bleak re- 224 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1878 deemer, but it does redeem ; it tires the flesh so that can't tease the spirit. Dear ' Mr Sam ' is very near, these midwinter days. When purples come on Pelham, in the afternoon, we say ' Mr Bowles's colors.' I spoke to him once of his Gem chapter, and the beautiful eyes rose till they were out of reach of mine, in some hallowed fathom. Not that he goes — we love him more who led us while he stayed. Beyond earth's trafficking frontier, for what he moved, he made. Mother is timid and feeble, but we keep her with us. She thanks you for remembering her, and never forgets you. . . . Your sweet 'and left me all alone,' consecrates your lips. Eboly. [Spring, 1878.] Had you never spoken to any, dear, they would not upbraid you, but think of you more softly, as one who had suffered too much to speak. To forget you would be impossible, had we never seen you ; for you were his for whom we moan while con- sciousness remains. As he was himself Eden, he is with Eden, for we cannot become what we were not. I felt it sweet that you needed me — though but a simple shelter I will always last. I hope your boys and girls assist his dreadful absence, for sorrow does not stand so still on their flying hearts. i879] TO MRS BOWLES 22$ How fondly we hope they look like him — that his beautiful face may be abroad. Was not his countenance on earth graphic as a spirit's? The time will be long till you see him, dear, but it will be short, for have we not each our heart to dress — heavenly as his ? He is without doubt with my father. Thank you for thinking of him, and the sweet, last respect you so faithfully paid him. Mother is growing better, though she cannot stand, and has not power to raise her head for a glass of water. She thanks you for being sorry, and speaks of you with love. . . . Your timid ' for his sake,* recalls that sheltering passage, 'for his sake who loved us, and gave himself to die for us.' Emily. [1879.1 How lovely to remember ! How tenderly they told of you ! Sweet toil for smitten hands to con- sole the smitten 1 Labors as endeared may engross our lost. Buds of other days quivered in remembrance. Hearts of other days lent their solemn charm. Life of flowers lain in flowers — what a home of dew ! And the bough of ivy ; was it as you said ? Shall I plant it softly ? There were little feet, white as alabaster. Dare I chill them with the soil ? VOL. I. — 15 226 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [iS8a, Nature is our eldest mother, she will do no harm. Let the phantom love that enrolls the sparrow shield you softer than a child. [April, 1880.] Dear Mary, — The last April that father lived, lived I mean below, there were several snow-storms, and the birds were so frightened and cold, they sat by the kitchen door. Father went to the bam in his slippers and came back with a breakfast of grain for each, and hid himself while he scattered it, lest it embarrass them. Ignorant of the name or fate of their benefactor, their descendants are singing this afternoon. As I glanced at your lovely gift, his April re- turned. I am powerless toward your tenderness. Thanks of other days seem abject and dim, yet antiquest altars are the fragrantest. The past has been very near this week, but not so near as the future — both of them pleading, the latter priceless. David's grieved decision haunted me when a little girl. I hope he has found Absalom. Immortality as a guest is sacred, but when it becomes as with you and with us, a member of the family, the tie is more vivid. . . . If affection can reinforce, you, dear, shall not fall. Emily. i88i] TO MRS BOWLES 22/ [PraJbably the famous * Yellow Day," September 6, 1881.] Tuesday, Dear Mary, — I give you only a word this mysterious morning in which we must light the lamps to see each other's faces, thanking you for the trust too confiding for speech. You spoke of enclosing the face of your child. As it was not there, forgive me if I tell you, lest even the copy of sweetness abscond; and may I trust you received the flower the mail promised to take you, my foot being incompetent? The timid mistake about being ' forgotten,' shall I caress or reprove ? Mr SamuePs ' sparrow * does not ' fall ' without the fervent * notice.* 'Would you see us, would Vinnie?* Oh, my doubting Mary ! Were you and your brave son in my father's house, it would require more prowess than mine to resist seeing you. Shall I still hope for the picture? And please address to my full name, as the little note was detained and opened, the name being so frequent in town, though not an Emily but myself. Vinnie says 'give her my love, and tell her I would delight to see her;' and mother combines. There should be no tear on your cheek, dear, had my hand the access to brush it away. Emily. [1881.] Dear Mary, — To have been the mother of the beautiful face, is of itself fame, and the look of 228 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1881 Arabia in the eyes is like Mr Samuel. * Mr Samuel' is his memorial name. 'Speak, that we may see thee/ and Gabriel no more ideal than his swift eclipse. Thank you for the beauty, which I reluctantly return, and feel like committing a * startling fraud * in that sweet direction. If her heart is as magical as her face, she will wreck many a spirit, but the sea is ordained. Austin looked at her long and earnestly. ' Yes, it is Sam*s child.' His Cashmere confeder- ate. It is best, dear, you have so much to do. Action is redemption. ' And again a little while and ye shall not see me,* Jesus confesses is temporary. Thank you indeed. Ekoly. END OF VOLUME I. LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON Xaucm n 1859] TO THE MISSES 23 1 see I know they are coming back, and other people don't, that makes the difference. I Ve had a curious winter, very swift, sometimes sober, for I have n't felt well, much, and March amazes me ! I did n't think of it, that *s all ! Your * hay * don't look so dim as it did at one time. I hayed a little for the horse two Sundays ago, and mother thought it was summer, and set one plant outdoors which she brought from the deluge, but it snowed since, and we have fine sleighing, now, on one side of the road, and wheeling on the other, a kind of variegated turnpike quite picturesque to see ! You are to have Vinnie, it seems, and I to tear my hair, or engage in any other vocation that seems fitted to me. Well, the earth is round, so if Vinnie rolls your side sometimes, 't is n't strange ; I wish I were there too, but the geraniums felt so I could n't think of leaving them, and one minute carnation pink cried, till I shut her up — see box ! Now, my love, robins, for both of you, and when you and Vinnie sing at sunrise on the apple boughs, just cast your eye to my twig. Poor Plover. [Early Summer, 1859.] Dear L , — You did not acknowledge my vegetable ; perhaps you are not familiar with it. I was reared in the garden, you know. It was to be eaten with mustard ! Bush eighty feet high, just under 232 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1S59 chamber window — much used at this season when other vegetables are gone. You should snuff the hay if you were here to-day, infantile as yet, homely, as cubs are prone to be, but giving brawny promise of hay-cocks by and by. * Methinks I see you,* as school-girls say, perched upon a cock with the Matest work,' and confused visions of bumblebees tugging at your hat. Not so far off, cousin, as it used to be, that vision and the hat. It makes me feel so hurried, I run and brush my hair so to be all ready. I enjoy much with a precious fly, during sister's absence, not one of your blue monsters, but a timid creature, that hops from pane to pane of her white house, so very cheerfully, and hums and thrums, a sort of speck piano. Tell Vinnie I *11 kill him the day she comes, for I sha'n't need him any more, and she don't mind flies ! Tell F and papa to come with the sweet- williams. Tell Vinnie I counted three peony noses, red as Sammie Matthews's, just out of the ground, and get her to make the accompanying face. * By-Bye.* Emily. Miss Lavinia Dickinson was visiting her cousins when their mother died, and Emily's letter to her sister at that time seems more appropriate here than in any other con- nection : — i860] to the misses 233 [April, i860.] ViNNiE, — I can't believe it, when your letters come, saying what Aunt L said 'just before she died.* Blessed Aunt L now; all the world goes out, and I see nothing but her room, and angels bearing her into those great countries in the blue sky of which we don't know anything. Then I sob and cry till I can hardly see my way 'round the house again ; and then sit still and won- der if she sees us now, if she sees me, who said that she * loved Emily.' Oh ! Vinnie, it is dark and strange to think of summer afterward ! How she loved the summer ! The birds keep singing just the same. Oh ! The thoughtless birds ! Poor little L ! Poor F ! You must com- fort them ! If you were with me, Vinnie, we could talk about her together. And I thought she would live ! I wanted her to live so, I thought she could not die ! To think how still she lay while I was making the little loaf, and fastening her flowers ! Did you get my letter in time to tell her how happy I would be to do what she requested? Mr Brady is coming to-morrow to bring arbutus for her. Dear little aunt ! Will she look down? You must tell me all you can think about her. Did she carry my little bouquet ? So many broken- hearted people have got to hear the birds sing, and 234 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [i86a see all the little flowers grow, just the same as if the sun had n*t stopped shining forever ! • . . How I wish I could comfort you ! How I wish you could comfort me, who weep at what I did not see and never can believe. I will try and share you a little longer, but it is so long, Vinnie. We did n*t think, that morning when I wept that you left me, and you, for other things, that we should weep more bitterly before we saw each other. Well, she is Siifer now than *we know or even think.* Tired little aunt, sleeping ne'er so peace- ful ! Tuneful little aunt, singing, as we trust, hymns than which the robins have no sweeter ones. Good-night, broken hearts, L , and F , and Uncle L . Vinnie, remember Sister. [Autumn, i860.] Bravo, L , the cape is a beauty, and what shall I render unto F , for all her benefits ? I will take my books and go into a comer and give thanks ! Do you think I am going * upon the boards * that I wish so smart attire? Such are my designs, though. I beg you not to disclose them 1 May I not secure L for drama, and F for comedy? You are a brace of darlings, and it would give me joy to see you both, in any capacity. . . . Will treasure all till I see you. Never fear that I shall forget ! In event of my decease, I will still exclaim *Dr Thompson,' and he will reply 'Miss Montague.' i86o] TO THE MISSES 235 My little L pined for the hay in her last com- munication. Not to be saucy, dear, we sha'n't have any more before the first of March, Dick having hid it all in the bam in a most malicious manner ; but he has not brought the sunset in, so there is still an inducement to my little girls. We have a sky or two, well worth consideration, and trees so fashion- able they make us all passee, I often remember you both, last week. I thought that flown mamma could not, as was her wont, shield from crowd, and strangers, and was glad Eliza was there. I knew she would guard my children, as she has often guarded me, from publicity, and help to fill the deep place never to be full. Dear cousins, I know you both better than I did, and love you both better, and always I have a chair for you in the smallest parlor in the world, to wit, my heart. This world is just a little place, just the red in the sky, before the sun rises, so let us keep fast hold of hands, that when the birds begin, none of us be missing. * Bumham ' must think F a scholastic female. I would n't be in her place ! If she feels delicate about it, she can tell him the books are for a friend in the East Indies. Won't F give my respects to the ' Bell and Everett party ' if she passes that organization on her way to school? I hear they wish to make me Lieutenant-Governor's daughter. Were they cats 236 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1861 I would pull their tails, but as they are only patriots, I must forego the bliss. . . . Love to papa. Emily. [Winter, 1860-61.] Dear Friends, — L 's note to Miss W only stopped to dine. It went out with a beautiful name on its face in the evening mail. * Is there nothing else,' as the clerk says? So pleased to enact a trifle for my little sister. It is little sisters you are, as dear F says in the hallowed note. Could mamma read it, it would blur her light even in Paradise. It was pretty to lend us the letters from the new friends. It gets us acquainted. We will preserve them carefully. ... I regret I am not a scholar in the Friday class. I believe the love of God may be taught not to seem like bears. Happy the reprobates under that loving influence. I have one new bird and several trees of old ones. A snow slide from the roof, dispelled mother's ' sweetbrier.' You will of course feel for her, as you were named for him 1 There are as yet no streets, though the sun is riper, and these small bells have rung so long I think it ' tea-time ' always. [Spring, 1861.] . . . Send a sundown for L ^ please, and a crocus for F . Shadow had no stem, so they could not pick him. i86i] TO THE MISSES 237 fed greedily upon Harper's Magazines while here. Suppose he is restricted to Martin Luther's works at home. It is a criminal thing to be a boy in a godly village, but maybe he will be forgiven. . . . The seeing pain one can't relieve makes a demon of one. If angels have the heart beneath their silver jackets, I think such things could make them weep, but Heaven is so cold ! It will never look kind to me that God, who causes all, denies such little wishes. It could not hurt His glory, unless it were a lonesome kind. I 'most conclude it is. . . . Thank you for the daisy. With nature in my ruche I shall not miss the spring. What would become of us, dear, but for love to reprieve our blunders? ... I'm afraid that home is 'most done, but do not say I fear so. Perhaps God will be better. They 're happy, you know. That makes it doubtful. Heaven hunts round for those that find itself below, and then it snatches. . . . Think Emily lost her wits — but she found 'em, likely. Don't part with wits long in this neighborhood. . . . Your letters are all real, just the tangled road children walked before you, some of them to 238 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1861 the end, and others but a little way, even as far as the fork in the road. That Mrs Browning fainted, we need not read Aurora Leigh to know, when she lived with her English aunt ; and George Sand * must make no noise in her grandmother's bed- room.' Poor children ! Women, now, queens, now ! And one in the Eden of God. I guess they both forget that now, so who knows but we, little stars from the same night, stop twinkling at last ? Take heart, little sister, twilight is but the short bridge, and the moon stands at the end. If we can only get to her ! Yet, if she sees us fainting, she will put out her yellow hands. . . . [December, 1861.] Dear Peacock, — I received your feather with profound emotion. It has already surmounted a work, and crossed the Delaware. Doubtless you are moulting a la canary bird — hope you will not suffer from the reduction of plumage these December days. The latitude is quite stiff for a few nights, and gentlemen and ladies who go barefoot in our large cities must find the climate uncomfortable. A land of frosts and zeros is not precisely the land for me ; hope you find it congenial. I believe it is several hundred years since- 1 met you and F ^ yet I am pleased to say, you do not become dim ; I think you rather brighten as the hours fly. I should love to see you dearly, girls ; perhaps I may, before i86i] TO THE MISSES 239 south winds, but I feel rather confused to-day, and the future looks ' higglety-pigglety/ You seem to take a smiling view of my finery. If you knew how solemn it was to me, you might be induced to curtail your jests. My sphere is doubt- less calicoes, nevertheless I thought it meet to sport a little wool. The mirth it has occasioned will deter me from further exhibitions ! Won't you tell * the public ' that at present I wear a brown dress with a cape if possible browner, and carry a parasol of the same ! We have at present one cat, and twenty- four hens, who do nothing so vulgar as lay an egg, which checks the ice-cream tendency. I miss the grasshoppers much, but suppose it is all for the best. I should become too much at- tached to a trotting world. My garden is all covered up by snow ; picked ^ gilliflower Tuesday, now gilliflowers are asleep. The hills take off their purple frocks, and dress in long white nightgowns. There is something fine and something sad in the year's toilet. . . . We often talk of you and your father these new winter days. Write, dear, when you feel like it. Lovingly, Emily. [December 29, 1861.] . . . Your letter did n't surprise me, L ; I brushed away the sleet from eyes familiar with it — - 240 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1861 looked again to be sure I read it right — and then took up my work hemming strings for mother's gown. I think I hemmed them faster for knowing you were n't coming, my fingers had nothing else to do. . . . Odd, that I, who say ' no * so much, cannot bear it from others. Odd, that I, who run from so many, cannot brook that one turn from me. Come when you will, L , the hearts are never shut here. I don't remember 'May.* Is that the one that stands next April ? And is that the month for the river-pink ? Mrs Adams had news of the death of her boy to-day, from a wound at Annapolis. Telegram signed by Frazer Steams. You remember him. Another ong^K^d in October — from fever caught in the earner Mrs Adams herself has not risen from bed since yftien. ' Happy new year * step softly over such doors as these ! ' Dead ! Both her boys ! One of them shot by the sea in the East, and one of them shot in the West by the sea.* . . . Christ be merciful ! Frazer Stearns is just leaving Annapolis. His father has gone to see him to-day. I hope that ruddy face won't be brought home frozen. Poor little widow's boy, riding to-night in the mad wind, back to the village burying-ground where he never dreamed of sleeping 1 Ah ! the dreamless sleep ! Did you get the letter I sent a week fix)m Monday? You did not say, and it makes me anxious, and I sent a scrap for Saturday last, that i862] TO THE MISSES 24 1 too ? L , I wanted you very much, and I put you by with sharper tears than I give to many. Won't you tell me about the chills — what the doctor says ? I must not lose you, sweet. Tell me if I could send a tuft to keep the cousin warm, a blanket of a thistle, say, or something ! Much love and Christmas, and sweet year, for you and F and papa. Emilie. Dear little F 's note received, and shall write her soon. Meanwhile, we wrap her in our heart to keep her tight and warm. . . . Uncle told us you were too busy. Fold your little hands — the heart is the only workman we cannot excuse. . . . Gratitude is not the mention of a tender- ness, but its mute appreciation, deeper than we reach — all our Lord demands, who sizes better knows than we. Willing unto death, if only we per- ceive He die. [February, 1862.] Dear F , — I fear you are getting as driven as Vinnie. We consider her standard for super- human effort erroneously applied. Dear L remembers the basket Vinnie ' never got to.* But we must blame with lenience. Poor Vinnie has 242 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1863 been very sick, and so have we all, and I feared one day our little brothers would see us no more, but God was not so hard. Now health looks so beau- tiful, the tritest ' How do you do ' is living with meaning. No doubt you * heard a bird,' but which route did he take ? Has n't reached here yet. Are you sure it was n't a ' down brakes * ? Best of ears will blunder ! Unless he come by the first of April, I sha'n't countenance him. We have had fetal weather — thermometer two below zero all day, without a word of apology. Summer was always dear, but such a kiss as she '11 get from me if I ever see her again, will make her cry, I know. . . . [April, 1862.] Dear Children, — You have done more for me — 't is least that I can do, to tell you of brave Frazer — * killed at Newbem,' darlings. His big heart shot away by a ' Minie ball.' I had read of those — I did n't think that Frazer would carry one to Eden with him. Just as he fell, in his soldier's cap, with his sword at his side, Frazer rode through Amherst. Classmates to the right of him, and classmates to the left of him, to guard his narrow face ! He fell by the side of Professor Clark, his superior officer — lived ten minutes in a soldier's arms, asked twice for water — murmured just, * My God ! * and passed ! Sanderson, his classmate, made a box of boards in the night, put the brave boy in, covered with a 1 862] TO THE MISSES 243 blanket, rowed six miles to reach the boat, — so poor Frazer came. They tell that Colonel Clark cried like a little child when he missed his pet, and could hardly resume his post. They loved each other very much. Nobody here could look on Frazer — not even his father. The doctors would not allow it. The bed on which he came was enclosed in a large casket shut entirely, and covered from head to foot with the sweetest flowers. He went to sleep from the village church. Crowds came to tell him good- night, choirs sang to him, pastors told how brave he was — early-soldier heart. And the family bowed their heads, as the reeds the wind shakes. So our part in Frazer is done, but you must come next summer, and we will mind ourselves of this young crusader — too brave that he could fear to die. We will play his tunes — maybe he can hear them ; we will try to comfort his broken-hearted Ella, who, as the clergyman said, 'gave him peculiar confi- dence.' . . . Austin is stunned completely. Let us love better, children, it 's most that 's left to do. Love from Emily. , . . Sorrow seems more general than it did, and not the estate of a few persons, since the war began; and if the anguish of others helped one with one's own, now would be many medicines. 'T is dangerous to value, for only the precious can alarm. I noticed that Robert Browning had made / 244 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1861 another poem, and was astonished — till I remem- bered that I, myself, in my smaller way, sang off chamel steps. Every day life feels mightier, and what we have the power to be, more stupendous. [May, 1862.] When you can leave your little children, L , you must tell us all you know about dear Myra's going, so sudden, and shocking to us all, we are only bewildered and cannot believe the telegrams. I want so much to see you, and ask you what it means, and why this young life's sacrifice should come so soon, and not far off. I wake in the morning saying * Myra, no more Myra in this world,' and the thought of that young face in the dark, makes the whole so sorrowful, I cover my face with the blanket, so the robins' singing cannot get through — I had rather not hear it. Was Myia willing to leave us all? I want so much to know if it was very hard, husband and babies and big life and sweet home by the sea. I should think she would rather have stayed. . . . She came to see us first in May. I remember her frock, and how prettily she fixed her hair, and she and Vinnie took long walks, and got home to tea at sundown ; and now remembering is all there is, and no more Myra. I wish 't was plainer, L , the anguish in this world. I wish one could be sure the suffering had a loving side. The thought to look down some day, and i862] TO THE MISSES 245 see the crooked steps we came, from a safer place, must be a precious thing. . . . L , you are a dear child to go to Uncle J , and all will thank you, who love him. We will re- member you every day, and the little children, and make a picture to ourself, of the small mamma. . . . Father and Vinnie would have gone immediately to Lynn, but got the telegram too late. Tell Uncle they wanted to. But what can Emily say? Their Father in Heaven remember them and her. My little girls have alarmed me so that notwith- standing the comfort of Austin's assurance that 'they will come/ I am still hopeless and scared, and regard Commencement as some vast anthropic bear, ordained to eat me up. What made *em scare" 'em so? Did n't they know Cousin Aspen could n't stand alone ? I remember a tree in McLean Street, when you and we were a little girl, whose leaves went topsy-turvy as often as a wind, and showed an ashen side — that 's fright, that 's Emily. L and F were that wind, and the poor leaf, who? Won't they stop a' blowing ? . . . Commencement would be a dreary spot without my double flower, that sows itself, and just comes up, when Emily seeks it most. Austin gives excellent account, I trust not overdrawn. 'Health and aspect admirable, and lodgings very fine.' Says the rooms were marble, even to the flies. Do they dwell in Carrara ? Did they find the garden in the gown ? Should have VOL. II. — 2 246 LETTERS OP BMiLY DiCKlNSOI^ [1863 sent a fann, but feared for our button-hole. Hope to hear favorable news on receipt of this. Please give date of coming, so we might prepare our heart Emily. [July, 1862?] . . . Just a word for my children, before the mails shut. L left a tumbler of sweet-peas on the green room bureau. I am going to leave them there till they make pods and sow themselves in the upper drawer, and then I guess they'll blossom about Thanksgiving time. There was a thunder- shower here Saturday at car-time, and Emily was glad her little ones had gone before the hail and rain, lest it frighten them. . . . We wish the visit had just begun instead of ending now ; next time we '11 leave * the mountains ' out, and tell good Dr Gregg to recommend the orchards. I defrauded L of I spool of thread; we will 'settle,* however — and F *s ruff is set high in my book of remembrance. They must be good children and recollect, as they agreed, and grow so strong in health that Emily won't know them when they show again. . . . Such a purple morning — even to the morning-glory that climbs the cherry-tree. The cats desire love to F . Emily. [About May 30, 1863.] I said I should come ' in a day.* Emily never fails except for a cause ; that you know^ dear L . 1863] TO THE MISSES 24/ The nights turned hot, when Vinnie had gone, and I must keep no window raised for fear of prowling ' booger/ and I must shut my door for fear front door slide open on me at the ' dead of night,' and I must keep *gas* burning to light the danger up, so I could distinguish it — these gave me a snarl in the brain which don't unravel yet, and that old nail in my breast pricked me ; these, dear, were my cause. Truth is so best of all I wanted you to know. Vinnie will tell of her visit. . . . About Commencement, children, I can have no doubt, if you should fail me then, my little life would fail of itself. Could you only lie in your little^ bed and smile at me, that would be support. Tell the doctor I am inexorable, besides I shall heal you quicker than he. You need the balsam word. And who is to cut the cake, ask F , and chirp to those trustees ? Tell me, dears, by the coming mail, that you will not fail me. . . . Jennie Hitchcock's mother was buried yesterday, so there is one orphan more, and her father is veiy sick besides. My father and mother went to the service, and mother said while the minister prayed, a hen with her chickens came up, and tried to fly into the window. I suppose the dead lady used to feed them, and they wanted to bid her good-by. Life is death we *re lengthy at, Death the hinge to life. Love from all, Emily. 248 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1863 [Autumn, 1863.] Wednesday, Dear Children, — Nothing has happened but loneliness, perhaps too daily to relate. Carlo is consistent, has asked for nothing to eat or drink, since you went away. Mother thinks him a model dog, and conjectures what he might have been, had not Vinnie ' demora,U7.*»d * him. Margaret objects to furnace heat on account of bone decrepitudes, so I dwell in my bonnet and suffer comfortably. . . . Miss Kingman called last evening to inspect your garden ; I gave her a lanthom, and she went out, and thanks you very much. No one has called so far, but one old lady to look at a house. I directed her to the cemetery to spare expense of moving. I got down before father this morning, and spent a few moments profitably with the South Sea rose. Father detecting me, advised wiser employment, and read at devotions the chapter of the gentleman with one talent. I think he thought my conscience would adjust the gender. Margaret washed to-day, and accused Vinnie of calicoes. I put her shoe and bonnet in to have them nice when she got home. I found a milliner's case in Miss N *s wardrobe, and have opened business. I have removed a geranium leaf, and sup- plied a lily in Vinnie's parlor vase. The sweet-peas are unchanged. Cattle-show is to-morrow. The coops and committees are passing now. . . . They are picking the Baldwin apples. Be good children. i863] TO THE MISSES 249 and mind the vicar. Tell me precisely how Wakefield looks, since I go not myself. ;f Emily. [Autumn, 1863.] ... I should be wild with joy to see my little lovers. The writing them is no* so sweet as their two faces that seem so small way off, and yet have been two weeks from me — ♦^" '^ wishful, wandering weeks. Now, I begin to doubt if they ever came. I bid the stiff ' good-night * and the square * good- morning » to the lingering guest, I finish mamma's sack, all but the overcasting — that fatal sack, you recollect. I pick up tufts of mignonette, and sweet alyssum for winter, dim as winter seems these red, and gold, and ribbon days. I am sure I feel as Noah did, docile, but some- what sceptic, under the satinet. No frost at our house yet. Thermometer frost, I mean. Mother had a new tooth Saturday. You know Dr S had promised her one for a long time. ' Teething * did n't agree with her, and she kept her bed, Sunday, with a face that would take a premium at any cattle-show in the land. Came to town next morning with slightly reduced features, but no eye on the left side. Doubtless we are 'fearfully and wonderfully made,* and occasionally grotesquely. L goes to Sunderland, Wednesday, for a minute or two ; leaves here at half-past six — what a fitting hour — and will breakfast the night before ; 2 so LETTERS OF EMILY DldCINSON [1864 such a smart atmosphere ! The trees stand right up straight when they hear her boots, and will bear crockery wares instead of fruit, I fear. She hasn't starched the geraniums yet, but will have ample time, unless she leaves before April. Emily is very mean, and her children in dark must n't remember what she says about damsel. Grateful for little notes, and shall ask for longer when my birds locate. Would it were here. Three sisters are prettier than one. . . . Tabby is a contin- ual shrine, and her jaunty ribbons put me in mind of fingers far out at sea. F 's admonition made me laugh and cry too. In the hugest haste, and the engine waiting. Emily. [After the death of the Misses 's father, Jan. 1864.] What shall I tell these darlings except that my father and mother are half their father and mother, and my home half theirs, whenever, and for as long as, they will. And sometimes a dearer thought than that creeps into my mind, but it is not for to-night. Wasn't dear papa so tired always after mamma went, and was n't it almost sweet to think of the two together these new winter nights? The grief is our side, darlings, and the glad is theirs. Vinnie and I sit down to-night, while mother tells what makes us cry, though we know it is well and easy with uncle and papa, and only our part hurts. Mother tells how gently he looked on all who looked at him — how he held his bouquet sweet, as he were a guest i864] TO THE MISSES 2$ I in a friend's parlor and must still do honor. The meek, mild gentleman who thought no harm, but peace toward all. Vinnie intended to go, but the day was cold, and she wanted to keep Uncle L as she talked with him, always, instead of this new way. She thought too, for the crowd, she could not see you, children, and she would be another one to give others care. Mother said Mr V , yes, dears, even Mr V ^ at whom we sometimes smile, talked about ' Lorin* and Laviny ' and his friendship towards them, to your father's guests. We won't smile at him any more now, will we ? Perhaps he '11 live to tell some gen- tleness of us, who made merry of him. But never mind that now. When you have strength, tell us how it is, and what we may do for you, of comfort, or of service. Be sure you crowd all others out, precious little cousins. Good- night. Let Emily sing for you because she cannot pray : — It is not dying hurts us so, — \ *T is living hurts us more ; But dying is a different way, A kind, behind the door, — The southern custom of the bird That soon as frosts are due Adopts a better latitude. We are the birds that stay, The shiverers round farmers' doors, ' For whose reluctant crumb We stipulate, till pitying snows Persuade our feathers home. ' Emily. 252 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1864 [1864.] So many ask for the children that I must make a separate letter to tell them what they say, and leave my kisses till next time. Eliza wrote last week, faint note in pencil — dressed in blankets, and propped up, having been so sick — and yet too weak to talk much, even with her slate. She said this of you, I give it in her own word, ' Make them know I love them,* and added, should have written immediately herself, except for weakness. Mr Dwight asks for you in the phrase * Of your sweet cousins.' He does not yet know papa is asleep — only very weary. The milliner at the head of the street wipes her eye for F and L , and a tear rumples her ribbons. Mr and Mrs Sweetser care — Mrs Sweetser most tenderly. . . . Even Dick's wife, simple dame, with a kitchen full, and the grave besides, of little ragged ones, wants to know ' more about * you, and follows mother to the door, who has called with bundle. Dick says, in his wise way, he * shall always be interested in them young ladies.* One little young lady of his own, you know, is in Paradise. That makes him tenderer-minded. Be sure you don't dOubt about the sparrow. Poor and , in their genteel, antique way, express their sympathy, mixing admiring anec- 1865] TO THE MISSES 253 dotes of your father and mother's youth, when they, God help them, were not so sere. Besides these* others, children, shall we tell them who else cherishes, every day the same, the bright one and the black one too? Could it be Emily? Would it interest the children to know that cro- cuses come up, in the garden off the dining-room, and a fuchsia, that pussy partook, mistaking it for strawberries? And that we have primroses, like the little pattern sent in last winter's note, and helio- trope by the aprons full — the mountain colored one — and a jasmine bud, you know the little odor like Lubin — and gilliflowers, magenta, and few mignon- ette, and sweet alyssum bountiful, and carnation buds ? Will it please them to know that the ice-house is filled, to make their tumblers cool next summer, and once in a while a cream? And that father has built a new road round the pile of trees between our house and Mr S 's, where they can take the soldier's shirt to make, or a sweet poem, and no man find them but the fly, and he such a little man ? Love, dears, from us all, and won't you tell us how you are? We seem to hear so little. Emily. [January, 1865.] ... I am glad my little girl is at peace. Peace is a deep place. Some, too faint to push, are assisted by angels. 254 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1865 I have more to say to you all than March has to the maples, but then I cannot write in bed. I read a few words since I came home — John Talbot's parting with his son, and Margaret's with Suffolk. I read them in the garret, and the rafters wept. Remember me to your company, their Bedouin guest. Every day in the desert, Ishmael counts his tents. New heart makes new health, dear. Happiness is haleness. I dreamed last night I heard bees fight for pond- lily stamens, and waked with a fly in ray room. Shall you be strong enough to lift me by the first of April ? I won't be half as heavy as I was before. I will be good and chase my spools. I shall think of my little Eve going away fix>m Eden. Bring me a jacinth for every finger, and an onyx shoe. Emily. [1865.] Dear Sister, — Brother has visited, and the night is falling, so I must close with a little hymn. I had hoped to express more. Love more I never can, sweet D or yourself. This was in the white of the year. That was in the green. Drifts were as difficult then to think. As daisies now to be seen. Looking back is best that is left. Or if it be before, Retrospection is prospect's half, Sometimes almost more. Emily. i86s] TO THE MISSES 255 [February, 1865.] All that my eyes will let me shall be said for L , dear little solid gold girl. I am glad to the foot of my heart that you will go to M . It will make you warm. Touches *from home/ tell Gungl, are better than ' sounds. * ^ You persuade me to speak of my eyes, which I shunned doing, because I wanted you to rest. I could not bear a single sigh should tarnish your vaca- tion, but, lest through me one bird delay a change of latitude, I will tell you, dear. The eyes are as with you, sometimes easy, some- times sad. I think they are not worse, nor do I think them better than when I came home. The snow-light offends them, and the house is bright ; notwithstanding, they hope some. For the first few weeks I did nothing but comfort my plants, till now their small green cheeks are covered with smiles. I chop the chicken centres when we have roast fowl, frequent now, for the hens contend and the Cain is slain. . . . Then I make the yellow to the pies, and bang the spice for cake, and knit the soles to the stockings I knit the bodies to last June. They say I am a ' help.* Partly because it is true, I suppose, and the rest applause. Mother and Margaret are so kind, father as gentle as he knows how^ and Vinnie good to me, but ' cannot see why I don*t get well.* This makes me think I am long ^ Referring to an old piece of piano-forte music. 256 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1866 sick, and this takes the ache to my eyes. I shall try to stay with them a few weeks more before going to Boston, though what it would be to see you and have the doctor's care — that cannot be told. You will not wait for me. Go to M now. I wish I were there, myself, to start your little feet ' lest they seem to come short of it.* I have so much to tell I can tell nothing, except a sand of love. When I dare I shall ask if I may go, but that will not be now. Give my love to my lamp and spoon, and the small lantana. Kindest remembrance for all the house, and write next from M . Go, little girl, to M . Life is so fast it will run away, notwith- standing our sweetest whoa. Already they love you. Be but the maid you are to me, and they will love you more. Carry your heart and your curls, and nothing more but your fingers. Mr D will ask for these every candle-light. How I miss ten robins that never flew from the rosewood nest ! Dear L , — This is my letter — an ill and peevish thing, but when my eyes get well I '11 send you thoughts like daisies, and sentences could hold the bees. . . . [1866.] . . . Oh, L , why were the children sent too faint to stand alone ? . . . Every hour is anxious now, and heaven protect the lamb who shared her ''-^ce with a timider, even Emily. i868] TO THE MISSES 2$/ [1868.] Dear Children, — The little notes shall go as fast as steam can take them. Our hearts already went. Would we could mail our faces for your dear encouragement. Remember The longest day that God appoints Will finish with the sun. Anguish can travel to its stake, And then it must return. I am in bed to-day — a curious place for me, and cannot write as well as if I was firmer, but love as well, and long more. Tell us all the load. Amherst's little basket is never so full but it holds more. That 's a basket's cause. Not a flake assaults my birds but it freezes me. Comfort, little creatures — whatever befall us, this world is but this world. Think of that great courageous place we have never seen ! Write at once, please, I am so full of grief and surprise and physical weakness. I cannot speak until I know. Lovingly, Emily. Of this letter her cousin writes, *AI1 this trouble has become only a myth now ; it must have been some illness, or other forgotten calamity.' 258 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1869 [Autamn, 1869.] Vinnie was ' gone ' indeed and is due to-day, and before the tumult that even the best bring we will take hold of hands. It was sweet and antique as birds to hear L 's voice, worth the lying awake from ^VQ o'clock summer mornings to hear. I rejoice that my wren can rise and touch the sky again. We all have moments with the dust, but the dew is given. Do you wish you heard ' A talk ' ? Then I would you did, for then you would be here always, a sweet premium. Would you like to ' step in the kitchen ' ? Then you shall by faith, which is the first sight. Mr C is not in the tree, because the rooks won*t let him, but I ate a pear as pink as a plum that he made last spring, when he was ogling you. Mother has on the petti- coat you so gallantly gathered while he sighed and grafted. Tabby is eating a stone dinner from a stone plate, . . . Tim is washing Dick's feet, and talking to him now and then in an intimate way. Poor fellow, how he warmed when I gave him your message ! The red reached clear to his beard, he was so gratified ; and Maggie stood as still for hers as a puss for pat- ting. The hearts of these poor people lie so uncon- cealed you bare them with a smile. Thank you for recollecting my weakness. I am not so well as to forget I was ever ill, but better and working. I suppose we must all 'ail tiD evening.' iSyol TO THE MISSES 259 Read Mr Loweirs Winter, One does not often meet anything so perfect. In many little comers how much of L I have. Maggie 'dragged' the garden for this bud for you. You have heard of the * last rose of summer.' This is that rose's son. Into the little port you cannot sail unwelcome at any hour of day or night. Love for F , and stay close to Emily. [Spring, 1870.] Dear Children, — I think the bluebirds do their work exactly like me. They dart around just so, with little dodging feet, and look so agitated. I really feel for them, they seem to be so tried. The mud is very deep — up to the wagons' stomachs — arbutus making pink clothes, and every- thing alive. Even the hens are touched with the things of Bourbon, and make republicans like me feel strangely out of scene. Mother went rambling, and came in with a bur- dock on her shawl, so we know that the snow has perished from the earth. Noah would have liked , mother. I am glad you are with Eliza. It is next to shade to know that those we love are cool on a parched day. Bring my love to and Mr . You will 260 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1870 not need a hod. C writes often, full of joy and liberty. I guess it is a case of peace. . . . y^ Pussy has a daughter in the shavings barrel. Father steps like Cromwell when he gets the / kindlings. Mrs gets bigger, and rolls down the lane to church like a reverend marble. Did you know little Mrs Holland was in Berlin for her eyes? . . . Did you know about Mrs J ? She fledged her antique wings. 'T is said that * nothing in her life became her like the leaving it.* * Great streets of silence led away,' etc. * Emily. [May] This little sheet of paper has lain for several years in my Shakespeare, and though it is blotted and antiquated is endeared by its resting-place. I always think of you peculiarly in May, as it is the peculiar anniversary of your loving kindness to me, though you have always been dear cousins, and blessed me all you could. I cooked the peaches as you told me, and they swelled to beautiful fleshy halves and tasted quite magic. The beans we fricasseed and they made a savory cream in cooking that * Aunt Emily ' liked to sip. She was always fonder of julep food than of more substantial. Your remembrance of her is very sweetly touching. ^ Second Series, page 225. rSro7 TO THE MISSES 26l IVIaggie is ironing, and a cotton and linen and rofSe heat makes the possj's cheeks red. It b lonely withont the birds to-day, for it rains badly; and the fitde poets hare no ombrellas. . . . . . . Fly firom Elmily's window for L . Botan- ical name unknown. [flnclodng a pressed insect.] [September, iSjo-J Little Sisters, — I wish yon were with me, not precisely here, bat in those sweet mansions the mind likes to suppose. Do they exist or nay? We believe they may, bat do they, how know we ? * The light that never was on sea or land ' might jnst as soon be had for the knocking. F 's rustic note was as sweet as fern ; L 's token also tenderly estimated. ]VIaggie and I are fighting which shall give L the * plant,' though it is quite a pleasant war. . . . A went this morning, after a happy egg and toast provided by Maggie, whom he promised to leave his sole heir. The * pussum ' is found. * Two dollars reward ' would return John Franklin. . . . Love for Aunt O . Tell her I think to instruct flowers win be her labor in heaven. . . . Nearly October, sisters! No one can keep a snmach and keep a secret too. That was my ' pipe ' F found in the woods. AfTectioQately, Modoc. vot. n. — 3 262 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1870 [1870.] Untiring Little Sisters, — What will I ever do for you, yet have done the most, for love is that one perfect labor nought can supersede. I suppose the pain is still there, for pain that is worthy does not go so soon. The small can crush the great, however, only temporarily. In a few days we examine, muster our forces, and cast it away. Put it out of your hearts, children. Faith is too fair to taint it so. There are those in the morgue that bewitch us with sweetness, but that which is dead must go with the ground. There is a verse in the Bible that says there are those who shall not see death. I suppose them to be the faithful. Love will not expire. There was never the instant when it was lifeless in the world, though the quicker deceit dies, the better for the truth, who is indeed our dear friend. I am sure you will gain, even from this wormwood. The martyrs may not choose their food. God made no act without a cause, Nor heart without an aim, Our inference is premature. Our premises to blame. . . . Sweetest of Christmas to you both, and a better year. EsfiLy. Dear Children, — When I think of your little faces I feel as the band does before it makes its first shout. . . . EiOLV. 1871] TO THE MISSES 263 [1870.] . . . Mother drives with Tim to carry pears to settlers. Sugar pears with hips Uke hams, and the flesh of bonbons. Vinnie fastens flowers from the frosts. . . . Lifetime is for two, never for committee. I saw your Mrs H . She looks a little tart, but Vinnie says makes excellent pies after one gets acquainted. [Spring, 1871.] The will is always near, dear, though the feet vary. The terror of the winter has made a little creature of me, who thought myself so bold. Father was very sick. I presumed he would die, and the sight of his lonesome face all day was harder than personal trouble. He is growing better, though physically reluctantly. I hope I am mistaken, but I think his physical life don*t want to live any longer. You know he never played, and the straightest engine has its leaning hour. Vinnie was not here. Now we will turn the comer. All this while I was with you all, much of every hour, wish- ing we were near enough to assist each other. Would you have felt more at home, to know we were both in extremity? That would be my only regret that I had not told you. As regards the * pine ' and the ' jay,' it is a long tryst, but I think they are able. I have spoken with them. 264 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1871 Of the *thom,' dear, give it to me, for I am strongest. Never cany what I can carry, for though I think I bend, something straightens me. Go to the * wine-press,' dear, and come back and say has the number altered. I descry but one. What I would, I cannot say in so small a place. Interview is acres, while the broadest letter feels a bandaged place. . . . Tell F we hold her tight. Tell L love is oldest and takes care of us, though just now in a piercing place. Ebuly. [Written to Milwaukee, just after the Chicago fire, 187 1.] We have the little note and are in part relieved, but have been too alarmed and grieved to hush immediately. The heart keeps sobbing in its sleep. It is the speck that makes the cloud that wrecks the vessel, children, yet no one fears a speck. I hope what is not lost is saved. Were any angel present, I feel it could not be allowed. So grateful that our little girls are not on fire too. Amherst would have quenched them. Thank you for comforting innocent blamed creatures. We are trying, too. The mayor of Milwaukee cuts and you and L sew, don't you? The New York Times said so. Sorrow is the * funds ' never quite spent, always a little left to be loaned kindly. We have a new cow. I wish I could give Wisconsin a little pail of milk. Dick's Maggie is wilting. Awkward little flower, but transplanting 1872] TO THE MISSES 265 makes it fair. How are the long days that made the fresh afraid? Brother Emily. [March, 1872.] Thank you, own little girls, for the sweet remem- brance — sweet specifically. Be sure it was pondered with loving thoughts not unmixed with palates. But love, Uke literature, is 'its exceeding great reward.* ... I am glad you heard * Little Em*ly.' I would go far to hear her, except I have lost the run of the roads. . . . Infinite March is here, and I * hered ' a bluebird. Of course I am standing on my head ! Go slow, my soul, to feed th3^elf Upon his rare approach. Go rapid, lest competing death Prevail upon the coach. Go timid, should his testing eye Determine thee amiss, Go boldly, for thou paidst the price. Redemption for a kiss. Tabby is singing Old Hundred, which, by the way, is her maiden name. Would they address and mail the note to their friend J W ? Tidings of a book. Emily. [1872.] I like to thank you, dear, for the annual candy. Though you make no answer, I have no letter from the dead, yet daily love them more. No part of 266 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [187a mind is permanent. This startles the happy, but it assists the sad. This is a mighty morning. I trust that L is with it, on hill or pond or wheel. Too few the mornings be, too scant the nights. No lodging can be had for the delights that come to earth to stay, but no apartment find and ride away. F was brave and dear, and helped as much by counsel as by actual team. Whether we missed L we will let her guess /riddles are healthful food^ Eliza was not with us, but it was owing to the trains. We know she meant to come. Oh ! Cruel Paradise ! We have a chime of bells given for brave Frazer. You '11 stop and hear them, won't you? * We conquered, but Bozzaris fell.' That sentence always chokes me. Emily. The new College church was given in 1870 by Mr William French Stearns, brother of the Frazer so mourned ; and its chime of bells was a memorial ^ to the Amherst students who were ^ Following is the inscription on the fundamental bell : — THESE BELLS ARE PLACED HERB BY GEORGE HOWE OF BOSTON AND ARB TO BE MADE TO CHIME ON ALL SUITABLE OCCASIONS IN COMMEMORATION OF TUB BRAVE PATRIOTS CONNECTED WFTH AMHERST COLLEGE WHO LOST THBIR LIVES IN THE WAR AGAINST THB GREAT REBELLION OF 1861 1872] TO THE MISSES 267 killed in the war. A cannon, now in WiUiston Hall, Amherst College, was given by General Burnside at the request of Colonel Clark, in loving memory of Frazer Stearns, the first of all the Amherst students who enlisted, nearly two hundred and fifty in number. An ill heart, like a body, has its more com- fortable days, and then its days of pain, its long relapse, when rallying requires more effort than to dissolve life, and death looks choiceless. Of Miss P 1 know but this, dear. She wrote me in October, requesting me to aid the world by my chirrup more. Perhaps she stated it as my duty, I don't distinctly remember, and always bum such letters, so I cannot obtain it now. I replied declining. She did not write to me again — she might have been offended, or perhaps is extricating humanity from some hopeless ditch. . . . Emily was often besieged by different per- sons, literary and otherwise, to benefit the world by her * chirrup,' but she steadily refused to publish during her lifetime. In all these years she was constantly writing verses ; and while, as already apparent, she frequently enclosed poems in letters to friends, the fact that scores in addition were being written every year was her own secret. Her literary methods were also her own, — she must frequently have tossed / 268 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON (187J off, many times daily, the stray thoughts which came to her. The box of ' scraps ' found by her sister after her death proves this conclu- sively, as some of Emily's rarest flashes were caught upon the margins of newspapers, backs of envelopes, or whatever bit of paper was nearest at hand, in the midst of other occu- pations. In the more carefully copied poems are many alterations, but it is a curious fact that not one change has reference to im- provement in rhyme or rhythm. Every sug- gestion for a different word or phrase was in the evident hope that by some one of them the thought might be made clearer, and not in a single instance merely to smooth the form. Whether Emily Dickinson had any idea that her work would ever be published cannot be known. Except when a friend occasionally * turned love to larceny ' as some one has aptly said, nothing was printed before her death. One of the poems, indeed, begins, — Publication is the auction Of the mind of man. But the Prelude to the Poems, First Series, almost seems to indicate the thought of a pos- sible future public, when she herself should be beyond the reach of the praise or criticism which her writing might call forth. 1872] TO THE MISSES 269 [Early Summer, 1872.] Dear Children, — We received the news of your loving kindness through Uncle J last evening, and Vinnie is negotiating with neighbor Gray, who goes to a wedding in Boston next week, for the procuring of the nest. Vinnie 's views of express- age do not abate with time. The crocuses are with us and several other colored friends. Cousin H broke her hip, and is in a polite bed, surrounded by mint juleps. I think she will hate to leave it as badly as Marian Erie did. Vinnie says there is a tree in Mr Sweetser's woods that shivers. I am afraid it is cold. I am going to make it a little coat. . I must make several, because it is tall as the barn, and put them on as the circus men stand on each other's shoulders. . . . There is to be a ' show ' next week, and little Maggie's bed is to be moved to the door so she can see the tents. Folding her own like the Arabs gives her no apprehension. While I write, dear children, the colors Eliza loved quiver on the pastures, and day goes gay to the northwest, innocent as she. Emily. . . . Thank you for the passage. How long to live the truth is I A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day. [July 27, 1872.] Little Irish Maggie went to sleep this morn- ing at six o'clock, just the time grandpa rises, and 270 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON £1873 will rest in the grass at Northampton to-morrow. She has had a hard sickness, but her awkward little life is saved and gallant now. Our Maggie is help- ing her mother put her in the cradle. . . , Month afr r this — after that is October, isn't it? That is n't much long. Joy to enfold our little girls in so close a future. That was a lovely letter of F 's. It put the cat to playing and the kettle to purring, and two or three birds in plush teams reined nearer to the window. . . • You will miss the nasturtiums, but you will meet the chestnuts. You also will miss the south wind, but I will save the Of course we shall have a telegram that you have left for Nebraska. . . . Emily. . . . J is coming to put away her black hair on the children's pillow. I hoped she 'd come while you were here, to help me with the starch, but Satan's ways are not as our ways. I 'm straightening all the property, and making things erect and smart, and to-morrow, at twilight, her little heel boots will thump into Amherst. It being summer season she will omit the sleigh-bell gown, and that 's a palliative. Vinnie is all disgust, and I shall have to smirk fior two to make the manners even. [1872, or 1873.] Thank you, dear, for the love. I am progressing timidly. 1873] TO THE MISSES 27 1 Experiment has a stimulus which withers its fear. This is the place they hoped before, Where I am hoping now. The seed of disappointment gre^f?^: Within a capsule gay, Too distant to arrest the feet That walk this plank of balm — Before them lies escapeless sea — - The way is closed they came. Since you so gently ask, I have had but one serious adventure — getting a nail in my foot, but Maggie pulled it out. It only kept me awake one night, and the birds insisted on sitting up, so it became an occasion instead of a misfortune. There was a circus, too, and I watched it away at half-past three that morning. They said * hoy, hoy * to their horses. Glad you heard Rubinstein. Grieved L could not hear him. He makes me think of polar nights Captain Hall could tell I Going from ice to ice ! What an exchange of awe ! I am troubled for L 's eye. Poor little girl 1 Can I help her? She has so many times saved me. Do take her to Arlington Street.* Xerxes must go now and see to her worlds. You shall * taste,' dear. Lovingly. ^ To the physician who had already done so much for Emily's eyes. 272 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1873 [Winter, 1873.] ... I know I love my friends — I feel it far in here where neither blue nor black eye goes, and fingers cannot reach. I know 'tis love for them that sets the blister in my throat, many a time a day, when winds go sweeter than their wont, or a different cloud puts my brain from home. I cannot see my soul, but know 't is there. Nor ever saw his house nor furniture. Who has invited me with him to dwell ; But a confiding guest consult as well, What raiment honor him the most, That I be adequately dressed. For he insures to none Lest men specifical adorn Procuring him perpetual drest 13y dating it a sudden feast. Lx)ve for the glad if you know them, for the sad if they know you. [March, 1873.] ... I open my window, and it fills the chamber with white dirt. I think God must be dusting ; and the wind blows so I expect to read in The Republican 'Cautionary signals for Amherst,' or, * No ships ventured out from Phoenix Row.' . . . Life is so rotatory that the wilderness falls to each, sometime. It is safe to remember that. . . . i873] TO THE MISSES 273 [Autumn, 1873.] ... I think of your little parlor as the poets once thought of Windermere, — peace, sunshine, and books. There is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry. This traverse may the poorest take, Without oppress of toll ; How frugal is the chariot That bears the human soul ! What words could more vividly express the uplift, the expansion, the wider horizon which books bring! To Emily Dickinson, they were always solace and delight, — * fri- gates' and 'coursers' indeed, to her quiet life, taking her over the world and into the infinite spaces, bringing Cathay and Brazil, Cashmere and Teneriffe, into an intimacy as near and familiar as the summer bees and butterflies of her own home noon. Without the help of books even, her nimble fancy leaped interven- ing leagues as if it commanded the magic car- pet of Prince Houssain; but her love for books and indebtedness to them are many times ex- pressed in the poems, both published and unpublished. 274 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1873 [Autumn, 1873.] Dear Berkeleys, — I should feel it my duty to lay my < net ' on the national altar, would it appease finance, but as Jay Cooke can't wear it, I suppose it won't. I believe he opened the scare. M says D pulled her hair, and D says M pulled her hair, but the issue at court will be, which puUed the preliminary hair. I am not yet ' thrown out of employment,* nor ever receiving 'wages' find them materially * reduced,* though when bread may be a ' tradition * Mr C alone knows. I am deeply in- debted to F , also to her sweet sister Mrs Ladislaw ; add the funds to the funds, please. Keep the cap till I send — I could not insult my country by incurring expressage now. . . . Buff sings like a nan- keen bumble-bee, and a bird*s nest on the S3rringa is just in a line with the conservatory fence, so I have fitted a geranium to it and the effect is deceitful. I see by the paper that father spends the winter with you. Will you be glad to see him ? . . . Tell L when I was a baby father used to take me to mill for my health. I was then in consumption ! While he obtained the * grist,* the horse looked round at me, as if to say * " eye hath not seen nor ear heard > the things that ** I would do to you if I were n't tied ! * That is the way I feel toward her. . . . Maggie will write soon, says it was Mount Hol- yoke, and not sweet-brier she gave you ! Thanks for the litde ' news.* Did get F *s note and thank it i8743 ^^ ^^^ MISSES 27s Have thousands of things to say as also ten thou- sands, but must abate now. Lovmgly, Emily. [1874.] Dear Children, — Father is ill at home. I think it is the ' Legislature * reacting on an otherwise obliging constitution. Maggie is ill at Tom's — a combination of cold and superstition of fever — of which her enemy is ill — and longing for the prom- ised land, of which there is no surplus. * Apollyon ' and the * Devil * fade in martial lustre beside Lavinia and myself. *As thy day is so shall thy* stem 'be.* We can all of us sympathize with the man who wanted the roan horse to ride to execution, because he said *twas a nimble hue, and 'twould be over sooner. . . . Dear L , shall I enclose the slips, or delay till father? Vinnie advises the latter. I usually prefer formers, latters seeming to me like Dickens's hero's dead mamma, *too some weeks off* to risk. Do you remember the ' sometimes ' of childhood, which invariably never occurred ? . . . Be pleased you have no cat to detain from justice. Ours have taken meats, and the wife of the 'general court * is trying to lay them out, but as she has but two wheels and they have four, I would accept their chances. Kitties eat kindlings now. Vinnie thinks they are 'cribbers.' I wish I could make you as 276 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1S74 long a call as De Quincey made North, but that morning cannot be advanced. ElOLY. [1874] ... I was sick, little sister, and write you the first that I am able. The loveliest sermon I ever heard was the disap- pointment of Jesus in Judas. It was told like a mortal story of intimate young men. I suppose no surprise we can ever have will be so sick as that. The last * I never knew you ' may resemble it. I would your hearts could have rested from the first severity before you received this other one, but * not as I will.* I suppose the wild flowers encourage themselves in the dim woods, and the bird that is bruised limps to his house in silence, but we have human natures, and these are different. It is lovely that Mrs W did not disappoint you ; not that I thought it possible, but you were so much grieved. ... A finite life, little sister, is that peculiar garment that were it optional with us we might decline to wear. Tender words to L , not most, I trust, in need of them. Lovingly, Emily. . . . How short it takes to go, dear, but afterward to come so many weary years — and yet 't is done as cool as a general trifle. Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve, and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it, when every urchin in 1874] TO THE MISSES 2/7 the Street has more than he can eat. We turn not older with years, but newer every day. Of all these things we tried to talk, but the time refused us. Longing, it may be, is the gift no other gift supplies. Do you remember what you said the night you came to me? I secure that sentence. If I should see your face no more it will be your portrait, and if I should, more vivid than your mortal face. We must be careful what we say. No bird resumes its ^gg, A word left careless on a page May consecrate an eye, When folded in perpetual seam The wrinkled author lie. Emily. ... A tone from the old bells, perhaps, might wake the children. We send the wave to find the wave. An errand so divine The messenger enamored too, Forgetting to return. We make the sage decision still Soever made in vain, The only time to dam the sea Is when the sea is gone. Emily, with love. [Spring, 1874.] Sisters, — I hear robins a great way off, and wagons a great way off, and rivers a great way off, VOL. IL — 4 278 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1874 and all appear to be hurrying somewhere undis- closed to me. Remoteness is the founder of sweet- ness j could we see all we hope, or hear the whole we fear told tranquil, like another tale, there would be madness near. Each of us gives or takes heaven in corporeal person, for each of us has the skill of life. I am pleased by your sweet acquaintance. It is not recorded of any rose that it failed of its bee, though obtained in specific instances through scarlet experience. The career of flowers differs from ours only in inaudibleness. I feel more reverence as I grow for these mute creatures whose suspense or transport may surpass my own. Pussy remembered the judgment, and remained with Vinnie. Maggie preferred her home to 'Miggles* and 'Oakhursty' so with a few spring touches^ nature remains unchanged. The most triumphant bird I ever knew or met, Embarked upon a twig to-day, — And till dominion set I perish to behold So competent a sight — And sang for nothing scrutable But impudent delight. Retired and resumed His transitive estate ; To what delicious accident Does finest glory fit I Emily 1874] TO THE MISSES 279 . . . There is that which is called an ' awakening * in the church, and I know of no choicer ecstasy than to see Mrs roll out in crape every morning, I suppose to intimidate antichrist; at least it would have that effect on me. It reminds me of Don Quixote demanding the surrender of the wind-mill, and of Sir Stephen Toplift, and of Sir Alexander Cockbum. Spring is a happiness so beautiful, so unique, so unexpected, that I don't know what to do with my heart. I dare not take it, I dare not leave it — what do you advise? Life is a spell so exquisite that everything con- spires to break it. ' What do I think of Middlemarch ? ' What do I think of glory — except that in a few instances this ' mortal has already put on immortality.* George EUot is one. The mysteries of human nature surpass the ' mysteries of redemption,* for the infinite we only suppose, while we see the finite. ... I launch Vinnie on Wednesday ; it will require the combined efforts of Maggie, Providence and myself, for whatever advances Vinnie makes in nature and art, she has not reduced departure to a science. . . . Your loving Emily. When, in June of 1874, Emily's father died suddenly in Boston, — taken ill, indeed, while making a speech in the Legislature, and dying V 28o LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1874 within a few hours, — the effect upon her was as if the foundations of her world had given way. She gathered herself together in a measure, and after a few days wrote to her cousins : — You might not remember me, dears. I cannot re- call myself. I thought I was strongly built^ but this stronger has undermined me. We were eating our supper the fifteenth of June, and Austin came in. He had a despatch in his hand, and I saw by his face we were all lost, though I did n*t know how. He said that father was very sick, and he and Vinnie must go. The train had already gone. While horses were dressing, news came he was dead. Father does not live with us now — he lives in a new house. Though it was built in an hour it is better than this. He has n't any garden because he moved after gardens were made, so we take him the best flowers, and if we only knew he knew, perhaps we could stop crying. . . . The grass begins after Pat has stopped it. I cannot write any more, dears. Though it is many nights, my mind never comes home. Thank yott each for the love, though I could not notice it Almost the last tune that he heard was, ' Rest bom thy loved employ.* Emily. 1875] TO THE MISSES 28 1 [April, 1875] I have only a buttercup to offer for the centen- nial, as an ' embattled farmer * has but little time. Begging you not to smile at my limited meadows, I am modestly Yours. [Summer, 1875.] Dear Children, — I decide to give you one more package of lemon drops, as they only come once a year. It is fair that the bonbons should change hands, you have so often fed me. This is the very weather that I lived with you those amazing years that I had a father. W. D *s wife came in last week for a day and a night, saying her heart drove her. I am glad that you loved Miss W on knowing her nearer, Charlotte Bronte said * Life is so constructed that the event does not, cannot, match the expectation.* The birds that father rescued are trifling in his trees. How flippant are the saved ! They were even frolicking at his grave, when Vinnie went there yesterday. Nature must be too yoimg to feel, or many years too old. Now children, when you are cutting the loaf, a crumb, peradventure a crust, of love for the spar- rows' table. , . . 282 LETTERS OR EMILY DICKINSON [1876 [August, 1876.] Dear Cousins, — Mr S had spoken with pleasure of you, before you spoke of him. Good times are always mutual ; that is what makes good times. I am glad it cheered you. We have had no rain for six weeks except one thunder shower, and that so terrible that we locked the doors, and the clock stopped — which made it like Judgment day. The heat is very great, and the grass so still that the flies speck it. I fear L will despair. The notices of the ' fall trade * in the hurrying dailies, have a whiff of coolness. Vinnie has a new pussy the color of Branwell Bronte's hair. She thinks it a little ' lower than the angels,* and I concur with her. You remember my ideal cat has always a huge rat in its mouth, just going out of sight — though going out of sight in itself has a peculiar charm. It is true that the unknown is the largest need of the intellect, though for it, no one thinks to thank God. . . . Mother is worn with the heat, but otherwise not altering. I dream about father every night, always a different dream, and forget what I am doing daytimes, wondering where he is. Without anybody, I keep thinking. What kind can that be? Dr Steams died homelike, asked Eliza for a saucer of strawberries, which she brought him, but he had no hands. ' In such an hour as ye think not ' means something when you try it. Lovingly^ Emily.. 1876] TO THE MISSES 283 [November.] . . . Oh that beloved witch-hazel which would not reach me till part of the stems were a gentle brown, though one loved stalk as hearty as if just placed in the mail by the woods. It looked like tinsel fringe combined with staider fringes, witch and witching too, to my joyful mind. I never had seen it but once before, and it haunted me like childhood's Indian pipe, or ecstatic puff-balls, or that mysterious apple that sometimes comes on river-pinks ; and is there not a dim sug- gestion of a dandelion, if her hair were ravelled and she grew on a twig instead of a tube, — though this is timidly submitted. For taking Nature's hand to lead her to me, I am softly grateful — was she will- ing to come ? Though her reluctances are sweeter than other ones' avowals. Trusty as the stars Who quit their shining working Prompt as when I lit them In Genesis' new house. Durable as dawn ^, Whose antiquated blossom Makes a world's suspense Perish and rejoice. Love for the cousin sisters, and the lovely alien. . . . Lovingly, Emily. 284 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1879 [About July 4, 1879.] Dear Cousins, — Did you know there had been a fire here, and that but for a whim of the wind Austin and Vinnie and Emily would have all been home- less? But perhaps you saw The Republican. We were waked by the ticking of the bells, — the bells tick in Amherst for a fire, to tell the firemen. I sprang to the window, and each side of the curtain saw that awful sun. The moon was shining high at the time, and the birds singing like trumpets. Vinnie came soft as a moccasin, * Don't be afraid, Emily, it is only the fourth of July.* I did not tell that I saw it, for I thought if she felt it best to deceive, it must be that it was. She took hold of my hand and led me into mother's room. Mother had not waked, and Maggie was sitting by her. Vinnie left us a moment, and I whispered to Maggie, and asked her what it was. ' Only Stebbins's bam, Emily ; * but I knew that the right and left of the village was on the arm of Stebbins's bam. I could hear buildings falling, and oil exploding, and people walking and talking gayly, and cannon soft as velvet from parishes that did not know that we were burning up. And so much lighter than day was it, that I saw a caterpillar measure a leaf far down in the orchard ; and Vinnie kept saying bravely, ' It *s only the fourth of July.' i8«o] TO THE MISSES 285 It seemed like a theatre, or a night in Lon- don, or perhaps like chaos. The innocent dew falling 'as if it thought no evil,* . . . and sweet frogs prattling in the pools as if there were no earth. At seven people came to tell us that the fire was stopped, stopped by throwing sound houses in as one fills a well. Mother never waked, and we were all grateful ; we knew she would never buy needle and thread at Mr Cutler's store, and if it were Pompeii nobody could tell her. The post-office is in the old meeting-house where L and I went early to avoid the crowd, and fell asleep with the bumble-bees and the Lord God of Elijah. Vinnie*s * only the fourth of July * I shall always remember. I think she will tell us so when we die, to keep us from being afraid. . Footlights cannot improve the grave, only immortality. Forgive me the personality; but I knew, I thought, our peril was yours. Love for you each. Emily. [1880.] . . . Did the 'stars differ* from each other in anything but * glory,' there would be often envy. The competitions of the sky corrodeless ply. 286 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1880 . . . We asked Vinnie to say in the rear of one of her mental products that we had neuralgia, but evidently her theme or her time did not admit of trifles. ... I forget no part of that sweet, smarting visit, not even the nettle that stung my rose. When Macbeth asked the physician what could be done for his wife, he made the mighty answer, y ' That sort must heal itself; * but, sister, that was guilt, and love, you know, is God, who certainly * gave the love to reward the love,* even were there no Browning. ... The slips of the last rose of summer repose in kindred soil with waning bees for mates. How softly summer shuts, without the creaking of a door, abroad for evermore. . . . Vinnie has also added a pilgrim kitten to her flock, which besides being jet black, is, I think, a lineal descendant of the * beautiful hearse horse ' recommended to Austin. [December, 1880.] . . . The look of the words [stating the death of George Eliot] as they lay in the print I shall never forget. Not their face in the casket could have had the eternity to me. Now, my George Eliot. ; The gift of belief which her greatness denied her, I trust she receives in the childhood of the kingdom of heaven. As childhood is earth's confiding time. i88i] TO THE MISSES 28/ perhaps having no childhood^ she lost her way to the early trust, and no later came. Amazing human heart, a syllable can make to quake like jostled tree, what infinite for thee ? . , . [February, 1881.] . . . God is rather stem with his 'little ones.* * A cup of cold water in my name * is a shivering legacy February mornings. . . . Maggie's brother is killed in the mine, and Maggie wants to die, but Death goes far around to those that want to see him. If the little cousins would give her a note — she does not know I ask it — I think it would help her begin, that bleeding beginning that every mourner knows. [Spring, 1881.] The divine deposit came safely in the little bank. We have heard of the 'deeds of the spirit,' but are his acts gamboge and pink? A morning call from Gabriel is always a surprise. Were we more fresh from Eden we were expecting him — but Genesis is a ' far journey.* Thank you for the loveliness. We have had two hurricanes within as many hours, one of which came near enough to untie my apron — but this moment the sun shines, Maggie's hens are warbling, and a man of anonymous wits is making a garden in the lane to set out slips of bluebird. The moon grows from the seed. . . . Vinnie's pussy 288 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1881 slept in grass Wednesday — a Sicilian sjrmptom — the sails are set for summer, East India wharf. Sage and saucy ones talk of an equinoctial, and are trying the chimneys, but I am 'short of hearing,' as the deaf say. Blessed are they that play, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Love like a rose from each one, and Maggie's a Burgundy one she ardently asks. Emily. [1881.] My dear little Cousins, — I bring you a robin who is eating a remnant oat on the sill of the bam. The horse was not as hungry as usual, leaving an ample meal for his dulcet friend. . . . Maggie was charmed with her donkeys, and has long been talking of writing, but has not quite cul- minated. They stand on the dining-room side -board, by the side of an orange, and a Springfield Republi- can, It will please you to know that the clover in the bill of the brown one is fresh as at first, not- withstanding the time, though the only * pastures ' I know gifted with that duration, are far off as the psalms. Mr C called with a twilight of you. It re- minded me of a supper I took, with the pictures on Dresden china. Vinnie asked him *what he had for supper,* and he said he ' could easier describe the nectar of the gods.* . . . We read in a tremendous Book about ' an enemy,* and armed a confidential i88i] TO THE MISSES 289 fort to scatter him away. The time has passed, and years have con\e, and yet not any * Satan.* I think he must be making war upon some other nation. Emily. [1881.] ft The dear ones will excuse — they knew there was a cause. Emily was sick, and Vinnie's middle name restrained her loving pen. These are my first words since I left my pillow — that will make them faithful, although so long withheld. We had another fire — it was in Phoenix Row, Monday a week ago, at two in the night. The horses were harnessed to move the office — Austin's office, I mean. After a night of terror, we went to sleep for a few moments, and I could not rise. The others bore it better. The brook from Pelham saved the town. The wind was blowing so, it carried the burning shingles as far as Tom*s piazza. We are weak and grateful. The fire -bells are oftener now, almost, than the church- bells. Thoreau would wonder which did the most harm. The little gifts came sweetly. The bulbs are in the sod — the seeds in homes of paper till the sun calls them. It is snowing now. ... * Fine sleighing we have this summer,* says Austin with a scoff. The box of dainty ones — I don't know what they were, buttons of spice for coats of honey — pleased the weary mother. Thank you each for all. The beautiful words for which L asked were 290 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [i88i that genius is the ignition of affection — not intellect, as is supposed, — the exaltation of devotion, and in proportion to our capacity for that, is our experience of genius. Precisely as they were uttered I cannot give them, they were in a lettet that I do not find, but the suggestion was this. It is startling to think that the lips, which are keepers of thoughts so magical, yet at any moment are subject to the seclusion of death. ... I must leave you, dear, to come perhaps again, — 1 ; We never know we go — when we are going We jest and shut the door — Fate following behind us bolts it And we accost no more. I give you my parting love. Emily. [Autumn, 1881.] Saturday. Dear Ones, — If I linger, this will not reach you before Sunday ; if I do not, I must write you much less than I would love. *Do unto others as ye would that they should do unto you.' I would rather they would do unto me so. After infinite wanderings the little note has reached us. It was mailed the twelfth — we received it the twenty- third. The address ' Misses Dickinson ' misled the rustic eyes — the postmaster knows i88i] TO THE MISSES 291 Vinnie, also by faith who Emily is, because his little girl was hurt, and Emily sent her juleps — but he failed of the intellectual grasp to combine the names. So after sending it to all the Mrs Dickin- sons he could discover, he consigned it to us, with the request that we would speedily return it if not ours, that he might renew his research. Almost any one under the circumstances would have doubted if it were theirs, or indeed if they were themself — but to us it was clear. Next time, dears, direct Vinnie, or Emily, and perhaps Mr *s astuteness may be adequate. I enclose the battered remains for your Sabbath perusal, and tell you we think of you tenderly, which I trust you often believe. Maggie is making a flying visit to cattle-show, on her very robust wings — for Maggie is getting corpulent. Vinnie is picking a few seeds — for if a pod *die, shall he not live again'; and with the shutting mail I go to read to mother about the President. When we think of the lone effort to live, and its bleak reward, the mind turns to the myth *for His mercy endureth forever,' with confiding revulsion. Still, when Professor Fisk died on Mount Zion, Dr Humphrey prayed * to whom shall we turn but thee ? ' 'I have finished,' said Paul, ' the faith.' We rejoice that he did not say discarded it. The little postman has come — Thomas's ' second oldest,' and I close with reluctant and hurrying love. Emblv. 292 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1881 [1881.] What is it that instructs a hand lightly created, to impel shapes to eyes at a distance, which for them have the whole area of life or of death? Yet not a pencil in the street but has this awful power, though nobody arrests it. An earnest letter is or should be life- warrant or death-warrant, for what is each in- stant but a gun, harmless because * unloaded,' but that touched ' goes off ' ? Men are picking up the apples to-day, and the pretty boarders are leaving the trees, birds and ants and bees. I have heard a chipper say * dee ' six times in disapprobation. How should we like to have our privileges wheeled away in a barrel ? . . . The Essex visit was lovely. Mr L remained a week. Mrs re-decided to come with her son Elizabeth. Aunt L shouldered arms. I think they lie in my memory, a muffin and a bomb. Now they are all gone, and the crickets are pleased. Their bombazine reproof still falls upon the twilight, and checks the softer uproars of the departing day. Earnest love to F . This is but a fragment^ but wholes are not below. Emily. Dear L , — Thank you, with love, for the kind- ness j it would be very sweet to claim if we needed it, but we are quite strong, and mother well as usual, and Vinnie spectacular as Disraeli and sincere i88i] TO THE MISSES 293 as Gladstone, — was only sighing in fun. When she sighs in earnest, Emily*s throne will tremble, and she will need both L and F ; but Vinnie ' still prevails.* When one or all of us are lain on * Marian Erie's dim pallet,' so cool that she deplored to live because that she must leave it, L and the ferns, and F and her fan shall supplement the angels, if they have not already joined them. Lovingly, Emily. [October, 188 1.] Did the little sisters know that Dr Holland had died — the dark man with the doll- wife, whom they used to see at * Uncle Edward's ' before * Uncle Edward* went too? Do they know any of the circumstances ? Did they know that the weary hfe in the second story had mourned to hear from them, and whether they were ' comfortable * ? * Comfortable * seems to comprise the whole to those whose days are weak. ' Happiness * is for birds and other foreign nations, in their faint esteem. Mother heard F telling Vinnie about her graham bread. She would like to taste it. Will F please write Emily how, and not too incon- venient? Every particular, for Emily is dull, ajid she will pay in gratitude, which, though not canned like quinces, is fragrantest of all we know. Tell us just how and where they are, and if October sunshine is thoughtful of their heads. VOL. II. — 5 Emily. 294 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [i88a . . . Thank you, dear, for the quickness which is the blossom of request, and for the definiteness — for a new rule is a chance. The bread resulted charmingly, and such pretty little proportions, quaint as a druggist's formula — 'I do remember an apothe- cary.* Mother and Vinnie think it the nicest they have ever known, and Maggie so extols it. Mr Lathrop's poem was piteously sweet.* To know of your homes is comforting. I trust they are both peace. Home is the riddle of the wise — the booty of the dove. God bless the sun- shine in L 's room, and could he find a sweeter task than to ' temper the wind ' to her curls ? . . . Tell us when you are happy, but be sure and tell us when you are sad, for Emily's heart is the edifice where the * wicked cease from troubling.' [January, 1882.] I have only a moment, exiles, but you shall have the largest half. Mother's dear little wants so engross the time, — to read to her, to fan her, to tell her health will come to-morrow, to explain to her why the grasshopper is a burden, because he is not so new a grasshopper as he was, — this is so ensuing, I hardly have said * Good-morning, mother,* when I hear myself saying * Mother, good-night.' 1 This reference is to the pathetic verses to his little boy, by Mr George Parsons Lathrop, beginning, — ' Do you remember, my sweet absent son/ i882] TO THE MISSES 295 [November, 1882.] Dear Cousins, — I hoped to write you before, but mother's dying almost stunned my spirit. I have answered a few inquiries of love, but written little intuitively. She was scarcely the aunt you knew. The great mission of pain had been ratified — cultivated to tenderness by persistent sorrow, so that a larger mother died than had she died before. There was no earthly parting. She slipped from our fingers like a flake gathered by the wind, and is now part of the drift called *the infinite.' We don't know where she is, though so many tell us. I believe we shall in some manner be cherished by our Maker — that the One who gave us this remarkable earth has the power still farther to \ surprise that which He has caused. Beyond that all . is silence. ... 1 Mother was very beautiful when she had died. ! Seraphs are solemn artists. The illumination that ) comes but once paused upon her features, and it j seemed like hiding a picture to lay her in the grave ; \ but the grass that received my father will suffice his guest, the one he asked at the altar to visit him all his life. I cannot tell how Eternity seems. It sweeps around me like a sea. . . . Thank you for remem- bering me. Remembrance — mighty word. 296 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1883 ' Thou gavest it to me from the foundation of the world.* Lovingly, Emily. [Spring, 1883.] Thank you, dears, for the sympathy. I hardly dare to know that I have lost another friend, but anguish finds it out. Each that we lose takes part of us ; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides. ... I work to drive the awe away, yet awe impels the work. I almost picked the crocuses, you told them so sincerely. Spring's first conviction is a wealth be- yond its whole experience. The sweetest way I think of you is when the day is done, and L sets the ' sunset tree ' for the little sisters. Dear F has had many stormy mornings ; . . . I hope they have not chilled her feet, nor dampened her heart. I am glad the little visit rested you. Rest and water are most we want. I know each moment of Miss W is a gleam of boundlessness. * Miles and miles away,' said Brown- ing, * there's a girl;* but * the colored end of evening smiles * on but few so rare. 1884] TO THE MISSES 297 Thank you once more for being sorry. Till the first friend dies, we think ecstasy impersonal, but then discover that he was the cup from which we drank it, itself as yet unknown. Sweetest love for each, and a kiss besides for Miss W *s cheek, should you again meet her. Emily. [July, 1884.] Dear Cousins, — I hope you heard Mr Sanborn's lecture. My Republican was borrowed before I waked, to read till my own dawn, which is rather tardy, for I have been quite sick, and could claim the immortal reprimand, 'Mr Lamb, you come down very late in the morning.* Eight Saturday noons ago, I was making a loaf of cake with Maggie, when I saw a great darkness coming and knew no more until late at night. I woke to find Austin and Vinnie and a strange physician bending over me, and supposed I was dying, or had died, all was so kind and hallowed. 1 had fainted and lain uncon- scious for the first time in my life. Then I grew very sick and gave the others much alarm, but am now staying. The doctor calls it * revenge of the nerves;* but who but Death had wronged them? F 's dear note has lain unanswered for this long season, though its ' Good- night, my dear,* warmed me to the core. I have all to say, but little strength to say it ; so we must talk by degrees. I do want to know about L , what pleases her most, book or tune or friend. ^ 298 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1885 I am glad the housekeeping is kinder; it is a prickly art. Maggie is with us still, warm and wild and mighty, and we have a gracious boy at the bam. We remember you always, and one or the other often comes down with a ' we dreamed of F and I J last night ; * then that day we think we shall hear from you, for dreams are couriers. The little boy we laid away never fluctuates, and his dim society is companion still. But it is growing damp and I must go in. Memory's fog is rising. The going from a world we know To one a wonder still Is like the child's adversity Whose vista is a hill, Behind the hill is sorcery And everything unknown, But will the secret compensate For climbing it alone ? Vinnie's love and Maggie's, and mine is pre- supposed. Emily. [January 14, 1885.] Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener, but the attempt comes, then the inundation, then it is all over, as is said of the dead. Vinnie dreamed about F last night, and de- signing for days to write dear L , — dear, both of you, — indeed, with the astounding nearness which a dream brings, I must speak this morning. 1885] TO THE MISSES 299 I do hope you are well, and that the last enchanting days have refreshed your spirits, and I hope the poor little girl is better, and the sorrow at least adjourned. L asked * what books * we were wooing now — watching like a vulture for Walter Cross's life of his wife. A friend sent me Called Back, It is a haunting story, and as loved Mr Bowles used to say, 'greatly impressive to me.' Do you remember the little picture with his deep face in the centre, and Governor Bross on one side, and Colfax on the other? The third of the group died yesterday, so somewhere they are again together. Moving to Cambridge seems to me Uke moving to Westminster Abbey, as hallowed and as un- believed, or moving to Ephesus with Paul for a next-door neighbor. Holmes's Life of Emerson is sweetly commended, but you, I know, have tasted that. . . . But the whistle calls me — I have not begun — so with a moan, and a kiss, and a promise of more, and love from Vinnie and Maggie, and the half-blown carnation, and the western sky, I stop. That we are permanent temporarily, it is warm to know, though we know no more. Emily. CHAPTER VII To Mr Thomas Wentworth Higginson IN his article upon Emily Dickinson in The Atlantic Monthly for October, 1891, Colonel Higginson has already given many of her letters to himself. The rest are here added. The first one, enclosing four of her now widely known poems for his criticism, was without signature, but accompanied by a card bearing her name. Her wish for an impartial and extrinsic judgment from a stranger may, perhaps, illustrate Mrs Ford's suggestion that * she was longing for poetic sympathy.* At a time when she was but newly trying her own wings, she must have felt something warmly and essentially human in Colonel Higginson's writing to be thus led to ask his help rather than another's, — an intuition most happily justified. He received the first of her unique letters at the beginning of * war time.' Unfortunately his answers cannot now be found : i862] TO MR T. W. HIGGINSON 3OI [April 16, 1862.] Mr Higginson, — Are you too deeply occupied to say if my verse is alive ? The mind is so near itself it cannot see distinctly, and I have none to ask. Should you think it breathed, and had you the leisure to tell me, I should feel quick gratitude. If I make the mistake, that you dared to tell me would give me sincerer honor toward you. I enclose my name, asking you, if you please, sir, to tell me what is true ? That you will not betray me it is needless to ask, since honor is its own pawn. [April 26, 1862.] Mr HiGGmsoN, — Your kindness claimed earlier gratitude, but I was ill, and write to-day from my pillow. Thank you for the surgery ; it was not so painful as I supposed. I bring you others, as you ask, though they might not differ. While my thought is undressed, I can make the distinction ; but when I put them in the gown, they look ahke and numb. You asked how old I was ? I made no verse, but one or two, until this winter, sir. I had a terror since September, I could tell to none ; and so I sing, as the boy does of the burying ground, because I am afraid. You inquire my books. For poets, I have Keats, 302 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1862 and Mr and Mrs Browning. For prose, Mr Ruskin, Sir Thomas Browne, and the Revelations. I went to school, but in your manner of the phrase had no education. When a little girl, I had a friend who taught me Immortality; but venturing too near, himself, he never returned. Soon after my tutor died, and for several years my lexicon was my only companion. Then I found one more, but he was not contented I be his scholar, so he left the land. You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and the sundown, and a dog large as myself, that my father bought me. They are better than beings because they know, but do not tell; and the noise in the pool at noon excels my piano. I have a brother and sister ; my mother does not care for thought, and father, too busy with his briefs to notice what we do. He buys me many books, but begs me not to read them, because he fears they joggle the mind. They are religious, except me, and address an eclipse, every morning, whom they call their ' Father.' But I fear my story fatigues you. I would like to learn. Could you tell me how to grow, or is it unconveyed, like melody or witchcraft? You speak of Mr Whitman. I never read his book, but was told that it was disgraceful. I read Miss Prescott's Circumstance, but it fol- lowed me in the dark, so I avoided her. Two editors of journals came to my father's house this winter, and asked me for my mind, and when I i862] TO MR T, W. HIGGINSON 303 asked them * why ' they said I was penurious, and they would use it for the world. I could not weigh myself, myself. My size felt small to me. I read your chapters in The Atlantic^ and experienced honor for you. I was sure you would not reject a confiding question. Is this, sir, what you asked me to tell you? Your friend, E. Dickinson. [June 8; 1862.] Dear Friend, — Your letter gave no drunkenness, because I tasted rum before. Domingo comes but once ; yet I have had few pleasures so deep as your opinion, and if I tried to thank you, my tears would block my tongue. My dying tutor told me that he would like to live till I had been a poet, but Death was much of mob as I could master, then. And when, far afterward, a sudden light on orchards, or a new fashion in the wind troubled my attention, I felt a palsy, here, the verses just relieve. Your second letter surprised me, and for a mo- ment, swung. I had not supposed it. Your first gave no dishonor, because the true are not ashamed. I thanked you for your justice, but could not drop the bells whose jingling cooled my tramp. Perhaps the balm seemed better, because you bled me first. I smile when you suggest that I delay * to publish,' that being foreign to my thought as firmament to fin. 304 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [i86a If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her ; if she did not, the longest day would pass me on the chase, and the approbation of my dog would forsake me then. My barefoot rank is better. You think my gait ' spasmodic* I am in dan- ger, sir. You think me ' uncontrolled.* I have no tribunal. Would you have time to be the 'friend* you should think I need ? I have a little shape : it would not crowd your desk, nor make much racket as the mouse that dents your galleries. If I might bring you what I do — not so frequent to trouble you — and ask you if I told it clear, * *t would be control to me. The sailor cannot see the north, but knows the needle can. The * hand you stretch me in the dark * I put mine in, and turn away. I have no Saxon now : — As if I asked a common alms. And in my wondering hand A stranger pressed a kingdom, And I, bewildered, stand ; As if I asked the Orient Had it for me a morn, And it should lift its purple dikes And shatter me with dawn ! But, will you be my preceptor, Mr Higginson? After these startling letters it was but natu- ral that Mr Higginson should have asked to see a photograph of his * enigmatical corre- spondent.' But there was none. She had an i862] TO MR T. W, HIGGINSON 305 unconquerable aversion to seeing herself re- produced in any sort of * mould.' The frontis- piece to the first volume of these Letters is taken from an oil painting of Emily, when she was but eight years old, in a group with her brother and sister. The only other known representation of her face is a daguerrotype made a few years later; but it is entirely un- satisfactory, both in expression and individual- ity. Instead of her photograph, she sent this verbal portrait. Her coy avoidance of Mr Higginson's request was as characteristically piquant as her answer to his question of her age: — [July, 1862.] Could you believe me without? I had no por- trait, now, but am small, like the wren; and my hair is bold, like the chestnut burr ; and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves. Would this do just as well? It often alarms father. He says death might occur, and he has moulds of all the rest, but has no mould of me ; but I noticed the quick wore off those things in a few days, and forestall the dis- honor. You will think no caprice of me. You said ' dark.* I know the butterfly, and the lizard, and the orchis. Are not those your countrymen ? I am happy to be your scholar, and will deserve the kindness I cannot repay. 306 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1862 If you truly consent, I recite now. Will you tell me my fault, frankly, as to yourself, for I had rather wince than die. Men do not call the surgeon to commend the bone, but to set it, sir, and fracture within is more critical. And for this, preceptor, I shall bring you obedience, the blossom from my garden, and every gratitude I know. Perhaps you smile at me, I could not stop for that. My business is circumference. An ignorance, not of customs, but if caught with the dawn, o^the sunset see me, myself the only kangaroo among the beauty, sir, if you please, it afflicts me, and I thought that instruction would take it away. Because you have much business, beside the growth of me, you will appoint, yourself, how often I shall come without your inconvenience. And if at any time you regret you received me, or I prove a different fabric to that you supposed, you must banish me. When 1 state myself, as the representative of the verse, it does not mean me, but a supposed person. You are true about the * perfection.* To-day makes yesterday mean. You spoke of Pippa Passes. I never heard any- body speak of Pippa Passes before. You see my posture is benighted. To thank you baffles me. Are you perfectly pow- erful ? Had 1 a pleasure you had not, I could delight to bring it. Your Scholar. i862] TO MR T, W, HIGGINSON 307 Colonel Higginson wrote, * It would seem that at first I tried a little — a very little — to lead her in the direction of rules and tradi- tions ; but I fear it was only perfunctory, and that she interested me more in her — so to speak — unregenerate condition. Still, she recognizes the endeavor. In this case, as will be seen, I called her attention to the fact that while she took pains to correct the spelling of a word, she was utterly careless of greater irregularities. It will be seen by her answer that with her usual naYve adroitness she turns my point ' : — Dear Friend, — Are these more orderly? I thank you for the truth. I had no monarch in my life, and cannot rule myself; and when I try to organize, my little force explodes and leaves me bare and charred. I think you called me ' wayward.* Will you help me improve? I suppose the pride that stops the breath, in the core of woods, is not of ourself. You say I confess the little mistake, and omit the large. Because I can see orthography; but the ignorance out of sight is my preceptor's charge. Of 'shunning men and women,' — they talk of hallowed things, aloud, and embarrass my dog. He and I don't object to them, if they *11 exist their 308 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [i86a side. I think Carl would please you. He is dumb, and brave. I think you would like the chestnut- tree I met in my walk. It hit my notice suddenly, and I thought the skies were in blossom. Then there *s a noiseless noise in the orchard that I let persons hear. You told me in one letter you could not come to see me * now/ and I made no answer ; not because I had none, but did not think myself the price that you should come so far. I do not ask so large a pleasure, lest you might deny me. You say, ' Beyond your knowledge.' You would not jest with me, because I believe you; but, pre- ceptor, you cannot mean it? All men say ' What * to me, but 1 thought it a fashion. When much in the woods, as a little girl, I was told that the snake would bite me, that I might pick a poisonous flower, or goblins kidnap me; but I went along and met no one but angels, who were for shyer of me than I could be of them, so I have n't that confidence in fraud which many exercise. I shall observe your precept, though I don't un- derstand it, always. I marked a line in one verse, because I met it after I made it, and never consciously touch a paint mixed by another person. I do not let go it, be- cause it is mine. Have you the portrait of Mrs Browning? Per- 1863] TO MR T. IV. HIGGINSOf/ 3C9 sons sent me three. If you had none, will you have mine? Your Scholar. After entering the volunteer army of the Civil War, Colonel Higginson received the fol- lowing letter while in camp in South Carolina, early in 1863: — Amherst. Dear Friend, — I did not deem that planetary forces annulled, but suffered an exchange of terri- tory, or world. I should have liked to see you before you became improbable. War feels to me an oblique place. Should there be other summers, would you perhaps come? I found you were gone, by accident, as I find systems are, or seasons of the year, and obtain no cause, but suppose it a treason of progress that dis- solves as it goes. Carlo still remained, and I told him Best gains must have the losses' test, To constitute them gains. My shaggy ally assented. Perhaps death gave me awe for friends, striking sharp and early, for I held them since in a brittle love, of more alarm than peace. I trust you may pass the limit of war; and though not reared to prayer, when service is had in church for our arms, I include yourself. ... I was thinking to-day, as I VOL. n. — 6 1 3IO LETTERS OP EMILY DIOTINSON [1864 noticed, that the ' supernatural ' was only the natural disclosed. Not * Revelation ' 't is that waits. But our unfurnished eyes. But I fear I detain you. Should you, before this reaches you, experience Immortality, who will in- J form me of the exchange ? Could you, with honor, / avoid death, I entreat you, sir. It would bereave Your Gnome. I trust the Procession of Flowers was not a premonition. Of this curious letter Colonel Higginson wrote : * Mr Howells reminds me that Sweden- borg somewhere has an image akin to her " oblique place," where he symbolizes evil as simply an oblique angle.' In the summer of 1863 Colonel Higginson was wounded ; in September of the same year began Emily's trouble with her eyes, frequently referred to. In the April following she went to Boston, — her mention of Hawthorne's death (May, 1864) of itself placing the date: — [Summer, 1864.] Dear Friend, — Are you in danger? I did not know that you were hurt. Will you tell me more? Mr Hawthorne died. I was ill since September, and since April in Bos- 1865] TO MR T. W, HIGGINSON 3 1 1 ton for a physician's care. He does not let me go, yet I work in my prison, and make guests for myself. Carlo did not come, because that he would die in jail ; and the mountains I could not hold now, so I brought but the gods. I wish to see you more than before I failed. Will you tell me your health ? I am surprised and anx- ious since receiving your note. The only news I know Is bulletins all day From Immortality. Can you render my pencil? The physician has taken away ray pen. I enclose the address from a letter, lest my figures fail. Klnowledge of your recovery would excel my own. E. Dickinson. [1865.] Amherst. Dear Friend, — You were so generous to me, that if possible I offended you, I could not too deeply apologize. To doubt my high behavior is a new pain. 1 could be honorable no more, till I asked you about it. I know not what to deem myself — yesterday 'your scholar,* but might I be the one you to-night for- gave, 'tis a better honor. Mine is but just the thief s request. Please, sir, hear ' Barabbas.* 312 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1868 The possibility to pass Without a moment's bell \ Into conjecture's presence, I Is like a face of steel { That suddenly looks into ours f With a metallic grin ; j' The cordiality of Death j Who drills his welcome in. [1868.] Amherst. Dear Friend, — Whom my dog understood could not elude others. I should be so glad to see you, but think it an apparitional pleasure, not to be fulfilled. I am un- certain of Boston. I had promised to visit my physician for a few days in May, but father objects because he is in the habit of me. Is it more far to Amherst ? You will find a minute host, but a spacious welcome. . . . If I still entreat you to teach me, are you much displeased? I will be patient, constant, never re- ject your knife, and should my slowness goad you, you knew before myself that Except the smaller size No lives are round. These hurry to a sphere And show and end. The larger slower grow And later hang ; The summers of Hesperides Are long. i868] TO MR T. W, HIGGINSON 313 [1868.] Amherst. ,. Dear Friend, — A letter always feels to me like ] Immortality because it is the mind alone without / corporeal friend. Indebted in our talk to attitude and accent, there seems a spectral power in thought that walks alone. I would like to thank you for your great kindness, but never try to lift the words which I cannot hold. Should you come to Amherst, I might then suc- ceed, though gratitude is the timid wealth of those who have nothing. I am sure that you speak the truth, because the noble do, but your letters always surprise me. My life has been too simple and stem to embarrass any. ' Seen of angels,* scarcely my responsibility. It is difficult not to be fictitious in so fair a place, but tests' severe repairs are permitted all. When a little girl I remember hearing that re- markable passage and preferring the 'power,* not knowing at the time that * kingdom * and ' glory * were included. You noticed my dwelling alone. To an emigrant, country is idle except it be his own. You speak kindly of seeing me ; could it please your conven- ience to come so far as Amherst, I should be very glad, but I do not cross my father's ground to any house or town. Of our greatest acts we are ignorant. You were not aware that you saved my life. To thank you in 314 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1870 person has been since then one of my few requests. . . . You will excuse each that I say, because no one taught me. [August, 1870.] Dear Friend, — I will be at home and glad. I think you said the 15 th. The incredible never surprises us, because it is the incredible. £. Dickinson. Of his meeting Emily Dickinson in her own home, and of his first impressions of her, Colonel Higginson has told in the pages of T/ie Atlantic, Withdrawing more and more constantly from accumulated humanity, no thought of the pos- sibility of a lack of congenial occupation ever crossed her mind. During their first interview, indeed, Colonel Higginson asked her ' if she never felt any want of employment, not going oflf the grounds, and rarely seeing a visitor; ' to which she replied, * I never thought of con- ceiving that I could ever have the slightest approach to such a want in all future time.' Among the strong and remarkable things she said to him are several sentences which it seems not irrelevant to insert here : -* ' Is it oblivion or absorption when things pass from our minds?' 1870] TO MR T. W. HIGGINSON 315 'Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it.' ' I find ecstasy in living ; the mere sense of living is joy enough/ One or two others Colonel Higginson has called ' the very wantonness of over-state- ment/ as, — * How do most people live without any thoughts ? There are many people in the world, — you must have noticed them in the street, — how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?* And this, * a crowning extravaganza,' — * If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?* After the visit she wrote : — [August, 1870] Enough is so vast a sweetness, I suppose it never occurs, only pathetic counterfeits. Fabulous to me as the men of the Revelations who ' shall not hunger any more.' Even the pos- sible has its insoluble particle. 3l6 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1871 After you went, I took Macbeth and turned to 'Bimam Wood.* Came twice 'to Dunsinane.' I thought and went about my work. . . . The vein cannot thank the artery, but her solemn indebtedness to him, even the stolidest admit, and so of me who try, whose effort leaves no sound. You ask great questions accidentally. To answer them would be events. I trust that you are safe. 1 ask yoi; ^ forgive me for all the ignorance I had. 1 find no nomination sweet as your low opinion. Speak, if but to blame your obedient child. You told me of Mrs LowelPs poems. Would you tell me where I could find them, or are they not for sight? An article of yours, too, perhaps the only one you wrote that I never knew. It was about a ' Latch.* Are you willing to tell me? ^ If I ask too much, you could please refuse. Shortness to live has made me bold. Abroad is close to-night and I have but to lift my hands to touch the ' Heights of Abraham.' Dickinson. [Winter, 1871.] To live is so startling, it leaves but little room for other occupations, though friends are, if possible, an event more fair. I am happy you have the travel you so long de- sire, and chastened that my master met neither accident nor Death. ^ Perhaps A Shadow, 1874] TO MR T, W, HIGGINSON 317 Our own possessions, though our own, 'tis well to hoard anew, remembering the dimensions of pos- sibility. I often saw your name in iUustrious men- tion, and envied an occasion so abstinent to me. Thank you for having been to Amherst. Could you come again that would be far better, though the finest wish is the futile one. When I saw you last, it was mighty summer — now the grass is glass, and the meadov tucco, and * still waters ' in the pool where the frog drinks. These beha!viors of the year hurt almost like music, shifting when it ease us most. Thank you for the * lesson.* I will study it, though hitherto, — Menagerie to me My neighbor be. Your Scholar. Her father's death (June 16) swept away all her landmarks. To this friend she wrote : — [July, 1874] The last afternoon that my father lived, though with no premonition, I preferred to be with him, and invented an absence for mother, Vinnie being asleep. He seemed peculiarly pleased, as I oftenest stayed with myself; and remarked, as the afternoon withdrew, he * would like it to not end.' His pleasure almost embarrassed me, and my brother coming, I suggested they walk. Next 3l8 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1874 morning I woke him for the train, and saw him no more. His heart was pure and terrible, and I think no other like it exists. I am glad there is Immortality, but would have tested it myself, before intrusting him. Mr Bowles was with us. With that exception, I saw none. I have wished for you, since my father died, and had you an hour unengrossed, it would be almost price- less. Thank you for each kindness. . . . Your beautiful hymn, was it not prophetfc? It has as- sisted that pause of space which I call ' father/ [August, 1874] When I think of my father's lonely life and lone- lier death, there is this redress, — ■ Take all away ; j The only thing worth larceny { Is left — the Immortality. My earliest friend wrote me the week before he died, ' If I live, I will go to Amherst ; if I die, I certainly will.' Is your house deeper off? Your Scholar. Dear Friend, — I find you with dusk, for day is tired, and lays her antediluvian cheek to the hill Hke a child. Nature confides now. i875] TO MR T, W. HIGGINSON 319 I hope you are jo)rful frequently, these beloved days, and the health of your friend bolder. I remember her with my blossoms and wish they were hers Whose pink career may have a close Portentous as our own, who knows ? To imitate these neighbors fleet, In awe and innocence, were meet. Summer is so kind 1 had hoped you might come. Since my father's d)dng, everything sacred enlarged so it was dim to own. When a few years old, I was taken to a funeral which I now know was of peculiar distress, and the clergyman asked, ' Is the arm of the Lord shortened, that it cannot save ? ' He italicised the ' cannot.' 1 mistook the accent for a doubt of Immortality, and not daring to ask, it besets me still, though we know that the mind of the heart must live if its clerical part do not. Would you explain it to me ? ... It comforts an instinct if another have felt it too. I was re-reading your Decoration. You may have forgotten it. [June, 1875.] Dear Friend, — Mother was paralyzed Tuesday, a year from the evening father died. I thought perhaps you would care. Your Scholar. A death-blow is a life-blow to some Who, till they died, did not alive become ; Who, had they lived, had died, but when / They died, vitality begun. / 320 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1875 [1875J Dear Friend, — The flower was jasmine. I am glad if it pleased your friend. It is next dearest to daphne, except wild-flowers — those are dearer. 1 have a friend in Dresden, who thinks the love of the field a misplaced affection — and says he will send me a meadow that is better than summer's. If he does, I will send it to you. I have read nothing of Tourgu^neffs, but thank you for telling me — and will seek him immediately. I did not read Mr Miller because I could not care about him. Mrs Hunt's poems are stronger than any written by women since Mrs Browning, with the exception of Mrs Lewes's ; but truth like ancestors* brocades ^ can stand alone. You speak of Men and Women, That is a broad book. Bells and Pomegranates I never saw, but have Mrs Browning's endorsement. While Shakespeare * remains, literature is firm. An insect cannot run away with Achilles's head. Thank you for having written the Atlantic Essays. They are a fine joy, though to possess the in- gredient for congratulation renders congratulation superfluous. Dear friend, I trust you as you ask. If I exceed permission, excuse the bleak simplicity that knew no tutor but the north. Would you but guide Dickinson? 1876] TO MR T, W, HIGGINSON 32 1 [1875] Dear Friend, — I am sorry your brother is dead. I fear he was dear to you. I should be glad to know you were painlessly grieved. Of Heaven above the firmest proof We fundamental know — Except for its marauding hand It had been heaven below. Dickinson. As already shown, Emily had effectively re- sisted all importunity to publish. Even the elo- quent pleading of her long-time friend *H. H.' was of no avail ; but apparently reinforcement in her decision was sometimes sought: — [Early in 1876] Dear Friend, — Are you willing to tell me what is right ? Mrs Jackson, of Colorado, was with me a few moments this week, and wished me to write for this.* I told her I was unwilling, and she asked me why? I said I was incapable, and she seemed not to believe me and asked me not to decide for a few days. Meantime, she would write to me. She was so sweetly noble, I would regret to estrange her, and if you would be willing to give me a note saying you disapproved it and ^ A circular of the No Name Series was enclosed. 322 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1876 thought me unfit, she would believe you. I am sorry to flee so often to my safest friend, but hope he permits me. [Acknowledging a photograph, 1876.] Dear Friend, — Except your coming I know no gift so great, and in one extent it exceeds that, — it is permanent. Your face is more joyful when you speak, and I miss an almost arrogant look that at times haunts you, but with that exception, it is so real I could think it you. Thank you with delight, and please to thank your friend for the lovely suggestion. I hope she has no suffering now. Was it Browning's flower that * ailed till evening ' ? I shall think of your ' keeping house ' at night when I close the shutter — but to be Mrs Higginson's guest is the boon of birds. Judge Lord was with us a few days since, and told me that the joy we most revere we profane in taking. I wish that was wrong. Mrs Jackson has written. It was not stories she asked of me. But may I tell her just the same that you don't prefer it? Thank you if I may, for it almost seems sordid to refuse from myself again. My brother and sister speak of you, and covet your remembrance, and perhaps you will not reject my own to Mrs Higginson? 1876] TO MR T. W. HIGGINSON 323 Summer laid her supple glove In its sylvan drawer — Wheresoe'er, or was she The demand of awe ? Your Scholar. [March, 1876.] , . . But two had mentioned the ' spring ' to me — yourself and the Revelations, 'I, Jesus, have sent mine angel.* I inferred your touch in the papers on Lowell and Emerson. It is delicate that each mind is itself, like a distinct bird. I was lonely there was an 'or ' in that beautiful 'I would go to Amherst,' though grieved for its cause. I wish your friend had my strength, for I don't care for roving — she perhaps might, though to remain with you is journey. To abstain from Daniel Deronda is hard — you are very kind to be willing. ... I am glad Immor- tality pleased you. I believed it would. I suppose even God Himself could not withhold that now. To disappear enhances, \ The man that runs away | Is tinctured for an instant With Immortality. But yesterday a vagrant, To-day in memory lain With superstitious value — We tamper wilh again. \ y 324 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1876 But ' never * far as honor Withdraws the worthless thing. And impotent to cherish We hasten to adorn. Of Death the sternest function That just as we discern The excellence defies us — Securest gathered then The fruit perverse to plucking. But leaning to the sight With the ecstatic limit Of unobtained delight. In sending a volume of George Eliot to Mrs Higginson, Emily wrote, * I am bringing you a little granite book to lean on/ [Autumn, 1876.] Dear Friend, — Thank you for permission to write Mrs Higginson. I hope I have not fatigued her — also for thinking of my brother, who is slowly better, and rides for an hour, kind days. I am glad if I did as you would like. The de- gradation to displease you, 1 hope I may never incur. Often, when troubled by entreaty, that paragraph of yours has saved me — ' Such being the majesty of the art you presume to practise, you can at least take time before dishonoring it,' and Enobarbus said, ' Leave that which leaves itself.* I shall look with joy for the t* little book * because i877] TO MR T. W. HIGGINSON 325 it is yours, though I seek you in vain in the maga- zines where you once wrote. I recently found two papers of yours that were unknown to me, and won- dered anew at your withdrawing thought so sought by others. When flowers annually died and I was a child, I used to read Dr Hitchcock's book on the Flowers of North America, This comforted their absence, assuring me they lived. Your Scholar. [1877.] Thank you, dear friend, for my * New Year,' but did you not confer it ? Had your scholar permis- sion to fashion yours, it were perhaps too fair. I always ran home to awe when a child, if anything befell me. He was an awful mother, but I liked him better than none. There remained this shelter after you left me the other day. Of your flitting coming it is fair to think, like the bee's coup6, vanishing in music. Would you with the bee return. What a firm of noon I Death obtains the rose, But the news of dying goes No further than the breeze. The ear is the last face. We hear after we see, which to tell you first is still my destiny. VOL. II. — 7 326 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1877 Meeting a bird this morning, I began to flee. He saw it and sung. Presuming on that lone result. His infinite disdain, But vanquished him with my defeat— T was victory was slain. I shall read the book. Thank you for telling me. [After Colonel Higginson had met with a bereavement, in 1877.] Dear Friend, — We must be less than Death to be lessened by it, for nothing is irrevocable but ourselves. I am glad you are better. I had feared to follow you, lest you would rather be lonely, which is the will of sorrow ; but the papers had spoken of you with affectionate deference, and to know you were deeply remembered might not too intrude. To be human is more than to be divine, for when Christ was divine he was uncontented till he had been human. I remember nothing so strong as to see you. • • • [1877.1 Dear Friend, — I think of you so wholly that I cannot resist to write again, to ask if you are safe ? Danger is not at first, for then we are unconsciouSi but in the after, slower days. 1878] TO MR T. W, HIGGINSON 327 Do not try to be saved, but let redemption find you, as it certainly will. Love is its own rescue, for we, at our supremest, are but its trembling emblems. Your Scholar. After an interval of silence came this letter, in the same year : — Must I lose the friend that saved my life without inquiring why? Affection gropes through drifts of awe for his tropic door. That every bliss we know or guess hourly befall him, is his scholar's prayer. [January, 1878.] Dear Friend, — I felt it shelter to speak to you. My brother and sister are with Mr Bowles, who is buried this afternoon. The last song that I heard — that was, since the birds — was, ' He leadeth me, he leadeth me ; yea, though I walk * — then the voices stooped, the arch was so low. [Summer, 1878.] Dear Friend, — When you wrote you would come in November, it would please me it were November then — but the time has moved. You went with the coming of the birds — they will go with your coming, but to see you is so much sweeter than birds, I could excuse the spring. 328 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1878 With the bloom of the flower your friend loved, I have wished for her, but God cannot discontinue Himself. Mr Bowles was not willing to die. When you have lost a friend, Master, you remem- ber you could not begin again, because there was no world. I have thought of you often since the darkness, though we cannot assist another's night. I have hoped you were saved. That those have immortality with whom we talked about it, makes it no more mighty but perhaps more sudden. . . . How brittle are the piers On which our faith doth tread — No bridge below doth totter so, Yet none hath such a crowd. It is as old as God — Indeed, 't was built by Him — He sent His son to test the plank. And he pronounced it firm. I hope you have been well. I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious. To have seen Stratford on Avon, and the Dresden Madonna, must be almost peace. And perhaps you have spoken with George Eliot. Will you 'tell me about it'? Will you come in November, and will November come, or is this the hope that opens and shuts, like the eye of the wax doll? Your Scholar. i879] TO MR T, W. HIGGINSON 329 [In acknowledgment of his Short Studies 0/ American Authors , 1879.] Dear Friend, — Brabantio's gift was not more fair than yours, though I trust without his pathetic inscription, ' Which but thou hast already, with all my heart I would keep from thee.* Of Poe, I know too little to think — Hawthorne appalls — entices. Mrs Jackson soars to your estimate lawfully as a bird, but of Howells and James, one hesitates. Your relentless music dooms as it redeems. Remorse for the brevity of a book is a rare emo- tion, though fair as Lowell's * sweet despair ' in the * slipper hymn.' One thing of it we borrow And promise to return. The booty and the sorrow Its sweetness to have known. One thing of it we covet — The power to forget, The anguish of the avarice Defrays the dross of it Had I tried before reading your gift to thank you, it had perhaps been possible, but I waited, and now it disables my lips. Magic, as it electrifies, also makes decrepit. Thank you for thinking of me. Your Scholar. 330 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1880 [1880.] Dear Friend, — You were once so kind as to say you would advise me. Could I ask it now? I have promised three hymns to a charity, but without your approval could not give them. They are short, and 1 could write them quite plainly, and if you felt it convenient to tell me if they were faithful, I should be very grateful, though if public cares too far fatigue you, please deny Your Scholar. [1880.] Dear Friend, — Thank you for the advice. I shall implicitly follow it. The one who asked me for the lines I had never seen. He spoke of ' a charity.' I refused, but did not inquire. He again earnestly urged, on the ground that in that way I might ' aid unfortunate children.' The name of * child * was a snare to me, and I hesi- tated, choosing my most rudimentary, and without criterion. I inquired of you. You can scarcely estimate the opinion to one utterly guideless. Again thank you. Your Scholar. [Early Summer, 1880.] Dear Friend, — I was touchingly reminded of [a child who had died] this morning by an Indian 1884] TO MR T. W. HIGGINSON 33 1 woman with gay baskets and a dazzling baby, at the kitchen door. Her little boy ' once died/ she said, death to her dispelling him. I asked her what the baby liked, and she said 'to step.* The prairie before the door was gay with flowers of hay, and I led her in. She argued with the birds, she leaned on clover walls and they fell, and dropped her.< With jargon sweeter than a bell, she grappled buttercups, and they sank together, the buttercups the heaviest. What sweetest use of days ! *T was noting some such scene made Vaughan humbly say,— 'My days that are at best but dim and hoary.' I think it was Vaughan. . . . [1884.] Dear Friend, — May I ask the delight in ad- vance, of sending you the Life of Mrs Cross by her husband, which the papers promise for publication ? I feared some other pupil might usurp my privilege. Emblem is immeasurable — that is why it is bet- ter than fulfilment, which can be drained. CHAPTER VIII To Mr Perez D. Cowan, Miss Maria Whitney^ Mr Bowles, Mr J. D. Clark, and Mr C. H. Clark MR COWAN graduated at Amherst Col- lege in 1866, and 'Peter' was Emily Dickinson's especial appellation for this favor- ite cousin. The first letter was written upon the occasion of his marriage to Miss Margaret Elizabeth Rhea. To the Rev, Perez D. Cowan [October 26, 1870.] Dear Peter, — It is indeed sweet news. I am proud of your happiness. To Peter, and Peter's, let me give both hands. Delight has no competi- tor, so it is always most. * Maggie ' is a warm name. I shall like to take it. Home is the definition of God. EBm«Y. i87o] TO MR PEREZ D, COWAN 333 To the Same It is long since I knew of you, Peter, and much may have happened to both ; but that is the rarest book, which, opened at whatever page, equally en- chants us. 1 hope that you have power, and as much of peace as in our deep existence may be possible. To multiply the harbors does not reduce the sea. We learn, through cousin Montague, that you have lost your sister through that sweeter loss which we call gain. I am glad she is glad. Her early pain had seemed to me peculiarly cruel. Tell her how tenderly we are pleased. Recall me too to your other sisters, who though they may have mislaid me, I can always find ; and include me to your sweet wife. We are daily reminded of you by the clergyman, Mr Jenkins, whom you strongly resemble. Thank you for the paper. It is homelike to know where you are. We can almost hear you announce the text, when the air is clear ; and how social if you should preach us a note some Sunday in recess I Emily. 334 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1880 To the Same [After the death of Mr Cowan's little daughter Margie.] [November 8, 1879.] Will it comfort my grieved cousin to know that Emily and Vinnie are among the ones this moment thinking of him with peculiar tenderness, and is his sweet wife too faint to remember to Whom her loved one is consigned? ' Come unto me ' could not alarm those minute feet — how sweet to remember. If you feel able, write a few words ; if you do not — remember forgetting is a guile unknown to your faithful cousin Emily. To the Same [Upon receiving an account of little Margie's life and death.] [October, 1880.] Dear Cousin, — The sweet book found me on my pillow, where I was detained, or I should have thanked you immediately. The little creature must have been priceless — yours and not yours — how hallowed ! It may have been she came to show you Immor- tality. Her startling little flight would imply she did. May I remind you what Paul said, or do you think of nothing else, these October nights, without her crib to visit? i88o] TO MISS MARIA WHITNEY 335 The little furniture of loss has lips of dirks to stab us. I hope Heaven is warm, there are so many barefoot ones. I hope it is near — the little tourist was so small. I hope it is not so unlike earth that we shall miss the peculiar form — the mould of the bird. ' And with what body do they come ? * Then they do come ! Rejoice ! What door? What hour? Run, run, my soul I Illuminate the house ! ' Body ! * then real, — a face and eyes, — to know that it is them ! Paul knew the Man that knew the news, He passed through Bethlehem. With love for you, and your sweet wife, ' whom seeing not, we * trust. Cousin Emh-y. To Miss Maria Whitney How well I know her not Whom not to know has been A bounty in prospective, now Next door to mine the pain, Emily. The handwriting of this first little stanza sent to Miss Whitney is that of the early middle period, and is too indefinite to be safely dated ; but before the next letter, a long interval seems to have elapsed. 336 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1878 To the Same [1877.1 Vinnie and her sister thank Miss Whitney for the delicate kindness, and remember her with peculiar love these acuter days. . . . I fear we think too lightly of the gift of mortality, which, too gigantic to comprehend, certainly cannot be estimated. E. Dickinson. To the Same [1878] Dear Friend, — I have thought of you often since the darkness, — though we cannot assist another's night. I have hoped you were saved. That he has received Immortality who so often conferred it, invests it with a more sudden charm. . . . I hope you have the power of hope, and that every bliss we know or guess hourly befalls you. E. Dickinson. To the Same ... To relieve the irreparable degrades it. Brabantio's resignation is the only one — ' I here do give thee that with all my heart, which but thou hast already, with all my heart I would keep from thee.' Emily. 1878] TO MISS MARIA WHITNEY 337 To the Same [1878.] Dear Friend, — I am constantly more astonished that the body contains the spirit — except for over- mastering work it could not be borne. I shall miss saying to Vinnie when we hear the Northampton bell — as in subtle states of the west we do — * Miss Whitney is going to church/ though must not everjnvhere be church to hearts that have, or have had, a friend ? Could that sweet darkness where they dwell Be once disclosed to us, The clamor for their loveliness Would burst the loneliness. I trust you may have the dearest summer possible to loss. One sweet, sweet more, one liquid more, of that Arabian presence ! You spoke very sweetly to both of us, and your sewing and recollecting is a haunting picture, a sweet, spectral protection. Your name is taken as tenderly as the names of our birds, or the flower, for some mysterious cause, sundered from its dew. • , . In a brief memoir of Parepa, in which she was likened to a rose, — * thomless until she died,* some bereaved one added. To miss him is his only stab, but that he never gave ! A word from you would be sacred. Emh-y. . , , The crucifix requires no glove. I 338 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1878 To the Same Intrusiveness of flowers is brooked by even troubled hearts. They enter and then knock — then chide their ruthless sweetness, and then remain forgiven. May these molest as fondly ! To the Same Than Heaven more remote, For Heaven is the root, But these the flitted seed, More flown indeed Than ones that never were. Or those that hide, and are. What madness, by their side, A vision to provide Of future days They cannot praise. My soul, to find them, come. They cannot call, they *re dumb, Nor prove, nor woo, But that they have abode Is absolute as God, And instant, too. EMn.Y. / i8793 TO MISS MARIA WHITNEY 339 ■II.IJ.LJJL i JL..].J ■ - - ■■ LJI !»■ »!■ ^W^—— ■ 11 IM I ■ To the Same The face in evanescence lain / Is more distinct than ours, And ours, considered for its sake, As capsules are for flowers. Emily. To the Same [1879.] Dear Friend, — Your touching suggestion . . . is a tender permission. . . . We cannot believe for each other — thought is too sacred a despot, but I hope that God, in* what- ever form, is true to our friend. . . . Consciousness is the only home of which we now know. That sunny adverb had been enough, were it not fore- closed. When not inconvenient to your heart, please remember us, and let us help you carry it, if you grow tired. Though we are each unknown to our- self and each other, *t is not what well conferred it, the dying soldier asks, it is only the water. We knew not that we were to live, Nor when we are to die j Our ignorance our cuirass is ; j We wear mortality j As lightly as an option gown Till asked to take it off. By His intrusion God is known — \ It is the same with life. \ Emily. 340 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1883 To the Same [November, 1882.] Titesday, Sweet Friend, — Our mother ceased. While we bear her dear form through the wilderness, I am sure you are with us. Emily. To the Same [1883.3 Dear Friend, — The guilt of having sent the note had so much oppressed me that I hardly dared to read the reply, and delayed my heart almost to its stifling, sure you would never receive us again. To come unto our own and our own fail to receive us, is a sere response. I hope you may forgive us. All is faint indeed without our vanished mother, who achieved in sweetness what she lost in strength, though grief of wonder at her fate made the winter short, and each night I reach finds my lungs more breathless, seeking what it means. To the bright east she flies, Brothers of Paradise Remit her home. Without a change of wings, Or Love's convenient things. Enticed to come. Fashioning what she is, Fathoming what she was, 1883] TO MISS MARIA WHITNEY 34 1 We deem we dream — And that dissolves the days Through which existence strays Homeless at home. The sunshine almost speaks, this morning, redoubling tlie division, and Paul's remark grows graphic, ' the weight of glory.* I am glad you have an hour for books, those en- thralling friends, the immortalities, perhaps, each may pre-receive. * And I saw the Heavens opened.' I hope that nothing pains you except the pang of life, sweeter to bear than to omit. With love and wonder, Emily. To the Same [1883?] Dear Friend, — Is not an absent friend as m)rs- terious as a bulb in the ground, and is not a bulb the most captivating floral form? Must it not have enthralled the Bible, if we may infer from its selec- tion? * The lily of the field ! ' I never pass one without being chagrined for Solomon, and so in love with * the lily * anew, that were I sure no one saw me, I might make those advances of which in after life I should repent The apple-blossoms were slightly disheartened, yesterday, by a snow-storm, but the birds encour- aged them all that they could — and how fortunate that the little ones had come to cheer their damask brethren ! VOL. II. — 8 342 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1883 You spoke of coming * with the apple-blossoms * — which occasioned our solicitude. The ravenousness of fondness is best disclosed by children. . , . Is there not a sweet wolf witnin us that demands its food? I can easily imagine your fondness for the little life so mysteriously committed to your care. The bird that asks our crumb has a plaintive distinction. I rejoice that it was possible for you to be with it, for I think the early spiritual influences about a child are more hallowing than we know. The angel begins in the morning in every human life. How small the furniture of bliss ! How scant the heavenly fabric ! No ladder needs the bird but skies To situate its wings, Nor any leader's grim baton Arraigns it as it sings. The implements of bliss are few — As Jesus says of ffinif * Come unto me * the moiety That wafts the cherubim. Emily. To the Same Dear Friend, — You are like God. We pray to Him, and he answers * No.* Then we pray to Him to rescind the ' no,* and He don*t answer at all, yet * Seek and ye shall find * is the boon of faith. You failed to keep your appointment with the apple-blossoms — the japonica, even, bore an apple 1883] TO MISS MARIA WHITNEY 343 to elicit you, but that must be a silver bell which calls the human heart. I still hope that you live, and in lands of consciousness. It is Commencement now. Pathos is very busy. The past is not a package one can lay away. I see my father's eyes, and those of Mr Bowles — those isolated comets. If the future is mighty as the past, what may vista be? With my foot in a sling from a vicious sprain, and reminded of you almost to tears by the week and its witness, I send this sombre word. The vane defines the wind. Where we thought you were, Austin says you are not. How strange to change one's sky, unless one's star go with it, but yours has left an astral wake. Vinnie gives her hand. Always with love, Emily. To the Same [1883?] Dear Friend, — Your sweet self-reprehension makes us look within, which is so wild a place we are soon dismayed, but the seed sown in the lake bears the liquid flower, and so of all your words. . I am glad you accept rest. Too many disdain it. I am glad you go to the Adirondacks. To me the name is homelike, for one of my lost went every year with an Indian guide, before the 344 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1883 woods were broken. Had you been here it would Le sw^"^ br- ' ., like the peach, is later. With a to-morrow in its cupboard, who would be * an hungered ' ? Thank you for thinking of Dick. He is now the horse of association. Men are picking the grass from father's meadow to lay it away for winter, and it takes them a long time. They bring three horses of their own, but Dick, ever gallant, offers to help, and bears a little machine Uke a top, which spins the grass away. It seems very much like a gentleman getting his own supper — for what is his supper winter nights but tumblers of clover? You speak of 'disillusion.* That is one of the few subjects on which I am an infidel. Life is so strong a vision, not one of it shall fail. Not what the stars have done, but what they are to do, is what detains the sky. We shall watch for the promised words from the Adirondacks, and hope the recess will all be joy. To have been made alive is so chief a thing, all else inevitably adds. Were it not riddled by partings, it were too divine. I was never certain that mother had died, except while the students were singing. The voices came from another life. . . . Good- night, dear. Excuse me for staying so long. I love to come to you. To one who creates, or con- soles, thought, what an obligation ! Emily. 1883] TO MISS MARIA WHITNEY 345 To the Same [1883?] \ Dear Friend, — Has the journey ceased, or is it still progressing, and has Nature won you away from us, as we feared she would? Othello is uneasy, but then Othellos always are, they hold such mighty stakes. Austin brought me the picture of Salvini when he was last in Boston. The brow is that of Deity — the eyes, those of the lost, but the power lies in the throat — pleading, sovereign, savage — the panther and the dove ! Each, how innocent ! I hope you found the mountains cordial — fol- lowed your meeting with the lakes with affecting sympathy. Changelessness is Nature's change. The plants went into camp last night, their tender armor insufficient for the crafty nights. That is one of the parting acts of the year, and has an emerald pathos — and Austin hangs bouquets of com in the piazza's ceiling, also an omen, for Austin believes. The * golden bowl ' breaks soundlessly, but it will not be whole again till another year. Did you read Emily Bronte's marvellous verse ? * Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes ceased to be, And Thou wert left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee.' 346 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1884 We are pining to khow of you, and Vinnie thinks to see you would be the opening of the burr. . . , Emily, with love. To the Same [Probably 1884.] Dear Friend, — The little package of Ceylon arrived in fragrant safety, and CaHban's ' clust'ring filberds * were not so luscious nor so brown. Honey in March is blissful as inopportune, and to caress the bee a severe temptation, but was not temptation the first zest? We shall seek to be frugal with our sweet posses- sions, though their enticingness quite leads us astray, and shall endow Austin, as we often do, after a parched day. For how much we thank you. Dear arrears of tenderness we can never repay till the wiirs great ores are finally sifted ; but bullion is better than minted things, for it has no alloy. Thinking of you with fresher love, as the Bible boyishly says, ' New every morning and fresh every evening,* Emily, To the Same [Probably 1884.] Dear Friend, — I cannot depict a friend to my mind till I know what he is doing, and three of us 1884] TO MISS MARIA WHITNEY 347 want to depict you. I inquire your avocation of Austin, and he says you are 'engaged in a great work ' ! That is momentous but not defining. The thought of you in the great city has a halo of wilderness. Console us by dispelling it. . . • Vinnie is happy with her duties, her pussies, and her posies, for the little garden within, though tiny, is triumphant. There are scarlet carnations, with a witching sug- gestion, and hyacinths covered with promises which I know they will keep. How precious to hear you ring at the door, and Vinnie ushering you to those melodious moments of which friends are composed. This also is fiction. I fear we shall care very little for the technical resurrection, when to behold the one face that to us comprised it is too much for us, and I dare not tliink of the voraciousness of that only gaze and its only return. Remembrance is the great tempter. Emily. Emily Dickinson's first letter to the son of her old friend, Mr Bowles, was written four years after his father's death, and contained a spray of pressed jasmine. 348 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1883 To Mr Samuel Bowles [1882.] Dear Friend, — A tree your father gave me bore this priceless flower. Would you accept it because of him — Who abdicated ambush And went the way of dusk, And now, against his subtle name, There stands an asterisk As confident of him as we ,* Impregnable we are — The whole of Immortality Secreted in a star. E. Dickinson, To the Same [1882.] Dear Friend, — My mother and sister hoped to see you, and I, to have heard the voice in the house that recalls the strange music of your father's. A little bin of blossoms I designed for your breakfast also went astray. I hope you are in strength, and that the passen- gers of peace exalt, not rend, your memory. Heaven may give them rank, it could not give them grandeur, for that they carried with themselves. With fresh remembrance, E. Dickinson. i882] TO MR SAMUEL BOWLES 349 To the Same [August 2, 1882.] Dear Friend, — Our friend your father was so beautifully and intimately recalled to-day that it seemed impossible he had experienced the secret of death. A servant who had been with us a long time, and had often opened the door for him, asked me how to spell 'genius' yesterday. I told her and she said no more. To-day she asked me what ' genius * meant. I told her none had known. She said she read in a Catholic paper that Mr Bowles was ' the genius of Hampshire,* and thought it might be that past gentleman. His look could not be extinguished to any who had seen him, for 'because I live, ye shall live also,' was his physiognomy. I congratulate you upon his immortality, which is a constant stimulus to my household, and upon your noble perpetuation of his cherished Republican. Please remember me tenderly to your mother. With honor, Emily Dickinson. This is the only letter I have found, written since early girlhood, in which Emily Dickin- son signed her name in this way. About 1882 she wrote of the elder Mr Bowles to another friend, * I dreamed Satur- 350 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1885 day night of precious Mr Bowles. One glance of his would light a world.' Upon learning of his son's engagement, Emily sent her unique congratulation: — [October, 1883.] Dear Friend, — The clock strikes one that just struck two — Some schism in the sum ; A sorcerer from Genesis Has wrecked the pendulum. With warmest congratulation, E. Dickinson. After the birth of Samuel Bowles the Fifth : To the Same [August, 1885.] Dear Friend, — I did not know. God bless you indeed ! Extend to that small hand my own * right hand of fellowship,' and guide the woman of your heart softly to my own. I give * his angels charge ' — well-remembered angels, whose absence only dims our eyes. The magnanimity I asked, you how freely gave ! If ever of any act of mine you should be in need, let me reply with the laureate, * Speak that I live to hear.' Vitally, E. Dickinson. 1885] TO MR SAMUEL BOWLES 35 1 To the Same [August 19, 1885.] Dear Friend, — May I ask a service so sacred as that you will address and mail a note to the friend of my friend Mrs Jackson? I do not know Mr Jackson's address, and desire to write him. That your loved confederate and yourself are in ceaseless peace is my happy faith. The sweet-peas you hallowed stand in carmine sheaves. Would that you could plunder them. Gratefully, E. Dickinson. To the Same [On receiving some flowers.] Dear Friends, — Had I not known I was not asleep, I should have feared I dreamed, so blissful was their beauty, but day and they demurred. . . . With joyous thanks, E. Dickinson. In the dim and early dawn of a fragrant summer morning soon after, Emily caused a large cluster of sweet-peas to be gathered from her dewy, old-fashioned garden, that they might be put on the very first train to Spring- field, taking the freshness of summer itself to her friends. This note accompanied them : — Dawn and dew my bearers be. Ever, Butterfly, 352 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1885 And the old garden still overflows with annual fragrance and color. Its armies of many-hued hyacinths run riot in the spring sunshine, while crocuses and daffodils peer above the fresh grass under the apple-trees ; a large magnolia holds its pink cups toward the blue sky, and scarlet hawthorn lights a greenly dusky corner. And then the roses, and the hedges of sweet-peas ; the masses of nasturtiums, and the stately procession of hollyhocks, in happy association with huge bushes of lemon ver- bena! Still later comes the autumn glory, with salvia and brilliant zinnias and marigolds and clustering chrysanthemums, until * ranks of seeds their witness bear,* and November folds her brown mantle over sleeping flowers. This sweet garden, with its whiffs of long ago, needs only borders of box and a sun-dial to be the ideally imagined pleasure-spot of vanished generations. And Emily seems its presiding genius ; it is instinct with her pres- ence still, though even before her death years had passed since her footsteps pressed its paths, or her fingers gathered its riches. In different mood from the cheerful letters to Mr Bowles are these more sombre ones to Mr Clark. Begun by association through the 1882] TO MR J. D. CLARK 353 death of a mutual friend, they continued to be tinged with the sadness of other and fol- lowing deaths, until his own, when letters to his brother took their place until almost her own flitting. To Mr y, D, Clark [1882.] . . . He never spoke of himself, and encroach- ment I know would have slain him. . . . He was a dusk gem, bora of troubled waters, astray in any crest below. Heaven might give him peace, it could \ not give him grandeur, for that he carried with him- self to whatever scene. . . . Obtaining but his own extent In whatsoever realm, 'T was Christ's own personal expanse That bore him from the tomb. To the Same [Late Autumn, 1882.] Dear Friend, — It pains us very much that you have been more ill. We hope you may not be suf- fering now. Thank you for speaking so earnestly when our mother died. We have spoken daily of writing you, but have felt unable. The great at- tempt to save her life had it been successful would have been fatigueless, but failing, strength forsook us. No verse in the Bible has frightened me so much from a child as 'from him that hath not, shall be 354 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1883 taken even that he hath.* Was it because its dark menace deepened our own door? You speak as if you still missed your mother. I wish we might speak with you. As we bore her dear form through the wilderness, light seemed to have stopped. Her dying feels to me like many kinds of cold — at times electric, at times benumbing, — then a trackless waste love has never trod. . . . The letter from the skies, which accompanied yours, was indeed a boon, A letter alwa)rs seemed to me like Immortality, for is it not the mind alone, without corporeal friend? I hope you may tell us that you are better. Thank you for much kindness. The friend an- guish reveals is the slowest forgot. E. Dickinson. To the Same [March, 1883.] Dear Friend, — In these few weeks of ignorance of you, we tnist that you are growing stronger, and drawing near that sweet physician, an approaching spring, for the ear of the heart hears bluebirds al- ready, those enthralling signals. . . . The great con- fidences of life are first disclosed by their departure, and I feel that I ceaselessly ought to thank you. . . . Our household is scarcely larger than yours — Vinnie and I and two servants composing our simple realm, though my brother is with us often each day. I wish I could show you the hyacinths. #^^^ e ^ ^^ e P^ ^^ >:^. a^ -^^ #1^ ^^ a r ^ c >^ ^^^ -* ^ *l^ o^ ^ (^ t > ^ ^er^0^ ^ ^ ^ <9 ^ ^ ^ ^ P <^-/» • ^> '^ ^ ^ d> P- e ^ ^ dkx> 356 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1883 that embarrass us by their loveliness, though to cower before a flower is perhaps unwise, but beauty is often timidity — perhaps oftener pain. A soft * Where is she ? ' is all that is left of our loved mother, and thank you for all you told us of yours. . . . Faithfully, £. DlCiONSON. To the Same [1883.] Dear Friend, — To thank you is impossible, be- cause your gifts are from the sky, more precious than the birds, because more disembodied. I can only express my rejoiced surprise by the phrase in the Scripture, * And I saw the Heavens opened.' . . . Fathoms are sudden neighbors; Ignorant till your note that our President's d3dng had defrauded you, we are grieved anew, and has- ten to offer you our sorrow. We shall make Mrs Chadboume's acquaintance in flowers after a few days. ' Displeasure ' would be a morose word toward a friend so earnest, and we only fear when you delay, that you feel more ill. Allow us to hear the birds for you, should they indeed come. E. D. This is the last letter to Mr Clark, and upon hearing of his farther illness, she wrote his brother : — 1883] TO MR C. H. CLARK 357 To Mr C. H. Clark [April 18, 1883] Dear Friend, — Would it be possible you would excuse me if I once more inquire for the health of the brother whom association has made sacred ? With the trust that your own is impairless, and that fear for your brother has not too much de- pressed you, please accept the solicitude of myself and my sister. E. Dickinson. To the Same [April 22, 1883.] Dear Friend, — The sorrowful tidings of your note almost dissuade reply, lest I for one moment take you from your brother's bedside. I have de- layed to tell my sister till I hear again, fearing to newly grieve her, and hoping an encouraging word by another mail. Please be sure we are with you in sorrowing thought, and take your brother's hand for me, if it is still with you. Perhaps the one has called him of whom we have so often talked during this grieved year. With sympathy, E. Dickinson. To the Same [May I, 1883.] Dear Friend, — The temptation to inquire every morning for your sufferer is almost irresistible, but VOL. II. — 9 3S8 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1883 our own invalid taught us that a sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is. I trust this sweet May morning is not without its peace to your brother and you, though the richest peace is of sorrow. With constant and fervent anxiousness, and the hope of an early word, please be sure we share your suspense. £. Dickinson. To the Same [May 21, 1883.] Dear Friend, — We have much fear, both for your own strength and the health of your brother, hav- ing heard nothing since we last asked, many diy% ago. Will you not, when possible, give us but a syl- lable, even a cheering accent, if no more be true ? We think of you and your sufferer with intense anx- iety, wishing some act or word of ours might be hope or help. The humming-birds and orioles fly by me as I write, and I long to guide their enchanted feet to your brother's chamber. Excuse me for knocking. Please also excuse me for staying so long. Spring is a strange land when our friends are ill. With my sister's tenderest alarm, as also my own, E. DiCKINSOil. 1883] TO MR C, H. CLARK 359 To the Same [June 7, 1883.] I had, dear friend, the deep hope that I might see your brother before he passed from Ufa, or rather Ufe we know, and can scarcely express the pang I feel at its last denial. His rare and hallowed kindness had strangely en- deared him, and I cannot be comforted not to thank him before he went so far. I never had met your brother but once. An un- forgotten once — to have seen him but once more would have been almost like an interview with my 'Heavenly Father* whom he loved and knew. I hope he was able to speak with you in his closing moment. One accent of courage as he took his flight would assist your heart. I am eager to know all you may tell me of those final days. We asked for him every morning, in heart, but feared to disturb you by inquiry aloud. I hope you are not too far ex- hausted from your ' loved employ.* To know of you when possible would console us much, and every circumstance of him we had hoped to see. . . . E. D. To the Same [June 16, 1883.] Dear Friend, — Thank you for the paper. I fck it almost a bliss of sorrow that the name so long in Heaven on earth, should be on earth in Heaven. 36o LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1883 Do you know if either of his sons have his myste- rious face or his momentous nature? The stars are not hereditary. I hope your brother and himself resumed the tie above, so dear to each below. Your bond to your brother reminds me of mine to my sister — early, earnest, indissoluble. Without her life were fear, and Paradise a cowardice, except for her inciting voice. Should you have any picture of your brother, I should rejoice to see it at some convenient hour — and though we cannot know the last, would you sometime tell me as near the last as your grieved voice is able? . . . Are you certain there is another life ? When over- whelmed to know, I fear that few are sure. My sister gives her grief with mine. Had we known in time, your brother would have borne our flowers in his mute hand. With tears, E. Dickinson. To the Same [July 9, 1883.] Dear Friend, — While I thank you immediately for the invaluable gift, I cannot express the bereave- ment that I am no more to behold it. Believing that we are to have no face in a farther life, makes the look of a friend a boon almost too precious. The resemblance is faithful — the scholarly gen- tleness— the noble modesty — the absence of every 1884] TO MR a H. CLARK 36 1 dross, quite there. What a consoling prize to yon, his mate through years of anguish so much sharper to see because endured so willingly. Chastening would seem unneeded by so supreme a spirit. I feel great grief for you — I hope his mem- ory may help you, so recently a life. I wish I might say one liquid word to make your sorrow less. Is not the devotion that you gave him an acute balm ? Had you not been with him how solitary the will of God ! Thank you for every word of his pure career, I hope it is nearer us than we are aware. Will you not still tell us of yourself and your home — from which this patient guest has flown? I am glad he lies near us — and thank you for the tidings of our other fugitive, whom to know was life. I can scarcely tell you how deeply I cherish your thought- fulness. To still know of the dead is a great per- mission, and you have almost enabled that. With the ceaseless sympathy of myself and my sister, and the trust that our sufferer rests, E. Dickinson. To the Same [January 4, 1884.] Dear Friend, — I have been very ill since early October, and unable to thank you for the sacred kindness, but treasured it each day, and hasten with my first steps, and my fiiUest gratitude. ... I 362 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1884 never can thank you as I feel. That would be impos- sible. The effort ends in tears. You seem, by some deep accident, to be the only tie between the Heaven that evanesced, and the Heaven that stays. I hope the winged days that bear you to your brother are not too destitute of song, and wish that we might speak with you of him and of yourself, and of the third member of that sundered trio. Perhaps another spring would call you to Northampton, and memory might invite you here. . . . With a deep New Year, Your friend, E. Dickinson. [Enclosing pressed flowers, February 22, 1884.] Dear Friend, — I hoped it might gratify you to meet the little flower which was my final ministry to your brother, and which even in that faint hour, I trust he recognized, though the thronged spirit had not access to words. These are my first out, and their golden trifles are too full of association to remain unshared. With faithful thought of yourself and your brother, brothers in bereavement even as myself, £. Dickinson. To the Same [April 21, 1884.] Never unmindful of your anxiety for your father, dear friend, I refrained from asking, lest even the 1884] TO MR C. H. CLARK 363 moment engrossed by reply, might take you from him. The peril of a parent is a peculiar pang, and one which my sister and myself so long experienced, — oh, would it were longer, for even fear for them were dearer than their absence, — that we cannot resist to offer you our earnest sympathy. I most sin- cerely trust that the sight is redeemed, so precious to you both, more than vicariously to you — even filially — and that the added fear has not exhausted you beyond the art of spring to cheer. I have lost, since writing you, another cherished friend, a word of whom I enclose — and how to re- pair my shattered ranks is a besetting pain. Be sure that my sister and myself never forget your brother, nor his bereaved comrade. To be certain we were to meet our lost would be a vista of reunion who of us could bear ? . . . Faithfully, E. Dickinson. To the Same [April 22, 1884.] Dear Friend, — These thoughts disquiet me, and the great friend is gone who could solace them. Do they disturb you? The spirit lasts, but in what mode ^- Below, the body speaks. But as the spirit furnishes — Apart it never talks. 364 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1885 The music in the violin Does not emerge alone But arm in arm with touch, yet touch Alone is not a tune. The spirit lurks within the flesh Like tides within the sea That make the water live ; estranged "What would the either be ? Does that know now, or does it cease, That which to this is done. Resuming at a mutual date With every future one ? Instinct pursues the adamant Exacting this reply — Adversity, if it may be. Or wild prosperity. The rumor's gate was shut so tight Before my mind was sown, Not even a prognostic's push Could make a dent thereon. With the trust you live, E. Dickinson. To the Same [January 18, 1885.] Dear Friend, — Though no New Year be old, to wish yourself and your honored father a new and happy one is involuntary, and I am sure we are both reminded of that sacred past which has forever hal- lowed us. I trust the years which they behold are also new and happy, or is it a joyous expanse of year, with- out bisecting months — untiring Anno Domini ? Had i88sl TO MR C. H. CLARK 365 we but one assuring word, but a letter is a joy of earth — it is denied the gods. Vivid in our immor- tal group we still behold your brother, and never hear Northampton bells without saluting him. . . . Have you blossoms and books, those solaces of sorrow ? That, I would also love to know, and re- ceive for yourself and your father the forgetless sympathy of Your friend, E. Dickinson. To the Same [April 21, 1885.1 Dear Friend, — The flower for which your brother cared resumes its siren circuit, and choosing a few for his name's sake, I enclose them to you. Perhaps from some far site he overlooks their transit, and smiles at the beatitudes so recently his own. Ephemeral, eternal heart ! I hope you are in health, and that the fragile father has every peace that years possess. . . . We think of your small mansion with unabated warmth, though is not any mansion vast that contains a father? That this beloved spring inspirit both yourself and him, is our exceeding wish. E. Dickinson. The final letter to Mr Clark was written a year later, and will be found in the last chapter. CHAPTER IX To Mr and Mrs J, L, Jenkins^ Mrs Hanson Readf Mrs IV. A. Stearns ^ Mrs Edward TuckermaUy Mrs J. S. Cooper^ Mrs A, B, H. Davis y Mrs H. F, Hills^ Mrs Jameson^ Mr F, F, EmersoHf Maggie Maher^ Mr and Mrs George Montaguey Mrs W. F, Steams^ Mr J, K. Chickcringy Mrs Joseph Sweetser^ Mr Thomas NileSy Mrs Camtichael^ Dr and Mrs Thomas P. Fields Mr Theodore Holland^ ' H. //".,' Miss Eugetiia Hall, Mrs E. P. Crowelly and Mrs J. C, Greenough THE characteristic notes in this chapter were, with few exceptions, written to friends in Amherst, accompanying flowers or other dainties, or acknowledging those sent to herself, — not infrequently a sentence of conso- lation for some pain, or a few words of cheering appreciation for a new happiness. The first may be dated as early as 1872 ; but the largest number are, undoubtedly* to be assigned to the last six or seven years of Emily Dickinson's life. 1872] LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON 367 After her father's death, her retirement from ordinary forms of human intercourse became almost complete; and these notes were the sole link still binding her to the world, — and to only such part of the world as might be rep- resented by those for whom she cared. Emily's prose style had developed its incisive- ness, — like her own thought, it went straight to the essence of things ; and while still dressed in language sufficiently to pass in conventional places, it had gradually become divested of everything superfluous. While the meaning of certain phrases has sometimes puzzled those who received the notes, there is invariably an original, spark- ling interpretation for every sentence, clear to any soul possessing even slight accord with hers. Because frequently couched in the form of apparently mysterious oracles, the meaning is sometimes looked for too deeply, — often it is singularly obvious. The remarkable char- acter of these notes seems to have increased as she lived farther and farther away from the years when she had seen and conversed with her friends; and her life was full of thought and occupation during these introspective days. It is impossible to conceive that any sense of personal isolation, or real loneliness of spirit, because of the absence of humanity from her 368 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1872 daily life, could have oppressed a nature so richly endowed. Most of us would require some sudden blow, some fierce crisis, to produce such a result, — a hidden and unusual life like hers. And we love to believe striking and theatrical things of our neighbors; it panders to that romantic element latent in the plainest. But Emily Dickinson's method of living was so simple and natural an outcome of her increasingly shy nature, a development so perfectly in the line of her whole constitution that no far-away and dramatic explanation of her quiet life is necessary to those who are capable of appre- hending her. That sentence alone would reveal the key wherein she wrote with regret for her long- time maid Margaret : * I winced at her loss, for I am in the habit of her, and even a new rolling-pin has an embarrassing element.' Emerson somewhere says, *Now and then a man exquisitely made can live alone ; ' and Lord Bacon puts the thought with even greater force and directness, — * Whosoever is de- lighted in Solitude is either a Wilde Beast or a God.' To some natures, introspection is a necessity for expression. * Why should I feel lonely? ' exclaimed Thoreau, in his temporary isolation 1872] LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON 369 at Walden, *Is not our planet in the Milky- Way ? ' He was, indeed, * no more lonely than the North Star,' nor, I believe, was Emily Dickinson, although congenial companionship had, in a sense, been very dear to her. She has herself written : — Never for society He shall seek in vain Who his own acquaintance Cultivates ; of men Wiser men may weary, But the man within Never knew satiety, — Better entertain Than could Border Ballad, Or Biscayan Hymn ; Neither introduction Need you — unto him. Georg Ebers once wrote : * Sheep and geese become restless when separated from the flock ; the eagle and lion seek isolation,' — a pictur- esque and perhaps not less strong presentation of a nearly identical thought. But although invisible for years, even to life-long friends, Emily never denied herself to children. To them she was always accessible, always delightful, and in their eyes a sort of fairy guardian. Stories are yet told of her roguishly lowering baskets of 'goodies* out of her window by a string to little ones wait- 370 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1871 ing below. Mr MacGregor Jenkins, in a sketch of his recollections of Emily Dickinson,^ has shown this gracious and womanly side of her nature in a very charming way, quoting a num- ber of her notes to himself and his sister, two members of a quartette of children admitted to her intimacy. Many of Emily Dickinson's daintiest verses are for children, — among them The Sleeping Flowers^ SindOut of the Morning? The notes written during their childhood to Mr Jenkins and his sister follow, with others to their father and mother : — [1872 ?] Happy * Did * and Mac, — We can offer you nothing so charming as your own hearts, which we would seek to possess, had we the requisite wiles. Dear Boys, — Please never grow up, which is * far better.* Please never * improve ' — you are perfect now. Emily. Little Women, — Which shall it be, geraniums or tulips? The butterfly upon the sky, who does n't know its name. And has n't any tax to pay, and has n*t any home, Is just as high as you and I, and higher, I believe — So soar away and never sigh, for that 's the way to grieve. ^ The Christian Union^ October 24, 1891. 2 Poems, Second Series, page 122. • Ibid^ page II3. 1874] TO MR AND MISS JENKINS 371 Katie * Did ' from Katie * Did n*t.' Will the sweet child who sent me the butterflies, herself a member of the same ethereal nation, ac- cept a rustic kiss, flavored, we trust, with clover? Amherst. [Christmas, 1874.] . . . Atmospherically it was the most beautiful Christmas on record. The hens came to the door with Santa Claus, the pussies washed themselves in the open air without chilling their tongues, and Santa Claus — sweet old gentleman — was even gallanter than usual. Visitors from the chimney were a new dismay, but all of them brought their hands so full and behaved so sweetly, only a churl could have turned them away. And then the ones at the bam were so happy ! Maggie gave the hens a check for potatoes, each of the cats had a gilt- edged bone, and the horse had new blankets from Boston. Do you remember dark-eyed Mr Dickinson who used to shake your hand when it was so little it had hardly a stem? He, too, had a beautiful gift of roses from a friend away. It was a lovely Christmas. But what made you remember me ? Tell me with a kiss — or is it a secret ? Ebuly. To a niece of her father's, who had sent for his grave the roses alluded to, she wrote : — 372 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [187^ [December, 1874.] I am sure you must have remembered that father had * become as little children/ or you would never have dared send him a Christmas gift, for you know how he frowned upon Santa Claus, and all such prowling gentlemen. To the Rev, J, Z. Jenkins and Mrs Jenkins^ enclosing some sprays of rowen tied with white ribbon [Autumn, 187-.] Dear Mr and Mrs Pastor, — Mrs Holland pleased us and grieved us, by telling us your triumphs. We want you to conquer, but we want you to conquer here. ' Marathon ' is me. Is there nothing but glow in the new horizon? You see we keep a jealous heart. That is Love's alloy. Vinnie is full of wrath, and vicious as Saul toward the Holy Ghost, in whatever form. I heard her declaiming the other night, to a foe that called — and sent Maggie to part them. Vinnie lives on the hope that you will return. Is it quite fictitious? You are gone too long. The red leaves take the green leaves' place, and the landscape yields. We go to sleep with the peach in our hands and wake with the stone, but the stone is the pledge of summers to come. i875l TO MR AND MRS JENKINS 373 Love for each of you, always, and if there are lands longer than * always,* love also for those. These are sticks of rowen for your stove. It was chopped by bees, and butterflies piled it, Saturday afternoons. Emily. To the Same [1875?] . . . There would have been no smile on Am- herst's face, had she believed her clergyman's sweet wife to be suffering, but the paper spoke so oblig- ingly, we thought it an accident that endeared, rather than endangered. That sorrow dare to touch the loved is a mournful insult — we are all avenging it all the time, though as Lowell quotes from the stranger * Live — live even to be unkind.* It is hard to think of our ' little friend * as a suf- ferer— we, peculiarly, know how hard, through our suffering mother — but the tiniest ones are the mightiest — the wren will prevail . . . * Bruised for our iniquities * I had almost feared. Amherst, tell her, suggests her — each of you, my shepherd, and will, while will remains. Emily. To the Same Would you feel more at home with a flower from home in your hand, dear? VOL. II. — 10 374 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1878 To the Same May the love that occasioned the first Easter shelter a few, this bereaved day. To the Same [1877 n Dear Friend, — It was pathetic to see your voice, instead of hearing it, for it had grown sweetiy familiar in the house, as a bird's. Father left us in June — you leave us in May. I am glad there will be no April till another year. . . . Sorrow is unsafe, when it is real sorrow — I am glad so many are counterfeits — guileless because they beheve themselves. Kiss 'Diddie* and Mac for us — precious refu- gees, with love for our brother, whom with yourself, we follow the peculiar distance, ' even unto the end.' Perhaps it is *the end' now — I think the bell thought so, because it bade us all good-by when you stood in the door. You concealed that you heard it. Thank you. Emily. [June, 1878.] You deserved a tiding before, dear. Your little punctualities are generous and pre- cious. . . . There is a circus here, and farmers' Commence- ment, and boys and girls from Tripoli, and Gover- 1873] "^O M^^ HANSON READ 375 nors and swords parade the summer streets. They lean upon the fence that guards the quiet church ground, and jar the grass, now warm and soft as a tropic nest. Many people call, and wish for you with tears, and Vinnie beats her wings like a maddened bird, whose home has been invaded. So much has been sorrow, that to fall asleep in Tennyson's verse, seems almost a pillow. *To where beyond these voices there is Peace.' I hope you are each safe. It is homeless without you, and we think of others possessing you with the throe of Othello. Mother gives her love — Maggie pleads her own. Austin smiles when you mention him. . . . Daisies and ferns are with us, and he whose meadow they magnify, is always linked with you. Emily. To Mrs Hanson Read, accompanying flowers for the funeral of her two little boys [December 27, 1873] Vinnie sa)rs your martyrs were fond of flowers. Would these profane their vase ? Emh-y. To the Same [Upon a subsequent anniversary.] My Dear Mrs Read, — We have often thought of you to-day, and almost spoken with you, but thought 3/6 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1S75 you might like to be alone — if one can be alone with so thronged a Heaven. £. DiCKINSOM. To Mrs W. A. SUams [Autumn, 1874.] Will the dear ones who eased the grieved days spurn the fading orchard? Emily. To the Same [Upon receiving an Easter card, probably 1875.] It is possible, dear friend, that the rising of the one we lost would have engrossed me to the exclu- sion of Christ's — but for your lovely admonition. Sabbath morning was peculiarly dear to my lather, and his unsuspecting last earthly day with his fiumly was that heavenly one. Vinnie and I were talking of you as we went to sleep Saturday night, which makes your beautifid gift of to-day almost apparitional. Please believe how sweetly I thank you. EmLY. To the Same [1875.1 What tenements of clover Are fitting for the bee, What edifices azure For butterflies and me — 1876] TO MRS W. A. STEARNS 377 What residences nimble Arise and evanesce Without a rhythmic rumor Or an assaulting guess. With love, £. Dickinson. To the Same [1875] Dear Friend, — That a pansy is transitive, is its only pang. This, precluding that, is indeed divine. Bringing you handfuls in prospective, thank you for the love. Many an angel, with its needle, toils beneath the snow. With tenderness for your mate, Emily. [Spring, 1876.] Dear Friends, — Might these be among the fabrics which the Bible designates as beyond rubies? Certainly they are more accessible to the fingers of your thief Emily. When President Stearns died, this stanza came to Mrs Stearns : — [June 8, 1876.] Love's stricken ' why ' Is all that love can speak — Built of but just a syllable The hugest hearts that break. Emily. 3/8 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1878 At the death of Professor Snell, September 18, 1876, Emily sent to his family a beautiful mass of flowers, purple and white ; and with them, this single line : — I had a father once. To Mrs Stearns^ in response to a box of strawberries received early in March [1877?! Dear Friend, — The little package of nectar mother opened herself, though her hands are frail as a child*s. She could not believe them real till I had hidden one in her mouth, which somewhat convinced her. She asks me to thank you tenderly. The love of her friends is the only remnant of her grieved life, and she clings to it timidly. I hope you are quite well, and am sure we some- times think of each other, endeared by that most hallowed thorn, a mutual loss. With sweet remembrance for your niece, of whom my sister speaks, EllilLY. To the Same [1878.] Dear Friends, — The seraphic shame generosity causes is perhaps its most heavenly result. To make even Heaven more heavenly, is within the aim of us all. i874l TO MRS EDWARD TUCKERMAN 379 I was much touched by the little fence dividing the devotions, though devotion should always wear a fence, to pre-empt its claim. Why the full heart is speechless, is one of the great wherefores. Emily, with love. To the Same [1879?] Dear Friends, — I hope no bolder lover brought you the first pond lilies. The water is deeper than the land. The swimmer never stagnates. I shall bring you a handful of lotus next, but do not tell the Nile. He is a jealous brook. Emily. To the Same *A little flower, a faded flower, the gifl of one who cared for me.* Please usurp the pronoun. Emily. The first of the following notes, accompa- nied with a box of flowers, was an apology for tardy congratulations upon Mrs Tucker- man's safe return from a long visit in Europe : To Mrs Edward Tuckerman [January, 1874.] Dear Friend, — I fear my congratulation, like repentance according to Calvin, is too late to be 380 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1875 plausible, but might there not be an exception, were the delight or the penitence found to be durable ? Emily. To the Same [March, 1875.] Dear Friend, — It was so long my custom to seek you with the birds, they would scarcely feel at home should I do otherwise, though as home itself is far from home since my father died, why should custom tire? Emily. To the Same, sent with yellow flowers when the country was drenched in rain [May, 1875.] I send you inland buttercups as out-door flowers are still at sea. Emily. To the Same [Accompanying a box of the delicious chocolate caramels she sent her friends at New Year's, with the recipe.] Vinnie says the dear friend would like the rule. We have no statutes here, but each does as it will, which is the sweetest jurisprudence. With it, I enclose Love's ' remainder biscuit/ some- what scorched perhaps in baking, but ' Love's oven is warm.* Forgive the base proportions. The fairer ones were borne away. The canna 1878] TO MRS EDWARD TUCKERMAN 38 1 was a privilege, the little box a bliss, and the blos- soms so real that a fly waylaid them, but I lured him away. Again receive the love which comes without aspect, and without herald goes. Emily. To the Same [About 1877.] Dear Friend, — Accept my timid happiness. No joy can be in vain, but adds to some bright total, whose dwelling is unknown. The immortality of flowers must enrich our own, and we certainly should resent a redemption that excluded them. Was not the ' breath of fragrance ' designed for your cheek solely? The fear that it was crimsons my own, though to divide its Heaven is Heaven's highest half. E. Dickinson. To the Same [June, 1878.] Is it that words are suddenly small, or that we are suddenly large, that they cease to suffice us to thank a friend? Perhaps it is chiefly both. 382 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1878 To the Same [July, 1878.] Would it be prudent to subject an apparitional interview to a grosser test ? The Bible portentously says * that which is spirit is spirit.' Go not too near a house of rose, The depredation of a breeze Or inundation of a dew Alarm its walls away ; Nor try to tie the butterfly, Nor climb the bars of ecstasy. In insecurity to lie Is joy's insuring quality. £. Dickinson. To the Same [August, 1878.) To see is perhaps never quite the sorcery that it is to surmise, though the obligation to enchantment is always binding. It is sweet to recall that we need not retrench, as magic is our most frugal meal. I fear you have much happiness, because you spend so much. Would adding to it take it away, or is that a penurious question? To cherish you is intuitive. As we take Nature, without permission, let us covet you. i88o] TO MR^ EDWARD TUCKERMAN 383 To the Same [January, 1879] Your coming is a symptom of summer. The symptom excels the malady. To the Same [September, 1879.] Should dear Mrs Tuckerman have no pears like mine, I should never cease to be harrowed. Should she, that also would be dismay. I incur the peril. Emily. To the Same [January 5, 1880.] Dear Friend, — Your sweetness intimidates. Had it been a mastiff that guarded Eden, we should have feared him less than we do the angel. I read your litde letter. It had, like bliss, the minute length. It were dearer had you protracted it; but the sparrow must not propound his crumb. We shall find the cube of the rainbow, Of that there is no doubt ; But the arc of a lover's conjecture Eludes the finding out. Confidingly, Emily. 384 LETTERS OP EMILY DICI^NSON [1880 To the Same [March, 1880.] The robin is a Gabriel In humble circumstances, His dress denotes him socially Of transport's working classes. He has the punctuality Of the New England farmer — The same oblique integrity, A vista vastly warmer. A small but sturdy residence, A self-denying household, The guests of perspicacity Are all that cross his threshold. As covert as a fugitive, Cajoling consternation By ditties to the enemy, And sylvan punctuation. Eboly. To the Same [1880.] Will the little hands that have brought me so much tenderness, the sweet hands in which a bird would love to lie, the fingers that knew no estrange- ment except the gulf of down, — will such enfold a daphne? Almost I trust they will, yet trust is such a shelv- ing word ; part of our treasures are denied us, part i88ol TO MRS EDWARD TUCKERMAN 385 of them provisoed, like bequests available far hence, part of them we partake. Which, dear, are divinest? Emily. To the Same [November, 1880.] Thank you, sweet friend, I am quite better. Were I not, your dainty redemption would save me. With love and a happy flower, Emily. To the Same [1880.] Love is done when love 's begun. Sages say. But have sages known? Truth adjourn your boon Without day. Emily. To the Same [After Professor Root's death, December, 1880.] Dear Friend, — I thought of you, although I never saw your friend. Brother of Ophir, Bright adiea, Honor the shortest Route to you. Emily. 386 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1881 To the Same [New Year's Day, 1881.] My bird, who is ' to-day ' ? ' Yesterday ' was a year ago, and yet Saturday, The stem of a departed flower Has still a silent rank, The bearer from an emerald coart Of a despatch of pink. Thank you for the lovely love. Emily. To the Same [1881.] To find my sweet friend is more difficult than to bless her, though I trust both are slightly possible this dearest afternoon. Emily. The following little poem-note contained a pressed dandelion tied with scarlet ribbon. To the Same [November 8, 1881.] The dandelion's pallid tube Astonishes the grass, And winter instantly becomes An infinite Alas. The tube uplifts a signal bud, And then a shouting flower ; The proclamation of the suns That sepulture is o'er. i882] TO MRS EDWARD TUCKERMAN 387 Vinnie told me, dear friend, you were speaking of Mr Root Emily. To the Same [December, 188 1.] Dear Friend, — Vinnie asked me if I had any message for you, and while I was picking it, you ran away. Not seeing, still we know, Not knowing, guess ; Not guessing, smile and hide And half caress. And quake and turn away; Seraphic fear ! Is Eden*s innuendo * If you dare ' ? Emily. To the Same [January, 1882.] Dear Friend, — The gray afternoon — the sweet knock, and the ebbing voice of the boys are a pic- torial memory; and then the little bins and the purple kernels — *t was like the larder of a doll. To the inditing heart we wish no sigh had come* Sweet pirate of the heart, Not pirate of the sea. What wrecketh thee ? Some spice's mutiny — Some attar's perfidy? Confide in me. Emily. 388 LETTERS OP EMILY LffCKINSOl/ [1883 To the Same [January, 1883] The presence in life of so sweet an one is of itself fortune — a covert wealth of spirit I shall not dis- close. I have taken all the naughty boys, and Vinnie the navy. What lovely conceits ! Then the little Smyrna in the dish — how tiny, how affecting — though the heart in the rear not tiny. Oh, no, vast as the sea. To caress its billows is our liquid aim. Emily, with love. To the Same [June, 1883.1 Sweet foot, that comes when we call it ! I can go but a step a century, now. How slow the wind, how slow the sea, How late their feathers be I Lovingly, Emily. To the Same [August, 1883.] We wear our sober dresses when we die, But summer, frilled as for a holiday, Adjourns her sigh. 1884] TO MRS MDWARD tucker MAI/ 389 To the Same [January, 1884.] Dear Friend : — To try to speak, and miss the way, And ask it of the tears, Is gratitude's sweet poverty, The tatters that he wears. A better coat, if he possessed, Would help him to conceal. Not subjugate, the mutineer Whose title is * the soul/ Emily, with love. To the Same [February, 1884] Do ' men gather grapes of thorns * ? No, but they do of roses^ and even the classic fox hushed his innuendo, as we unclasped the little box. Sherbets untold, and recollection more sparkling than sherbets ! How wondrous is a friend, the gift of neither Heaven nor earth, yet coveted of both ! If the 'archangels veil their faces,* is not the sacred diffidence on this sweet behalf? Emily. To the Same [April, 1884.] Be encouraged, sweet friend ! How cruel we did not know ! But the battles of those we love are often unseen. VOL. n. — II 390 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1885 ' If Thou hadst been here/ Mary said, ' our brother had not died.' Hanging my head and my heart with it, that you sorrowed alone. Late, but lovingly, ElOLY. To the Same [April, 1885.] Dear Friend, — We want you to wake — Easter has come and gone. Morning without you is a dwindled dawn. Quickened toward all celestial things by crows I heard this morning, accept a loving caw from a Nameless friend. * Selah.' To the Same [May, 1885.] We trust the repairs of the little friend are pro- gressing swiftly, though shall we love her as well, revamped ? Anatomical dishabille is sweet to those who prize us. A chastened grace is twice a grace. Nay, 't is a holiness. With a sweet May day, Emily. To the Same [October, 1885.] Dear Friend, — I thought of you on your lonely journey, certain the hallowed heroine was gratified. i874] TO MRS J. 5. COOPER 39I though mute. I trust you return in safety and with closer clutch for that which remains, for dying whets the grasp. October is a mighty month, for in it httle Gilbert died. * Open the door,' was his last cry, ' the boys are waiting for me.' Quite used to his command- ment, his little aunt obeyed, and still two years and many days, and he does not return. Where makes my lark his nest? But Corinthians' bugle obliterates the birds*, so covering your loved heart to keep it from another shot, Tenderly, Emily. To Mrs J. S. Cooper [June, 1874.] Though a stranger, I am unwilling not to thank you personally for the delicate attention to my family. For the comprehension of suffering, one must one's self have suffered. E. Dickinson. To the Same [Later Summer, 1874.] Dear Friend, — It was my first impulse to take them to my father, whom I cannot resist the grief to expect. Thank you. Vinnie's Sister, 392 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1S75 And to another friend, about the same time» she wrote : — Should it be possible for me to speak of my father before I behold him, I shall try to do so to you, whom he always remembered. Emily. To Mrs y. S. Cooper [January, 1875.] Is it too late to express my sorrow for my grieved friend? Though the first moment of loss is eternity, other eternities remain. Though the great waters sleep That they are still the deep We cannot doubt No vacillating God i Ignited this abode \ To put it out To the Same [On the anniversary of her father's death, June 16, 1875.] Dear Friend, — You thought of it. How dear, how delicate ! With peculiar love, Your Stranger. To the Same [1875] How can one be fatherless who has a father's friend within confiding reach? i«76] TO MRS J. S. COOPER 393 To the Same * My country, *t is of thee,* has always meant the woods to me. * Sweet land of liberty/ I trust is your own. To the Same [After a fire, in 1876.] Dear Friend, — I congratulate you. Disaster endears beyond fortune. E. Dickinson. To the Same The keeper of golden flowers need have no fear of the ' Silver BiU.' An Indies in the hand, at all times fortifying, is peculiarly so, perhaps, to-day. Midas was a rogue. To the Same [1876] Dear Friend, — Mother thanks you through me, as she does not use her hand for writing. I hope the vicariousness may not impair the fervor. Mother is very fond of flowers and of recoUection, that sweetest flower. Please accept her happiness, and ours for causing hers. E. Dickinson, 394 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1880 To the Same Trusting an April flower may not curtail your February, that month of fleetest sweetness. E. Dickinson. To the Same Dear Friend, — Maggie was taking you a flower as you were going out. Please accept the design, and bewail the flower, that sank of chagrin last evening. E. Dickinson. To the Same The founders of honey have no names. To the Same My family of apparitions is select, though dim. To the Same Vinnie suggests these little friends. Would they be too grovelling? And I add a face from my garden. Though you met it before, it might not be charm- less. E. Dickinson. To the Same [1880] Is sickness pathos or infamy? While you forget to decide, please confirm this trifle. i88o] TO MRS J. S. COOPER 395 To the Same Dear Friend, — I shall deem the little tumblers forever consecrated by the ' unseemliness.' With affection, E. Dickinson. To the Same Please accept the progeny of the pinks you so kindly brought mother in winter, with the hope that ' wisdom is justified of her children/ To the Same How strange that Nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude ! To the Same * Give me thine heart * is too peremptory a court- ship for earth, however irresistible in Heaven. To the Same Dear Friend, — So valiant is the intimacy be- tween Nature and her children, she addresses them as ^ comrades in arms.' E. Dickinson. To the Same Dear Friend, — Nothing inclusive of a human heart could be * trivial.* That appalling boon makes all things paltry but itself. 396 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1M3 To thank you would profane you — there are moments when even gratitude is a desecration. Go thy great way I The stars thou meetest Are even as thyself. For what are stars but asterisks To point a human life ? £. Dickinson, with love. To the Same Dear Friend, — In a world too full of beauty for peace, I have met nothing more beautiful. £. Dickinson. To the Same [1883?] Dear Friend, — The thoughtfulness was pictur- esque and the glimpse delightful. The residence of Vinnie's friends could but be fair to me. And will you, in exchange, accept a view of my house, which Nature painted white without consult- ing me? But Nature is 'old-fashioned,' perhaps a Puritan. £. Dickinson. To the Same Dear Friend, — It distressed us that you were pained. ' Are you easier now? You have sheltered our tears too often that yocirs should fall unsolaced. i879] TO MRS HENRY HILLS 397 Give US half the thorn — then it will tear you less. To divulge itself is sorrow's right, never its presump- tion. Faithfully, E. Dickinson. To the Same [188S ?] Dear Friend, — Is not the sweet resentment of friends that we are not strong, more inspiriting even than the strength itself? E. Dickinson. [On sending flowers and apples to Mrs A. B. H. Davis and her daughter.] Dear Friends, — We are snatching our jewels from the frost, and ask you to help us wear them, as also the trinkets more rotund, which serve a baser need. Emily. To Mrs Henry Hills [Christmas, 1878 ?] With sweet Christmas for the ' little brethren and sisters of the mystic tie.* Emily. To the Same [January, 1879?] Our gentle neighbor must have known that we did not know she was ill, or we should immediately have inquired for her. Emily. 398 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1879 To the Same [February, 1879.] We are much grieved for the sufferings of the little one, which are so artlessly undeserved, and beg her mania to assure her of our tender sympathy. The odor of the flower might please her, as these little beings are only ' on a furlough ' from Paradise. With love for the mama, and sorrow for her weariness, Emily. To the Same [February 23, 1879.] ' Come unto me.' Beloved commandment I The darling obeyed it. To the Same [February, 1879.] The power to console is not within corporeal reach — though its attempt is precious. To die before it feared to die, may have been a boon. To the Same [March, 1879.] Dfjir Friend, — The only balmless wound is the departed human life we had learned to need. For that, even Immortality is a slow solace. All other peace has many roots and will spring again. With cheer from one who knows. i88o] TO MRS HENRY HILLS 399 To the Same Dear Friend, — The gift was sadly exquisite — were the actual 'cross* so divinely adorned, we should covet it. Thank you for the sacred * flowers ' — typical, both of them. Gethsemane and Cana are still a travelled route. Emily. To the Same [Christmas, 1879.] Dear Friend, — I think Heaven will not be as good as earth, unless it bring with it that sweet power to remember, which is the staple of Heaven here. How can we thank each other when omnipotent? You, who endear our mortal Christmas, will per- haps assure us. £. To the Same [1880.] We are ignorant of the dear friends, and eager to know how they are, and assure them that we are near them in these grieved hours. Emily. To the Same Dear Friend, — The heavenly flowers were brought to my room. I had lain awake with the gale and overslept this morning. 400 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1881 That you may wake in Eden, as you enabled me to do, is my happy wish. Emily. To the Same Without the hope of requiting the Sabbath morn- ing blossoms, still sweetly remembered, please allow me to try. E. To the Same With untold thanks, and the little dish, founded while she was here, too late to overtake her, too small for her to sip, but her large heart will excuse. Enhly, with love. To the Same Vocal is but one form of remembrance, dear friend — the cherishing that is speechless is equally warm. To the Same [With Christmas delicacies, 1880.] The little annual creatures solicit your regard. Mrs Hills often sent dainties from New York, perhaps Florida oranges, confectionery, or hot- house flowers. Upon one of these occasions the reply came : — [1881.] Tropics, and dairies, and fairies I Thank the Arabian Nights, Emily. 1883] TO MRS JAMESON 4OI To the Same [1881.] With a kiss and a flower, one of which will endure, I am whom you infer. To the Same [1882.] Only a pond lily that I tilled myself. To the Same Dear Friends, — Even the simplest solace, with a loved aim, has a heavenly quality. Emily. To the Same [January, 1883.] Dear Friend, — We often say ' how beautiful ! * But when we mean it, we can mean no more. A dream personified. E. To the Same [With red lilies, Spring, 1883] Persian hues for my dark- eyed neighbor. To Mrs Jameson Many and sweet birthdays to our thoughtful neighbor, whom we have learned to cherish, though ourself unknown. E. Dickinson. 402 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1880 To the Same How dare a tear ''jtrude on so sweet a cheek? Gentlest Oi ^ ^hbors, recall the * sparrows ' and the great Logician. Tenderly, £. Dickinson. To the Same Arthur forgot to set a trap for Santa Claus, but that industrious mouse will excuse him, if he will steal the cakes instead. And Annie. £. Dickinson. To [1880.] Dear Friend, — No ' sonnet * had George Eliot. The sweet acclamation of Death is forever bounded. There is no trumpet like the tomb — The Immortality she gave "We borrowed at her grave. For just one plaudit famishing, The might of human love. Beautiful as it is, its criminal shortness maims it. To Maggie Maher, ill with Typhoid Fever at her own Home [Autumn, 1880.] The missing Maggie is much mourned, and I am going out for * black ' to the nearest store. All are very naughty, and I am naughtiest of all. i88o] TO MR P. P, EMERSON 403 The pussies dine on sherry now, and humming- bird cutlets. The invalid hen took dinn. -^^^ '^•e, but a hen like Dr T *s horse soon drove her away. I am very busy picking up stems and stamens as the hollyhocks leave their clothes around. What shall I send my weary Maggie ? Pillows or fresh brooks? Her Grieved Mistress. To the Rev, F. F. Emerson [1880?] A blossom, perhaps, is an introduction, to whom, none can infer. To the Same Though tendered by a stranger, the fruit will be forgiven. Valor in the dark is my Maker's code. E. Dickinson. To the Same Mother congratulates Mr Emerson on the dis- covery of the ' philosopher's stone.' She will never divulge it. It lay just where she thought it did — in making others happy. E. Dickinson. 404 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1881 To the Same Any gift but spring seems a counterfeit, but the birds are such sweet neighbors they rebuke us all. £. Dickinson. To the Same Mother was much touched by dear Mrs Emerson's thoughtfulness, and thanks her exceedingly sweetly. She also asks a remembrance to Mr Emerson, whom she trusts is well. Earnestly, E. Dickinson. To the Same 1 1881 ?] Should Mr Emerson ever become ill and idle, mother hopes his clergyman will be as delicately thoughtful of him as he has been of her. Gratefully, E. Dickinson. 71? the Same Di'jvR Friend, — I step from my pillow to your hand to thank its sacred contents, to hoard, not to partake, for I am still weak. The little package has lain by my side, not daring to venture, or Vinnie daring to have me — a hal- lowed denial I shall not forget. I fear you may need the papers, and ask you to claim them immediately, would you desire them. i88i] TO MR AND MRS GEORGE MONTAGUE 405 I trust you are sharing this most sweet climate with Mrs Emerson and yourself, than which remem- brance only is more Arabian. Vinnie brings her love, and her sister what gratitude. Emily. To Dear Friend, — The little book will be subtly cherished. All we secure of beauty is its evanes- cence. Thank you for recalling us. Earnestly, Emily. To Mr and Mrs George Montague ti88i ?] Dear Cousin, — Thank you for the delightful cake, and the heart adjacent. Emily. To the Same Delicate as bread of flowers. How sweetly we thank you ! To the Same We trust the dear friend is convalescing. These loveliest of days are certainly with that design. Emily. VOL. II. — 12 406 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1881 Dear Cousin, — The * Golden Rule ' is so lovely, it needs no police to enforce it Cousin. To the Same To have * been faithful in a few things ' was the delicate compliment paid one by God. Could I not commend a rarer candidate for his approval in my loyal Cousin? To the Same • [1881?] Which will I thank — the perpetrator, the prop- agator, or the almoner of the delightful bread — or may I compromise and thank them all? I for the first time appreciate the exultation of the robin toward a crumb, though he must be a seductive robin, with whom I would share my own. With the hope to requite the loveliness in a future way, Gratefully, Emily. To Mrs IV. F. Steams [May, 1881.] Dear Friend, — I hope you may know with what unspeakable tenderness we think of you and of your dear child. Were it any kingdom but the * Kingdom of Heaven,* how distant ! But my heart breaks — I can say no more. E. D. 1879] '^O ^^^ JOSEPH SWEETSER 407 To the Same [October, 1882.] Dear Friend, — Affection wants you to know it is here. Demand it to the utmost. Tenderly, E. Dickinson. One friend writes from New York of her regret that many of Emily's notes to herself have been destroyed. But she adds : ' One little welcome of Emily's to me became a household word ; and I can quote it for you, though it should have the setting of her wide, pure margins, and her most dainty penman- ship. Here it is : — * Sweet Mrs Nellie comes with the robins. Robins have wings. Mrs Nellie has wings. A society for the prevention of wings would be a benefit to us all. * It tells its own story, you see, of a flitting visit to the Grove in the spring, and of her interest in her neighbors and her informa- tion as to their interests, though so invisible herself.* To Mrs Joseph Sweetser [Autumn, 1879?] Aunt Katie and the sultans have left the garden now, and parting with my own recalls their sweet companionship. 408 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1881 Mine were not, I think, as exuberant as in other years, — perhaps the Pelham water shocked their stately tastes, — but cherished avariciously because less numerous. I trust your garden was willing to die. I do not think that mine was — it perished with beautiful reluctance, like an evening star. I hope you were well since we knew of you, and as happy as sorrow would allow. There are sweets of pathos, when sweets of mirth have passed away. Mother has had a weary cold,, and suffers much from neuralgia since the changing airs, though I trust is no feebler than when you were here. She has her little pleasures as the patient have — the voices of friends, and devotion of home. The ravens must * cry,' to be ministered to ; she need only sigh. . . . Perhaps it is quite the home it was when you last beheld it. I hope your few are safe, and your flowers encouraging. News of your sultans and yourself would be equally lovely, when you feel inclined. Blossoms have their leisures. Lovingly, Emily. To the Same [December, 1881.] It was the unanimous opinion of the household that Aunt Katie never wrote so lovely a letter, and that it should be immediately replied to by each 1884] TO MRS JOSEPH SWEETSER 409 member of the family, from the geraniums down to the pussies, but unforeseen malignities prevented. Vinnie lost her sultans too — it was * Guiteau * year — Presidents and Sultans were alike doomed. One might possibly come up, having sown itself — if it should, you shall share — it is an Eastern creature, and does not like this soil. I think its first exuberance was purely accidental. Last was a fatal season. An * envious worm ' attacked them ; then in early autumn we had midwinter frost. ' When God is with us, who shall be against us,' but when He is against us, other allies are useless. We were much amused at your ' gardener.' You portrayed his treason so wittily it was more effective than loyalty. He knew that flowers had no tongues. We trust you are safe this Norwegian weather, and * desire your prayers ' for another snow-storm, just over our heads, the snows already repealing the fences. With love for your health, and the promise of sultans, and viziers too, if the monarchs come, Emily. To the Same [1884.] Dear Aunt, — Thank you for ' considering the lilies.* The Bible must have had us in mind, when it gave that liquid commandment. Were all its advice so enchanting as that, we should probably heed it. 410 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1884 Thank you for promptness, explicitness, sweetness. Your account of the lilies was so fresh I could almost pick them, and the hope to meet them in person, in autumn, through your loving hand, is a fragrant future. I hope you are well as you deserve, which is a blest circumference, and give my love to each. Aunt L just looked in on us, and I go to make her dish of homestead Charlotte Russe. Always, Emily. To the Same [November, 1884.] Sweet and Gracious Aunt Katie, — The beloved lilies have come, and my heart is so high it over- flows, as this was mother's week, ELaster in No- vember. Father rose in June, and a little more than a year since, those fair words were fulfilled, *and a little child shall lead them * — but boundlessness for- bids me. . . . It is very wrong that you were ill, and whom shall I accuse ? The enemy, * eternal, invisible, and full of glory * — but He declares himself a friend I It is sweet you are better. More beating that brave heart has to do before the emerald recess. With sorrow for Emma's accident, and love for all who cherish you, including the roses, your velvet allies, Tenderly, Emily. i884l TO MRS JOSEPH SWBETSER 4II — — .^ — .^^^ To the Same Cousin T and Cousin O little thought when they were paying their antiquated respects to Aunt Katie that they were defrauding Emily of that last moment — but they needed it most — new moments will grow. When I found it beyond my power to see you, I designed to write you, immediately, but the Lords came as you went, and Judge Lord was my father's closest friend, so I shared my moments with^them till they left us last Monday; then seeing directly after, the death of your loved Dr A , I felt you might like to be alone — though Death is perhaps an intimate friend, not an enemy. Beloved Shake- 1 speare says, ' He that is robbed and smiles, steals/ something from the thief.* . . . Maggie said you asked should you ' eat the flower.' Please consult the bees — they are the only authority on Etruscan matters. Vinnie said the sherry I sent you was brandy — a vital misapprehension. Please also forgive it. I did not intend to be so base to the aunt who showed me the first mignonette, and listened with me to the great wheel, from Uncle Underwood's ' study,' and won me in * divers other ways ' too lovely to mention. Of all this we will talk when you come again. Meanwhile accept your Trifling Niece. 412 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1885 To the Same [1885.] Aunt Katie's rose had many thorns, but it is still a rose, and has borne the extremities of a flower with ethereal patience — and every deference to her is so sweetly deserved, we do not call it courtesy, but only recognition. It is sweeter that noon should be fair, than that morning should, because noon is the latest, and yet your morning had its dew you would not exchange. Thank you for telling us of your triumphs. * Peace hath her victories, no less than War.' Thank you for speaking so tenderly of our latest lost. We had hoped the persuasions of the spring, added to our own, might delay his going, but they came too late. * I met,' said he in his last note, * a crocus and a snowdrop in my yesterday's walk,' but the sweet beings outlived him. I thought the church- yard Tarrytown, when I was a child, but now I trust 't is Trans — In this place of shafts, I hope you may remain unharmed. I congratulate you upon your children, and them- selves upon you. To have had such daughters is sanctity — to have had such a mother, divine. To still have her — but tears forbid me. My own is in the grave. *So loved her that he died for her,' says the explain- ing Jesus. With love, Your Emily. 1885] TO MRS JOSEPH SWEETSER 413 To the Same Aunt Katie never forgets to be lovely, and the sweet clusters of yesterday only perpetuate a heart warm so many years. Tropic, indeed, a memory that adheres so long. They were still vivid and fragrant when they reached my fingers, and were the wrist that bears them bolder, it would give reply. As it is, only a kiss and a grati- tude, and every grace of being, from your loving niece. ' I give his angels charge I * Should I say his flowers, for qualified as saints they are. Vinnie's and my transport. To the Same Dear Aunt, — I have found and give it in love, but reluctant to entrust anything so sacred to my father as my grandfather's Bible to a public mes- senger, will wait till Mr Howard comes, whom Mrs Nellie tells us is due this week. Thank you for loving my father and mother. I hope they are with the Source of love. You did not tell me of your health — I trust because confirmed. Thank you too for sorrow, the one you truly knew. With Vinnie's affection, in haste and fondness, Emily. 414 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [i88a To Professor J. K, Chickering [Autumn, 1882.] Dear Friend, — I do not know the depth of my indebtedness. Sorrow, benighted with fathoms, can- not find its mind. Thank you for assisting us. We were timidly grateful. £• DlCiONSON. To the Same Dear Friend, — Thank you for being willing to see me, but may I defer so rare a pleasure till you come again? Grief is a sable introduction, but a vital one, and I deem that I knew you long since through your shielding thought. I hope you may have an electrical absence, as life never loses its startlingness, however assailed.- ' Seen of angels ' only, an enthralling aim. Thank you for the kindness, the fervor of a stranger the latest forgot. £. Dickinson. To the Same Dear Friend, — I had hoped to see you, but have no grace to talk, and my own words so chill and burn me that the temperature of other minds is too new an awe. We shun it ere it comes, Afraid of joy, Then sue it to delay, And lest it fly 1885] TO MR J. K, CHICKERING 415 Beguile it more and more. May not this be, Old suitor Heaven, Like our dismay at thee ? Earnestly, E. Dickinson. To the Same [1885.] Dear Friend, — The Amherst heart is plain and whole and permanent and warm. In childhood I never sowed a seed unless it was perennial — and that is why my garden lasts. We dare not trust ourselves to know that you indeed have left us. The fiction is sufficient pain. To know you better as you flee, may be our recompense. I hope that you are well, and nothing mars your peace but its divinity — for ecstasy is peril. With earnest recollection, E. Dickinson. To the Same How charming the magnanimity which conferring a favor on others, by some mirage of valor considers itself receiving one ! Of such is the kingdom of knights ! E. Dickinson. It is hard for many persons to believe, even now, that Emily Dickinson had nothing to do 4l6 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1880 with the Saxe Holm stories, and certainly some of their incidental poetry bears strong evidence of her unique touch . The little mystery of those remarkable tales was so carefully guarded that after a time people lost interest in surmising, and are now content to accept them as they are. The No Name series of Roberts Brothers was not so long a secret, and in the volume of its verse, A Masque of Poets y appeared, probably through the efforts of her old friend 'H. H./ Emily Dickinson's Success, afterward the open- ing poem in the first of her published vol- umes. However obtained, it formed the beginning of an occasional and pleasant cor- respondence between herself and Mr Niles, always the genial, helpful, and generous friend of writers. She often sent him poems, which, contrary to her usual custom, she had named herself. To Mr Thomas Niles [1880 ?1 Dear Friend, — I bring you a chill gift — My Crickef^ and TTie Snowj^ A base return, indeed, for the delightful book which I infer from you, but an earnest one. 1 Poemsy Second Series, page 167. * Poems, Second Series, page 174. 1885] TO MR THOMAS NILES 417 To the Same [1883?] Thank you, Mr Niles. I am very grateful for the mistake. I should thmk it irreparable deprivation to know no farther of her here, with the impregnable chances. The kind but incredible opinion of ' H. H.' and yourself I would like to deserve. Would you accept a pebble I think I gave to her, though I am not sure. With thanks, E. Dickinson. The * pebble * was that wonderful stanza, How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And does n't care about careers. And exigencies never fears ; Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on ; And independent as the sun. Associates, or glows alone. Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity. To the Same [1885] Dear Friend, — Thank you for the kindness. I am glad if the bird seemed true to you. 4l8 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [i88a Please efface the others, and receive these three, which are more like him — A Thunder Storm}- A Humming Bird^ ^ and A Country Burial, • The life of Marian Evans had much I never knew — a doom of fruit without the bloom, like the Niger fig: — Her losses make our gains ashamed — She bore life's empty pack As gallantly as if the East Were swinging at her back. Life's empty pack is heaviest, As every porter knows — In vain to punish honey. It only sweeter grows. To Mrs Carmichael [1882?] ... I fear Vinnie gave my message as John Alden did the one from Miles Standish, which resulted de- lightfully for John, but not as well for his friend. Had you seen the delighted crowd that gathered round the box — did you ever see a crowd of three? — you would have felt requited. Your presenting smile was alone wanting. * Dear Mrs Carmichael,' said one ; * The one that never forgets,' said another; and a tear or two in the eyes of the third, and the reception was over. Can you guess which the third was ? 1 Poems, Second Series, page 158. 2 Ibid., p. 13a ' Ibid., p. 207. i884] TO MRS CARMICHAEL 419 The candy was enchanting, and is closeted in a deep pail, pending Vinnie's division, and the little box, like Heaven and mice, far too high to find. Failure be my witness that I have sought them faithfully. We often think of your evening circle — Mr Skeel presiding at the piano, and Mrs Skeel and yourself taking mutual lessons. I am studying music now with the jays, and find them charming artists. Vinnie and Gilbert have pretty battles on the pussy question, and you are needed for umpire, oftener than you think. 'Weren't you chasing pussy?* said Vinnie to Gilbert. * No, she was chasing herself.* * But was n't she running pretty fast ? * said pussy's Nemesis. 'Well, some slow and some fast,* said the beguiling villain. With the little kiss he gave me last, and a pair of my own, and love for Mr and Mrs Skeel, Warmly, Emily. To the Same [1884?] Loved Mrs Carmichael and Mrs Skeel, — I heard long since at school that Diogenes went to sea in a tub. Though I did not believe it, it is credible now. Against the peril of ocean steamers I am sweetly 420 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1885 provided, and am sure you had my safety in mind, in your lovely gifts. I have taken the passengers from the hold — pas- sengers of honey — and the deck of silk is just promenaded by a bold fly, greedy for its sweets. The little tub with the surcingle I shall keep till the birds, tilling it then with nectars, in Mrs SkeePs sweet honor. Will each of the lovely fricx^ds present my thanks to the other, as Vinnie's correspondence with them is too impressive for what dear Dickens calls *the likes of me* to invade. Their sweet intercession with Santa Claus in my behalf, I shall long remember. Always, Emily. To the Same [1885?] My consoleless Vinnie convinces me of the mis- fortune of having known dear Mrs Carmichael, whom 'to name is to praise,* for indeed, were we both intelligent mourners, I fear delight would close ; but the * fair uncertainty * aids me, which is denied Vinnie. Of her noble loss it is needless to speak — that is incalculable. Of her sweet power to us when we were over- whelmed, that, too, shall be mute. She has * borne our grief and carried our sorrow,' that is the cri- terion. . . . 1885] TO DR AND MRS FIELD 42 1 Let me hope she is well to-day, and sheltered by every love she deserves, which were indeed countless. We congratulate sweet Mrs Skeel on her beloved booty, }and ask a remembrance in her prayer for those of' us bereaved. Lovingly, Emily. To Dr and Mrs Fields who had sent flowers [1884 ?] Expulsion from Eden grows indistinct in the pres- ence of flowers so blissful, and with no disrespect to Genesis, Paradise remains. Beaconsfield says * the time has now come when it must be decided forever, who possesses the great gates to India.' I think it must be my neighbor. With delicate gratitude, E. Dickinson. To the Same [1885.] I was much chagrined by the delayed flower — please accept its apology. E. Dickinson. To the Same [1885.] Should you not have this flower, the first of spring with me, I should regret not sending it. Your azaleas are still vivid, though the frailer flowers are flitted away. E. Dickinson. VOL. II. — 13 422 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1885 To I send a violet, for L . I should have sent a stem, but was overtaken by snow-drifts, I regret deeply not to add a butterfly, but have lost my hat, which precludes my catching one. To , with flowers With the leave of the bluebirds, without whose approval we do nothing. E. Dickinson. To Mr Theodore Holland [1885.1 Dear Sir, — Your request to * remain sincerely * mine demands investigation, and if after synopsis of your career all should seem correct, I am tersely yours. I shall try to wear the unmerited honor with becoming volume. Commend me to your kindred, for whom, although a stranger, I entertain esteem. I approve the paint — a study of the Soudan, I take it, but the Scripture assures us our hearts are all Dongola. £. Dickinson. To [1885.] ... If you saw a bullet hit a bird, and he told you he was n*t shot, you might weep at his courtesy, 1885] TO 423 but you would certainly doubt his word. Thomas's faith in anatomy was stronger than his faith in faith. . . . Vesuvius don't talk — iEtna don't. One of them said a syllable, a thousand years ago, and Pompeii heard it and hid forever. She could n't look the world in the face afterward, I suppose. Bashful Pompeii ! . . . To Dear Friend, — I thank you with wonder. Should you ask me my comprehension of a starlight night, awe were my only reply, and so of the mighty book. It stills, incites, infatuates, blesses and blames in one. Like human affection, we dare not touch it, yet flee, what else remains? But excuse me — I know but little. Please tell me how it might seem to you. How vast is the chastisement of beauty, given us by our Maker ! A word is inundation, when it comes from the sea. Peter took the marine walk at the great risk. E. Dickinson. What book may be thus described is, unhap- pily, not known, as I have been unable to dis- cover even to whom the note was written. A severe disappointment in the preparation of these volumes is the fact that Emily's letters to * H. H.' cannot be found. 424 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1885 Entertained delightfully during the summer of 1893 at Mr Jackson's lovely home in Colo- rado Springs, I was very happy to learn that these letters had certainly not been destroyed. During the months before her death Mrs Jack- son had herself arranged her mass of papers, letters,' and manuscripts, each marked for its fate ; and Emily's letters were especially re- served in a package apart, as unique and too valuable to share the fate of much other cor- respondence. But though careful search has been most kindly made by her family, the let- ters still remain in hiding, and the inference is that they must have been accidentally de- stroyed in flames intended for other things. Among Emily's own papers I have found this draft of a letter to Mrs Jackson, discarded on account of a number of substituted words ; and I give it just as it is, with both erasures and substitutes, as an interesting study of her afterthoughts : — To'H.h: [March, 1885.] Dear Friend, — To reproach my own foot in behalf of yours is involuntary, and finding meagre * solace in 'whom He loveth He chasteneth,' your valor ^ astounds me. It was only a small wasp, said ^ Myself little. ^ Prowess. iSSsl TO 'H. W 425 the French physician, repairing the sting, but the strength to perish is sometimes withheld — though who but you can * tell a foot. Take all away from me But leave me ecstasy, And I am richer then Than all my fellow-men. Is it becoming me To dwell so wealthily, When at my very door Are those possessing more, In abject ' poverty ? That you glance at' Japan as* you breakfast, not in the least surprises me, thronged * only with music, like the decks* of birds. Thank you for hoping I am well. Who could be ill in March, that month of proclamation ? Sleigh- bells and jays contend in my matinee, and the north surrenders instead of the south, a reverse of bugles. Pity me, however, I have finished Ramona, Would that hke Shakespeare it were just published ! Knew I how to pray, to intercede for your foot were intuitive, but I am but a pagan. Of God we ask one favor, that we may be for- given. For what. He is presumed to know. The crime, from us, is hidden. 1 Could. * Compass. * Clogged. 2 Boundless. * Before. • Wheels. 426 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1885 Immured the whole of life Within a magic prison, We reprimand the happiness That too competes with Heaven. May I once more know, and that you are saved? Yours, £. Dickinson. After Mrs Jackson's death, August 12, 1885, Emily wrote of her: — Helen of Troy will die, but Helen of Colorado, never. Dear friend, can you walk, were the last words that I wrote her. Dear friend, I can fly — Her immortal reply. To Sweet Friends, — I send a message by a mouth that cannot speak. The ecstasy to guess Were a receipted bliss If grace could talk. With love. To . . . What a hazard an accent is ! When I think of the hearts it has scuttled or sunk, I almost fear to lift my hand to so much as a punctuation. 1885] TO MRS CROWELL AND MISS HALL 427 To Mrs E. P. Crowellf when about to sail for Europe [March 2, 1885.] Is it too late to touch you, dear ? We this moment knew. Love marine and love terrene, Love celestial too. I give his angels charge. Emily. To Miss Eugenia Hail [1885?] Let me thank the little cousin in flowers, which, without lips, have language. Somewhat cousin, Emh-y. To the Same Dear * Genie,' — The lovely flower you sent me is like a little vase of spice, and fills the hall with cinnamon. You must have skilful hands to make such sweet carnations. Perhaps your doll taught you. I know that dolls are sometimes wise. Robins are my dolls. I am glad you love the blossoms so well. I hope you love birds, too. It is economical. It saves going to Heaven. Lovingly, Emily. 428 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1885 To the Same^ with a Wedding Gift, October ao, 188s Will the sweet cousin who is about to make the Etruscan experiment, accept a smile which will last a life, if ripened in the sun? Cousin Eboly. Three notes were sent at different times, with flowers, to Mrs J. C. Greenough : — Lest any bee should boast. Trusting the happy flower will meet you at the door where spring will soon be knocking, we chal- lenge your * come in.' Emily. The flower keeps its appointment — should the heart be tardy? When Memory rings her bell, let all the thoughts run in. Emily. To Mrs Greenough^ after her Mother's Death, October, 1885 Dear Friend, — I had the luxury of a mother a month longer than you, for my own mother died in November, but the anguish also was granted me to see the first snow upon her grave the following day, which, dear friend, you were spared. 1885] TO MRS J, C GRBBNOUGH 429 But Remembrance engulfs me, and I must cease. I wish I could speak a word of courage, though that love has already done. Who could be mother- less who has a mother's grave within confiding reach? Let me enclose the tenderness bom of bereave- ment. To have had a mother — how mighty ! i EMrnv. CHAPTER X To Mrs Todd, Mrs Tnckemtan, the Misses , Mr Clark y and Mrs Currier FROM the many notes sent me by Emily Dickinson during the last four years of her life, it was a difBcult matter to select those best fitted for publication. But the first one available was probably this response to a small panel which I had painted for her, — a group of Indian pipes, those weird white flowers of shade and silence : — To Mrs Todd [Winter, 1882.] Dear Friend, — That without suspecting it you should send me the preferred flower of life, seems almost supernatural, and the sweet glee that I felt at meeting it I could confide to none. I still cherish the clutch with which I bore it from the ground when a wondering child, an unearthly booty, and maturity only enhances mystery, never decreases i88al TO MRS TODD 43 1 it. To duplicate the vision is even more amazing, for God's unique capacity is too surprising to sur- prise. I know not how to thank you. We do not thank the rainbow, although its trophy is a snare. To give delight is hallowed — perhaps the toil of angels, whose avocations are concealed. I trust that you are well, and the quaint little girl with the deep eyes, every day more fathomless. With joy, E. Dickinson. A few days later came another, enclosing that brilliant, meteoric flash in words, her * hum- ming-bird,' printed at page 130 in the second volume of the Poems : — To the Same Dear Friend, — I cannot make an Indian pipe, but please accept a humming-bird, — A route of evanescence With a revolving wheel ; A resonance of emerald, A rush of cochineal ; And every blossom on the bush Adjusts its tumbled head, — The mail from Tunis, probably, An easy moming*s ride. When, after her death, the great mass of Emily Dickinson's verses had been collated V 432 LETTERS OF EMILY DICKINSON [1885 and an appropriate drawing for the cover was desired, there seemed a peculiar fitness in this ethereal flower; and the design was cut from the little panel which stood so long in her room. Many of her most beautiful verses came to me, in the following years; and one autumn day this : — [1884.] How martial the apology of nature ! We die, said the deathless of Thermopylae, in obedience to law. Not sickness stains the brave, Nor any dart, Nor doubt of scenes to come, But an adjourning heart. After I had sent her a painting of the gor- geous blossoms of the trumpet vine, which, on first seeing, she had called ' the Soudan,' she wrote : — [March 21, 1885.] Dear Friend, — Nature forgot. The circus re- minded her. Thanks for the Ethiopian face. The Orient is in the west. *You knew, oh Egypt,' said the entangled Antony. iSSs] TO MRS TODD 433 And later, — [September, 1885.] Why should we censure Othello, when the crite- rion Lover says, *Thou shalt have no other gods before me ' ? Music had always charm for Erflily Dickin- son. Frequently, when I had been singing, or playing upon the piano at her request, a dainty note would come in to me, with a glass of wine, or a rare rose; in one instance a cream whip, with the single line, ' Whom He loveth He chasteneth,' — of which the applica- tion might have been taken in various ways. I can never forget the twilight seclusion of the old drawing-room, the square piano in its corner, the ancient mahogany furniture, and Emily just outside the door, her dress a spot of white in the dim hall. With the waning afternoon, I would play one thing and another, or sing melodies which often sounded too light and modern and sunshiny for surroundings so like a dreamy corner of the past. At first it seemed to me as if a visitor from another world had alighted for a time, wishing, for some in- scrutable reason, to be entertained on a foreign planet. Later, it became not only entirely natural, but so much a habit that I should 434 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1886 have missed my solitary recitals quite as much as my often invisible auditor. Other notes to me, having especial reference to particular persons or occasions, are not of sufficient general interest to be given here. As her unique life drew toward its close, she became, for the last two years, a semi- invalid, — she who had always rejoiced in strength and bravery enough for her own Aeed, and that of all her friends. Only a handful of notes remains, written during the final weeks while Emily brightened the old house with her airy, yet forceful and brilliant personality, for, even ill, she was a pervasive presence. Upon the death of Professor Tuckerman, March 15, 1886, she wrote: — To Mrs Tuckerman Dear One, — ' Eye hath not seen nor ear heard.* What a recompense ! The enthusiasm of God at the reception of His sons I How ecstatic ! How infinite ! Says the blissful voice, not yet a voice, but a vision, * I will not let thee go, except I bless thee.' Emh^v. Sometime during this month, also, she wrote her cousins : — i886l TO MR C. H. CLARK 435 To the Misses [March, 1886.] I scarcely know where to begin, but love is always a safe place. I have twice been very sick, dears, with a little recess of convalescence, then to be more sick, and have lain in my bed since Novem- ber, many years, for me, stirring as the arbutus does, a pink and russet hope ; but that we will leave with our pillow. When your dear hearts are quite con- venient, tell us of their contents, the fabric cared for most, not a fondness wanting. Do you keep musk, as you used to, like Mrs Morene of Mexico? Or cassia carnations so big they split their fringes of berry? Was your winter a tender shelter — perhaps like Keats's bird, 'and hops and hops in little journeys ' ? Are you reading and well, and the W s near and warm? When you see Mrs French and Dan give them a tear from us. Vinnie would have written, but could not leave my side. Maggie gives her love. Mine more sweetly still. Emily. To Mr C. H. Clark [April 5, 1886.] Dear Friend, — Are you living and well, and your father in peace, and the home in Street without effacing change ? I received your very kind 436 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [i8S6 message, I think in November, since which I have been very ill, and begin to roam in my room a little, an hour at a time. Do you, as time steals on, know anything of the W whom Mr so loved, and of whom he said with a smile, * Should he find a gold watch in the street he would not pick it up, so unsullied was he'? . . . My sister gives her faithful remembrance to yourself and your father, the brother so cherished never once forgot. You will recall the flower sacred to your brother. No sloth has memory. E. Dickinson. To Mrs Currier [April 10, 1886.] ... Mr Hunt was tinning a post this morning, and told us L did n*t feel quite as well as usual, and I have n't felt quite as well as usual since the chestnuts were ripe, though it was n't the chestnuts' fault, but the crocuses are so martial and the daffo- dils to the second joint, let us join hands and recover. ' I do remember an apothecary,' said that sweeter robin than Shakespeare, was a loved paragraph which has lain on my pillow all winter, but perhaps Shakespeare has been 'up street' oftener than I have, this winter. Would father's youngest sister believe that in the i886] TO MR C, H. CLARK . >, . 437 * Shire town ' where he and Blackstone went to school, a man was hung yesterday, for the murder of a man by the name of Dickinson, and that Miss M was poisoned by a strolHng juggler to be tried in the Supreme Court next week ? Don't you think fumigation ceased when father died? Poor, romantic Miss M ! But perhaps a Police Gazette was better for you than an essay. I hope you are both stronger, and ask a word of gain with these ecstatic days. I give my anxious love, and Vinnie's faithfulness with mine. Your Emily. To Mr C. H, Clark [April 15, 1886.] Thank you, dear friend, I am better. The velocity of the ill, however, is like that of the snail. I am glad of your father's tranquillity, and of your own courage. Fear makes us all martial. I could hardly have thought it possible that the scholarly stranger to whom my father introduced me, could have mentioned my friend, almost itself a vision, or have still left a legend to relate his name. With the exception of . . . your name alone remains. ' Going home/ was he not an aborigine of the sky? The last time he came in life I was with my lilies VOL. II. — 14 438 LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON [1886 and heliotropes. Said my sister to me, * The gentle- man with the deep voice wants to see you, Emily' — hearing him ask of the servant. ' Where did you come from ? ' I said, for he spoke like an apparition. 'I stepped from my pulpit to the train,' was his simple reply ; and, when I asked, * how long? ' — * twenty years,' said he, with inscru- table roguery. But the loved voice has ceased; and to some one who heard him 'going home 'it was sweet to speak. . . . Thank you for each circumstance, and tell me all you love to say. . . . Excuse me for the voice, this moment immortal, E. Dickinson. This letter, in her bold, clear, detached hand (to an accustomed eye slightly less firm than usual), is the last one, so far as known, which Emily Dickinson wrote. Afterward, she con- tinued to be delicate, though hardly alarmingly so; but just before the fifteenth of May, 1886, she sent two words to her cousins, freighted with startling import, — Little Cousins, — Called back. Emily. Almost immediately she fell asleep, and never woke again to earthly sunshine. i886] LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON 439 In the quiet of leafy Amherst, in the old brick mansion behind its hedges and pines, she lived and wrote, and there she * Ascended, from our vision To countenances new.* We can be only grateful that she was moved to crystallize in words her thronging visions of blossom, and bird, and * blue, beloved air,' — of * life, death, and that vast forever ' which was her nearest companion. This is hardly the place to speak in detail of Emily Dickinson's verses, their electrical qual- ity, or their impressive effect upon the public, four years after her death. They are pervaded by a singular cadence of hidden rhythmical music, which becomes sympathetically familiar upon intimate acquaintance. Dr Holmes somewhere says that rhymes * are iron fetters : it is dragging a chain and a ball to march under their encumbrance;' and if in Emily Dickinson's work there is fre- quently no rhyme where rhyme should be, a subtle something, welcome and satisfying, takes its place. An orchid among every-day, sweet-smelling flowers, strangeness and irregu- larity seem but to enhance her fascination. A striking characteristic of her verse is its epigrammatic quality ; terseness and vigor 440 LETTERS OF ExMlLY DICKINSON [1886 predominate, rather than feminine grace and smoothness. Homely experiences which all recognize, but few record, were to her texts for profound generalization. When the unmean- ing mass of much modern poetry is compared with Emily Dickinson's swift revelations, the operation suggests comparing distilled water with richest Burgundy. And as such water is no less insipid if served in cut-glass flagons, so we cannot care in what kind of bottle has been stored for years the condensed sweet- ness of tropic suns. The eighteenth of May, 1886, Emily Dickin- son was carried lovingly over the threshold she had not passed beyond in years. * She went as softly as the dew From a familiar flower. Not like the dew did she return At the accustomed hour. * To the few who gathered, that sunny after- noon, her friend, fellow-poet, and 'master' read Emily Bronte's noble Last Lines, with their lofty voicing of an unchangeable belief in the soul's immortality, — 'a favorite,' as Colonel Higginson so fitly said, ' with our friend, who has now put on that Immortality which she seemed never to have laid off.* i886] LETTERS OP EMILY DICKINSON 44 1 She had lived in voluntary retirement from outside eyes ; and now, in the sweet May sun- shine, tender hands bore her through meadows starry with daisies into a silence and seclusion but little deeper. INDEX * Aborigine of the sky,* 437 Accent, a hazard, 426 Accidents, funny, 158 Adams, Miss, 19, 23, 24, 26 Adams, Mrs, sons' death, 240 Adder's tongue, 38 Adirondacks, 343, 344 iEtna * don't talk,' 423 Alden, John, 418 Alexandria Bay, 181 Amherst, notes to friends in, 366 ; sole link with the world, 367 Amherst Academy, 24, 35, 61, 128 Amherst College, levees at, 108 ; students in the war, 266 Amherst heart, 415 Anatomical dishabille, 390 Angels, 213 Anthon, Mrs, 125 ; letters to, 146, 147, 148, 149 Apparitions, family of, 394 Apple blossoms, 341, 342 April, 374, 394 Arabia in the eyes, 228 Arabian Nights^ 70, 72, 221, 400 * Arabian presence,' 337 Arbutus, trailing, 38, 131, 172, i88 Atlantic Monthly^ The^ 127,300,303 Aurora Leigh ^ 238 Autumn, 94, 96, 179, 222 * Awakening ' in the church, 279 Baltimore Convention( 1852), 108 Barabbas, 311 Beaconsfield, 421 Beauty, world too full of, 396; eva- nescence all we secure of, 405; chastisement of, 423 Bedouin guest, 254 Bee, 158; * blossoms belong to,* 175 Bee*s prong, 174 Bees *■ only authonty on Etruscan matters,* 411 Beecher, H. W., 54 Belchertown, Mass., 104, 114 Bell and Everett party, 235 Bellatrix, 2 Belle of Amherst, 6 Bells, chime of, 266 Bereavement, * tenderness bom of,* 429 Berlin for her eyes, 260 Bertinl's music-book, 10 Betelgeux, 2 Bible, grandfather's, 413 Bird, 'spacious,' 171; 'the new,* 184 Bird song, 82 Birds, 191, 193, 226; 'the bound- less,* 62 ; *in plush teams,* 270: ' sweet neighbors,' 404 ; love for, 427 * Black Fanny,' 103 Blood-root, 38 Blossom, note compared to a, 221 Blossoms, cheer from, 134 ; belong to the bee, 175 ; 'have their leis- ures,' 408 Blueberry, 197 444 INDEX Bluebirds, 259, 265 Bobolinks, 170 Boltwood, Lucius, 76 Books, love for, 273 ; ' joggle the mind,' 302 Boston, 78 ; visit to, 20, 24 Bowdoin, Mr E. G., 137 Bowles, Mr and Mrs Samuel, let- ters to, 189-228 Bowles, Samuel, death of, 223; picture of, with Gov. Bross and Mr Colfax, 299 ; ' genius of Hampshire,* 349 Bowles, Samuel, jr., 347; letters to, 348-352 Brabantio's gift, 329 Bread, learning to make, 14 ; * twin loaves, born,' 46 Brevoort House, 195 Bridal gift, 186 Briggs, Gov., 31 Bronte, 215 Bronte, Branwell, 282 Bronte, Charlotte, 137, 186, 281 BrontS, Emily, vi, xi, 186 ; * marvel- lous verse,' 345 ; * Last Lines,' 440 Brooks, 211, 212 Bross, Gov., picture of, 299 Browne, Sir Thomas, 302 Browning, Robert, 215, 296, 302; * made a new poem,' 243 ; Pippa Passes, 306; Beils and Pome- granates^ 320 ; Men and Wo- men, 320 Browning, Mrs, 238, 302, 308 ; grave of, 206; poems by, 320; Bells and Pomegranates^ 320 Bumblebees, 191 Bunker Hill, 21, 141 Byron, 127 Called Back, * a haunting story,* 299 Campbell, Miss, 26 Cana and Gethsemane, 399 Cannon, given by Gen. Bumside in memory of Adjt Steams, 267 Carlo, 193, 194, 207, 208 Carmichael, Mrs, lett^s, 418-420 Cashmere confederate, 228 Cattle-show, 95, 160 Centennial at Concord, 281 Cephas and Apollos, 212 Chadboume, Mrs, 356 Chamel steps, 244 Chestnut-tree in blossom, 308 Chickering, Prof. J. K., letters to, 414, 415 Children, 330, 342, 369, 370 China, the ship, 206 Chinese writing-master, 21, 22 Cholera anticipated, 80 Christmas, 26, 186, 371, 372, 399 Christmas presents, 17, 188 Circumference, 306 Circumstance^ 302 Circus, 171 Clark, C. H., letters to, 357, 435 Clark, J. D., letters to, 353 Clark, Col. W. S., 242 Climbing fern, 126 Clovers, 208 Cold, taking, account of, 40, 41 Colds, * make one carnal,* 45 Colfax, Schuyler, picture of, 299 Colton, Rev. A. M., 33 Commencement, 23, 114, 171, 206, 343> 374 Compositions, 7, 35 Conductor, railway, 88 Congress, 119 Conservatory, description of, 347 Consolation, 398 Convalescence, slow, 437 Conway, Hugh, 299 Cooper, Mrs J. S., letters to, 391 Cowan, Mr, letters to, 332-335 ' Cricket on the hearth,' 103 INDEX 445 Crickets, 80, 94, 144, 146 Crocuses, *stud many mounds,' 173 Crowell, Mrs E. P., 427 Crows, * quickened by,* 390 ' Currer Bell,* 137 Currier, Mrs, letter to, 436 Daisies, 173, 179 Daisy, 168, 217 Dandelion, 61, 62, 202, 283 ; pressed, 386 Daniel Deronda^ 323 Daphne, 320, 384 David, 171, 226 Davis, Jefferson, capture of, 152 Death, 170, 172, 176, 179,180, 185, 214; of friend, 51; * dainty, democratic,' 179; of aunt, 233; of mother, * many kinds of cold,' 354: *an intimate friend,' 411; *in obedience to law,' 432 Decoration^ 319 Departure reduced to a science, 279 De Quincey, 276 Dick, the horse of association, 344 Dickens, Charles, 122 Dickinson, Edward, in Congress, 65, 120; in Baltimore conven- tion (1852), 108; directing fire- men, HI, and New London R. R., 115, 116; death of, 279, 280, Dickinson, Mrs Edward, paralyzed, 319; death of, 295, 340 Dickinson, Emily, spiritual guard, vi ; varying moods, vi ; chanee of style, vii; epigrammatic power early foreshadowed, vii ; did not address envelopes in later years, viii ; disliked theology current in her gurlhood, viii ; no irreverence in her writings, ix ; biblical quo- tation, X ; complete retirement from even village social life, xi ; passionate love of, and intimacy with. Nature, xi; fondness for March, xi ; intellectual brilliancy at seventeen, 35; handwriting, 39, 63 ; Mrs Ford's recollections of her, 125-132 ; wood-lore, 126; wit and humor, 128 ; personal appearance, 130; gardening, 131 ; under treatment of the eyes, 151; aversion to society, 189; urged to publish, 267, 268, 321, 330; as to portrait, 304, 305 ; verbal portrait, 305 ; declined to mould her verse, 307 ; isolation a neces- sity, 368 ; accessible to children, 369; death, 438; funeral, 440 Letters, reason for publishing, V ; arrangement explained, vi ; difficulties in chronological ar- rangement, vii ; punctuation, dashes used for, viii; acknowl- edgment of those sent, xi Poems, Dr Holland on, 131, 132 ; her view in writing, 190 ; not named by herself, 195 ; design for cover of the volumes, 432 ; elec- trical quality of, 439 ; epigram- matic quality of, 439 included in the Letters, see beloWf under Poems Dickinson, Miss Lavinia, i2|;; 150; letters to, 151, 152, 153, 233 Dickinson, Misses, 290, 291 Dickinson, Samuel Fowler, 166 Dickinson, William A., letters to, 65-124 Diogenes, 419 Disaster endears, 393 Disraeli, 292 Distinguished, deciding to be, 230 Dolls * sometimes wise,' 427 446 INDEX Dongola, 422 Dream, about rje-field sold, 67,298 Drought, * gorgeous,' 182, 282 Dwight, Rev. £. S., 118, 121, 124 Echo song, 82 Eden, 224 ; mastifif guarding, 383 ; expulsion from, 421 Education, finishing an, 4 Elijah, 151 Eliot, George, 279, 328, 402, 418 ; death of, 286; Cross's Life of, 299, 331 ; poems by, 320 Ellen Middleton^ 79 Emerson, Rev. F. F., letters to, 403-405 Emerson, R. W., 127, 128 ; Life of, by Dr Holmes, 299 * Emilie,' name spelled, i Endicott School, 84 Enobarbus, 324 Ephesus, 'moving to,' 299 Epicurean^ Moore's, 38 Eternity, 22, 295 Etruscan experiment, marriage an, 428 Euclid, satisfaction in finishing, 70 Evangeline, 38 Eve, 18 Examinations, dread of, 9, 34 ; at Mt Holyoke, 27, 28, 34, 35 Eyes, first trouble with, 310 Faith of the fathers, 194 Fast Day, 79 February, 168, 169 ; ' that month of fleetest svireetness,' 394 Field, Dr T. P. and Mrs, 421 Fire in Amherst (1852), no; (1879), 284 ; Phoenix row (i88i), 289 Fiske, Prof. N. W., 291 Flood, law of, 220 Flower 'that never will in cthel' climate grow,* 187 Flowers, 136, 152; preserved from Jack Frost, 15 ; love for spring, 38 ; wild, driven to a distance from Mt Holyoke Sem., 38 ; coaxing the fading to wait, 96; sent in her stead, 136; bloom- ing of, ascribed to her influence, 152 ; dreaming of picking, 160 ; gathering, in heaven, 160; of frost on window, 194; in the conservatory, 253 ; sent with notes, 366 ; ' qiudified as saints,' 413 Flowers of North America^ Hitch- cock's, 325 Fly, *a precious,* 232 Ford, Mrs Gordon L., 300 ; letters to, 133-137 ; 142-146 Forest Leaves^ 128, 129 Forget-me-not, 144 Fowler, Emily, see Ford, Mrs G. L. Fowler, Prof. W. C, 125 Franking privilege, 119 Friend, how wondrous, 389 Friends, 160, 161, 164, 169, 191, 207, 210 ; love for, 272 Frink, Mr, in Frogs, 149, 150 Fruit, 91, 92 Fumigation, ceasing, 437 Gabriel, 228; * morning call from,' 287 Garden, 11, 15, 97, 160, 165, 172, 176, 179, 193, 197; Emily's old- fashioned, 351, 352; 'perished with beautiful reluctance,' 408 Gems abscond, 221 Genesis^ 287 Genius, 174, 290, 349 Gentian, * a greedy flower,' 173 INDEX 447 Geometry, satisfaction in finishing, 70 Geranium, like a sultana, 197 Geraniums, 207 German, studying, 17 Germania Band, 122 Gethsemane and Cana, 399 Gibraltar lights, 176 Gladstone, 293 God, * the Great Eclipse,' ix ; * jeal- ous,' ix ; presence in solitude, 39,40 Golden Rule needs no polica, 406 Gratitude * a desecration,* 396 Grave of Bonaparte^ 12 Green and gold, * immortal colors,* 194 Greenough, Mrs J. C, letters to, 428, 429 Grief *a sable introduction,' 414 Grout, Austin, 87 Grout, Jennie, 99 ' Guiteau year,' 409 Gulf of down, 384 ' H.H.,* j^^ Jackson, Mrs Hall, Miss, letters to, 427, 428 Harper'' s Magazine, 237 Harvard Law School, 65 Haven, Prof. Joseph, jZy 108, 120 Haven, Mrs Joseph, 78 Hawthorne, death of, 310; * ap- palls, entices,' 329 Hay, the second, 192 Heart, an * appalling boon,' 395 ; *the Amherst,' 415 Heaven, 56, 158, 162, 166, 169, 183, 191, 213 Heights of Abraham, 316 Heliotrope, yellow, 193 Higginson, Col. T. W., 300, 304, 307i 3'o> 440; interview with, 314, 315; letters to, 300-331; Atlantic Essay s^ 320 ; on Emer* son and Lowell, 323 Higginson, Mrs, 324 ; to be the guest of, * the boon of birds,* 322 Hills, Mrs Henry, letters to, 397 Hippodrome, 117 Hitchcock, President, 5 ; Flowers of North America J 325 Hitchcock, Mrs £., death of, 247 Holland, Annie, marriage of, 1S5 Holland, Dr J. G., 116, 131 ; let- ters to, 155-188; death of, 183, 293 Holland, Mrs J. G., 120, 155 ; let- ters to, 155-188 Holland, Mr Theodore, 422 Hollyhock, 147 Holmes, Dr O. W., 127; Life of Efnerson^ 299 ; * Rhymes are iron fetters,' 439 Home, 208 ; absence from, 27 ; missed at, 30; return to, 31, 32, 34 ; kept at, by illness, 37 ; un- willingness to leave, 64; fond- ness for, 71, 72; brother dearer than, 87; *a holy thing,' 89; * bright and shining,* 94 ; away from (verse), 1 78 Homesickness at school, 34, 37 Honeysuckle, 206 Horse of association, 344 House-cleaning, pestilence pre- ferred to, 171 Household tasks, 74, 47 Household work, dislike for, 49 Housekeeping, * a prickly art,' 298 Howells, W. D., 329 Howland, William, 140 Hunt, Helen, see Jackson, Mrs Humming-bird poem, 431 Humming-birds, 197 Humphrey, Pres. Heman, 158 Humphrey, Mr Leonard, 24, 501 51 448 INDEX *Ik Marvel/ 78 Illness, first serious, 297 Imagination, 7, 8, 11, 70 Immortality, 119, 157, 186, 214; 226, 310, 319 ; * a slow solace,' 398 Immortality^ 323 India, gates to, 421 Indian pipes, 261, 283, 430; on binding of Poems, 432 Indies in the hand, 393 Insanity, 150 Invisibility to friends, 382, 414 Ivy, 225 Jackson, Mr, 351, 424 Jackson, Mrs (*H. H.'), 128,320, 321, 329, 417 ; desires E, D. to publish, 321, 322 ; letters to, 423, 424, 425 ; death of, 426 James, Henry, 329 Jameson, Mrs, 401 Jane Eyre^ 137 Jasmine, 253, 347 ; next dearest to daphne except wild-flowers, 320 Jays, 168, 263; * studying music with,* 419 Jenkins, Rev. and Mrs J. L., let- ters to, 372-375 Jenkins, Mr MacGregor, article by, 370 ; letters to, 370 John Alden, 418 John Gilpin, 194 Judgment Day, 161 July, Fourth of, 284 June, 115, 169, 216, 255, 279, 317, 374» 410 Juneating apple, 197 Junius^ 219 Katie, Aunt, 407, 410, 4T2, 413 Keats, 301 Keats's bird, 435 Kemble, Fanny, 230 Kingman, Martha, 99 Lady's-slippers, yellow, 126 Lancers Quicksteps 12 Last letter, Emily Dickinson*s, 437 Lathrop, G. P., poem, 294 Legislature, 275 Leontodon, 61 Letter, a life-warrant or death- warrant, 292 Letters, union, 180 Lilies of the field, 194, 341, 409 Lind, Jenny, jy, at Northampton, 81-83 Liver-leaf, 38 Locofoco, 67 Logician, the great, 402 Longfellow, H. W., 38, 127 Lord, Judge, 322, 411 Loss of friends, first moment eter- nity, 392 Lowell, J. R., 127, 128, 329 ; Win* ter^ 259 Lowell, Mrs, poems of, 316 Lyon, Mary, 28, 29, 66, 67; kind- ness to pupils, 30; against valen- tines, TT, Madonna, 216; Dresden, 328 Maggie, little, wilting, 264 ; ' fold- ing her tent,' 269 ; death, 269 Maher, Maggie, letter to, 402 Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell ^ 165 Maiden^ weep no more, 12 Maplewood Institute, 129 March, 168, 346 ; flowers in, 147 ; infinite, 265 ; ' that month of pro* clamation,' xi, 425 Margaret, 152, 176 Marian Erle^ 269; dim pallet, 293 Marriage of Mrs Holland's daugh- ter, 185 ; of Mr Cowan, 332; of Miss Hall, 428 Masque of PoetSj ^,416 Mastiff ' guarding Eden,' 383 May,2i3,240, J44t 3". 35^. 371. 441 Memoiy. 105 ; trope, 4131 rlnga ha bell, 42g Menagerie, 66, 317 Menican Wat, 67 MiddUaarih, 179 Millei, Joaquin, 31a Montague, Fanny, iig Montague, Mr and Mrs George, letters lo, 405, 406 Montague, Mass., 104 Moih in the work -basket, 55 Mother, death of, 354, 418; 'to have ha ' ■ Mol rwell, V Mount nuuurii. ^1 Ut Holyoke Seminary, before en- tering, 19; entering, 37: aider of Tk, 29 xt-boaks letters from, 17, 36, 65, 74; attachment to, ii : sickness at, 34, 37! 34; enaminations, 27, 34, 35; tecilled from, 36; studies, 39; bypupil5,66; bill of fare, 69 Mount Vemon, visit to, 163 Moving, 166, 167 Museum, 117; Chinese, 21, 2» Ma5ic,S, 10, IS, 15,433; •'"*'"<'? Mvra. death of, 244 Myslery, 'maturity enhances,' 430 Nature, li, 75, siS; love of, 126, 127, 180, 213; 'neither knocks nor intrudes,' 395; intimacy with. 39; ; old-fashioned, per- haps a Pnritan, 396; 'apology of.' 431; 'forgot — the circus reminded her,' 431 Nest, perennial, J15 : emerald. 219 New London trip, 114,115,116 New Year's presents, l6 ; resolu- tions, 16 ; greetings, 162, 194 New York Tim. Nig< fig, 4'8 Nile, the, 173; 'is a iealons brook,' 379 Niles, Mr Thomas, 416; letten Nims, Seth, 67 Noah, 'dodle, but somewhat scep- tic,' 149; 'would have liked No Nanu Siriis, 416 Northampton, Jenny Llnd, 81-83 Noiwott'ock, Mount, ij6 November, 176, 318,351,428 Numidian haunts, 221 OctiAer, 261, J93, 391 'Old Amos,' no Opium-eating Chinese, 21 'Othello is uneasy,' 345; il of. 375; why censure; 43 Parepa, 337 Park, Prof. E. A., lol Paiker, Theodore, 194 Parting, 185 Pathos, sweets of, 408 ' Pelham hills', 124 Pelham water, 408 Perdition, sermon on, 16 ' Peter,' Cousin, 16S Peter the Great, 117 450 INDEX Philadelphia, 162, 163 Philosopher's stone, 403 Photograph requested, 304 Piano wished for, 5 Pines * sing tunes,' 193 Pinks, 197; progeny of, 395 Pittsfield, 129 Plants, 6, 15, 17, 153 Plato, 4, 94 Poe, E. A., 329 Poems, * Success,* 416; 'My cricket,' 416; * The snow,' 416; "A pebble,* 417; *A thunder storm,' 418 ; * A humming-bird,' 418, 431 ; * A country burial,' 418 ■ included in the letters, in- dexed by first lines : — 'A death-blow is a life-blow to some,* 319 *A feather from the whippoor- will,* 219 ' A route of evanescence,' 431 * A word left careless on a page,' 277 * As if J asked a common alms.' 304 * As summer into autumn slips,' 222 * Awake, ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine,' 137 * Away from home are some and 1/ 178 * Before he comes,' 208 * Best gains must have the losses' test,' 309 * Brother of Ophir,* 385 * Could that sweet darkness where they dwell,* 337 * Count not that far that can be had,' 172 *Each that we lose takes part of us,* 296 'Except the smaller size,' 312 * Faith is a fine invention,' 200 Poems (continued) ^Go not too near a house of rose,' 382 * Go slow, my soul, to feed thy- self,' 265 * Go thy great way,* 396 'God made no act without a cause,' 262 ' Her breast is fit for pearls,' 21; * Her losses make our gains ashamed,* 418 * How brittle are the piers,* 328 * How happy is the little stone,' 'How much of source escapes with thee,' 187 ' How slow the wind, how slow the sea,' 388 ' How well I know her not,' 335 ' I cannot see my soul, but know 't is there,' 272 *I have no life but this,' .219 * I stole them from a bee,' 211 ' I '11 send the feather from my hat,' 214 * If recollecting were forgetting,' 216 * If she had been the mistletoe,* 210 * Immured the whole of life,* 426 * Is it too late to touch you, dear,' 427 * It is not dying hurts us so,' 251 * Just once — oh, least request I ' 217 * Last to adhere,* 222 ' Love is done when love 's be- gun,* 385 * Love's stricken " why," ' 377 * Menagerie to me,' 317 * Nature and God, I neither knew,' 213 * Never for society,' 369 INDEX 451 Poems {c^mtinued) ^ No ladder needs the bird but skies,' 342 * No wilderness can be,' 216 * Not all die early, dying young,' 177 •Not "Revelation" 'tis that waits,' 310 * Not seeing, still we know,' 387 * Not sickness stains the brave,' 432 * Obtaining but his own extent,' 353 * Of Heaven above the firmest proof,* 321 'One thing of it we borrow,' 329 * Perhaps you think me stoop- ing 1 ' 211 * Presuming on that lone result,' 326 * Publication is the auction,* 268 ^ Sic transit gloria mundiy^ 140 * So glad we are, a stranger 'd deem,' 209 * Speech is a prank of Parlia- ment,' 211 * Summer laid her supple glove,' 323 * Sweet pirate of the heart,' 387 *Take all away,' 318 * Take all away from me,' 425 * Teach him, when he makes the names,' 196 * Than Heaven more remote,' 338 * The butterfly upon the sky, who does n't know its name,' 370 * The clock strikes one that just struck two,' 350 * The dandelion's pallid tube,' 386 *The ecstasy to guess,' 426 *Tlie face in evanescence lain,' 339 Poems {continued) 'The going from a world we know,' 298 * The juggler's hat her country is,' 211 < The longest day that God ap- points,' 257 'The loss of sickness — was it loss?' 210 * The most triumphant bird,' 278 * The only news I know,' 311 * The possibility to pass,' 312 ' The robin is a Gabriel,' 384 * The show is not the show,' x * The spirit lasts, but in what mode,' 363 * The stem of a departed flower,' 386 * The zeroes taught us phospho- rus,' 200 * There are two ripenings, one of sight,' 147 ' There is no frigate like a book,' 273 * There is no trumpet like the tomb,* 402 * ** They have not chosen me," he said,' 217 * This is the place they hoped ' before,' 271 •This was in the white of the year,' 254 * Though my destiny be fustian,' 17S * Though the great waters sleep,* 392 * To disappear enhances,' 323 * To this world she returned,' 154 * To try to speak, and miss the way,' 389 ' Trusty as the stars,' 283 * Truth is as old as God,' 162 * We knew not that we wwe to live,' 339 452 INDEX Poems {continued) * We never know how high we are,' x * We never know we go — when we are going,' 290 * We send the wave to find the wave,' 277 * We shall find the cube of the rainbow,' 383 * We shun it ere it comes,' 414 * We wear our sober dresses when we die,* 388 * We '11 pass without a parting,' 154 * What tenements of clover,* 376 * While asters,' 209 * Who abdicated ambush,' 348 * Whose pink career may have a close,' 319 * Would you with the bee return,' 325 Pompeii, 285, 423 Portrait, verbal, 305 Postage, reduced to five cents, 2 Potomac, 163 Prescott, Harriet, 302 Princess^ Tennyson's, 38 Publishing, foreign -as 'firmament to fin,' 303 ; urged upon her, 267, 268, 321, 330 Punctuation, dangers in, 426; dashes used for, viii, 46 Quick and the dead, the, 198 Railroad, Amherst and Belcher- town, 87, 104, 114, 115, 116 Ramona, 425 Ravens, Elijah's, 151 Read, Mrs Hanson, letters to, 375 Reading, 38 Remembrance, 192; *the staple of Heaven,' 399; vocal, but one form, 400 ; * engulfs,' 429 Resurrection, 191, 220 Revelation ^j/^-Sy/t^Aw, 302,315,323 Revival in the church, 279 Rhea, Miss, 332 Robert, 195, 199, 205 Roberts Brothers, 416 Rolnns, 206, 244, 256, 277; 'my dolls,' 427 Root, Prof. Elihu, death of, 385 Rose, 212 Roses, 160, 214; 'of a steadfast summer,' 179 Rowen, 192 ; * chopped by bees and piled by butterflies,* 27Z Rubinstein, reminds of * polar nights,' 271 Ruskin, 302 St Augustine, 187 Salvini, T., portrait of, 345 Sanborn, F. B., lecture by, 297 Sand, George, 238 Sanderson, Frederick M., 242 Santa Claus, 37X1 372 Saxe Holm stories, 416 Sea * is ordained,* the, 228 September, 173, 301 Sermon, death and judgment, 161 Shakespeare, 129, 436; club, 129 Shrine, a homely, 216 Sickness unwelcome, 47; *is it pathos or infamy ? * 394 Silver bill, 393 Skeel, Mr and Mrs, 419 Smith, Alexander, 114 Smith, Prof. H. B., y^ Snakes, 42, 43 Snell, Prof., death of, 378 Snow, in spring, 106; 'repealing the fences,* 409 Socrates, 4, 94 Soldier, 208 Soldiers, 197 Solomon, * chagrined for,* 341 INDEX 453 Sorrow, 183, 185, 186, 223 Soudan, 422, 432 South Hadley, 38, 45, 65, 69; dan- ger of attack on, 67 Sparrow, 215, 226, 227 Spofford, A. R., 127 SpofTord, H. M., 127 Spring, 62, 143, 171, 204, 237, 279, 296, 323» y^i^ 428 Springfield, 116, 155, 156, 164, 198, 204 Standish, Miles, 418 Star-gazing, 2 Steams, Adjutant Frazer, 203, 240 ; death of, at Newbern, 242 Steams, George, 187 Steams, Pres., death of, 282, 377 Stearns, Mrs W. A., letters to, 376, 377, yl^^ 379 Steams, William French, gave college church, 266 Steams, Mrs W. F., letter to, 406 Steelyard, fraudulent, 176 *Step a century, can go but a,* 388 Stratford-on-Avon, 328 Strong, Mrs A. P., letters to, 1-64 Studies, 6, 17, 25, 34, 39, 70 Suffering, comprehended only by sufferers, 391 Sultans, 407, 408, 409 Summer, 149, 151, 179, 180, 191, 197, 214, 222, 242, 259, 286, 310, 351 Sunderland, Mass., 104, 127 Sunrise, 44 Sunset, very remarkable, 92, 93 * Sweet despair,' 329 Sweet pea, 182 Sweet Williams, 197 Tarrytown, churchyard a, 412 Taylor, Mr, 23 Tears, unavailing, 36 VOL. 11. — 15 Temptation, 48 Tennyson, 38 Thanksgiving, 31, 33, 99, 100, loi, 153 Theophilus^ 219 Thermopylae, deathless of, 432 Thunder-shower, 107 Time, salt on the tail of, 5 ; fleet- ness of, 9, 14 ; value of, 22 Todd, Mrs David P., 430 Tourgu^neff, 320 Trillium, pink, and white, 126 Tmmbull, Mr, 93 Tmth, eternity of (verse), 162 Tuckerman, Prof. Edward, death of, 434 Tuckerman, Mrs Edward, letters to, 379-391, 434 Tupper, M. F., 38 Turnpike, variegated, 231 Twins and Hearty the, 38 Tyler, Mr, 5 Tyler, Prof. W.S., 108, 116 Tyrian dye, 209 Uncle Tom's Cabin, 122 Underwood, Uncle, 411 * Untiring Anno Domini,' 364 Vaill, Rev. Joseph, t8i, 206 Valentines, 72, 73, 137, 140 Valor in the dark, 403 Vanderbilt, Mrs, 154 Vaughan, Henry, 331 Vesuvius * don't talk,' 423 Village life very democratic, vii Violet, yellow, 38; 'sucking her way,' 147 ; with ' the mother's eyes,* 150; in November, 165; estates of, 214 War, * an oblique place,' 309, 310 Warner, Prof. Aaron, 33 Warner, D., 105 454 INDEX Warner's hotel, Northamptoiif 82 Washington, George, tomb of, 163 Washington, D. C, visit to, 120, 121, 163 Weather, Norwegian, 409 Webster, Daniel, 31, 108 Webster, Dr J. W., 80 Welcome home, 32 Whig Convention, 108 Whig feelings, 4 Whippoorwill, 151, 219 Whitman, Miss, 68, 71, T^^ 74 Whitman, Walt, 302 Whitney, Miss Maria, letters to, 335-347 Whittier, J. G., 1127 Wilson, John, Christopher North, 276 Winds, orchestra of, 97 Winter, 193, 197; an infinite Alas! 386 Winter^ LowdPs, 259 Witch-hazel, 172 ; tinsel fringe, 283 Woodbridge, Miss, 25 Woods, the, 191 Work * a bleak redeemer,' 223 World 'to be burned up,' 112 Xerxes, 271 Zeroes, 238, 242 ; taught us phos- phorus, 200 Zinnia, 179 Zones ' a caprice,' 221 I THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN DATE DUE ^- 1 Replaced with Commercial Reprint DO NOT REMOVE OR MUTILAl