LIFE AT NORTON.
1853-1859.
In the autumn of 1853, Miss Larcom, having returned to Beverly, lived
for a year with her sister, Mrs. Baker, in the pretty old-fashioned
house on Cabot Street. Securing a few rooms in an unoccupied house
not far away, she fitted them up as schoolroom and studio. Here she
taught a little school with ten scholars. Most of these young girls
were as far advanced as the second class at Monticello, and having
already been instructed in the fundamental studies, they were not so
difficult to teach as her untrained pupils in the West. The impression
she made upon each of these young lives was strong, for, as a little
family, she not only taught them the lessons, but gave them generously
from her enthusiasm and faith. She imparted to them her love for all
things true and beautiful. When the school year closed, she asked each
girl to choose her favorite flower, upon which she wrote a few lines
of verse,--on the hyacinth, signifying jealousy,--on the lily of the
valley, meaning innocence.
“The fragrance Sarah would inhale
Is the lily of the vale:
‘Humility,’ it whispers low;
Ah! let that gentle breathing flow
Deep within, and then will you
Be a lily of the valley too.”
One of these pupils wrote to her years after: “Among the teachers of my
girlhood, you are the one who stands out as my model of womanhood.”
While teaching, she still considered herself a scholar. Nor did she
ever in after life overcome this feeling, for she was always eager to
learn. When she was imparting her best instruction, and writing her
most noteworthy books, she studied with great fidelity. At this time
she took lessons in French and drawing; her love for color and form was
always great. Often she had attempted in crude ways to preserve the
spirit of a landscape, and so reproduce the color of the green ferns
and variegated flowers; but now she set about the task in earnest.
She had no special talent for painting, so she did nothing worthy
of special notice, but some water-color sketches of autumn leaves,
the golden-rod’s “rooted sunshine,” woodland violets, and the coral
of the barberry, and apple-blossoms, “flakes of fragrance drifting
everywhere,” are very pretty. This study of painting, however, trained
her observation, and prepared her to appreciate works of art by giving
her some knowledge of the use of the palette. This early attempt at
artist’s work strengthened her love for pictures; and it was a special
treat to her to visit the different galleries in Boston, where she was
sure to be one of the first to see a celebrated painting.
It was a pleasure to her to be once more with her family, for the
members of which she had the deepest affection. Writing to Miss Fobes,
she expressed herself thus: “I am glad I came home, for I never
realized before what a treasure my family circle was, nor how much I
loved them. Then why do I not wish to stay? Simply because it does not
seem to me that I can here develop the utmost that is in me. Ought I to
be contented while that feeling remains?”
The feeling that she must develop “the utmost that is in me,” impelled
her through life, as a duty that she must regard. She was not without
opportunities for cultivation in Beverly. There were the two weekly
Lyceum lectures, with good speakers--Miss Lucy Stone had advocated
woman’s rights so ably that “even in this conservative town many
became converts.” However, she longed for a larger work, and was
ready to accept the call to be a teacher in Wheaton Seminary, Norton,
Massachusetts.
In the early winter of 1854, she began her work at Wheaton Seminary,
the large school for girls, founded through the generosity of Judge
Wheaton, in memory of his daughter. The subjects given her to teach
were history, moral philosophy, literature, and rhetoric, including the
duty of overlooking the greater part of the compositions.
Her spirit on entering upon this new work, is indicated by this
letter:--
TO MISS P. FOBES.
WHEATON SEMINARY, NORTON, MASS.,
January 10, 1855.
DEAR MISS FOBES:--When I look back upon my life I think I see it
divided into epochs similar to geological ages, when, by slow or sudden
upheavings, I have found myself the wondering possessor of a new life
in a new world. My years at Monticello formed such an epoch, and it is
no flattery to say that to you I owe much of the richness and beauty
of the landscape over which I now exult. For your teaching gave me
intellectually a broader scope and firmer footing than I ever had
ventured upon.
I know that I have done almost nothing as yet to show that I have
received so much good. Life here seems to me not much more than “a
getting ready to do.” But in the consciousness of what it is to be
a human being, created in the image of the divine,--in the gradual
developing of new inner powers like unfolding wings,--in the joy
of entering into the secrets of beauty in God’s universe,--in the
hopefulness of constant struggling and aspiring, I am rich.
I have been in this place only a few weeks and suppose the length of
my stay will depend upon the satisfaction I give and receive. It is a
pleasant school.
Yours truly, LUCY LARCOM.
The length of her stay in Norton extended over eight important years
of her life, from 1854 to 1862. These years were full of intellectual
and religious struggles, of hard student life, of sweet companionships,
of the beginnings of literary success, and of deep friendships.
Earnestness and sincerity here became her characteristic traits; while
her gentleness and patience, though sorely tried at times by the
misconduct or failure of her scholars, became habitual with her.
One cannot think of the quiet life she led under the Norton elms,
without picturing the tall graceful woman with her sweet face, low
broad forehead, and soft blue eyes, moving about among the girls as
a continual inspiration, always leading them by her presence and
words into some region of sentiment, or beauty, or religion. In the
schoolroom, ever dignified, she spoke in a low voice with the emphasis
of real interest. In her own room, with its green carpet and white
curtains, where she liked to retire for thought and work, surrounded by
her books, a few pictures, and shells and pressed sea-weed, she would
prepare her lectures, and write her letters to her friends. There were
sure to be flowers on her table, sent either by some loving scholar, or
plucked by her own hand,--“I have some pretty things in my room; and
flowers, so alive! As I look into their deep cups, I am filled with
the harmonies of color and form. How warm a bright rose-pink carnation
makes the room on a wintry day!” A scholar tells how, venturing into
this retreat, she saw Miss Larcom quietly sitting in a rocking-chair,
knitting stockings for the soldiers, during the War.
She was a conscientious student in preparing her lessons; she read
the best books she could find in the school library, or could borrow
from her friends. The notes of her lectures show great labor by their
exhaustiveness. As a teacher, some of her power was derived from the
clearness with which she presented the theme, and her picturesque style
of expression. She invested the most lifeless topics with interest by
the use of original and appropriate illustrations,--as will be seen in
the following passage from a lecture on Anglo-Saxon poetry, in which
she describes the minstrels:--
“The minstrels would sing, and the people would listen; and if
the monks had listened too, they would sometimes have heard the
irregularities of their lives chanted for the derision of the populace.
For the bards assumed perfect independence in their choice of themes;
liberty of the lyre seems to have been what liberty of the press is in
these days. We can imagine the excitement in some quaint village, when
the harp of one of these strollers was heard; how men and women would
leave their work, and listen to these ballads. Those who have seen the
magnetic effect of a hand-organ on village children, may have some
idea of it; if the organ-grinder were also a famous story-teller, the
effect would be greater. And this is something like what these ballad
singers were to our elder brethren of Angle-land, in the childhood of
civilization.”
What excellent advice this is to girls, on the subject of their
compositions,--“Get rid, if you can, of that formal idea of a
composition to write, that stalks like a ghost through your holiday
hours. Interest yourself in something, and just say your simple say
about it. One mistake with beginners in writing is, that they think it
important to spin out something long. It is a great deal better not to
write more than a page or two, unless you have something to say, and
can write it correctly.”
The recitations in her class-room were of an unconventional character.
Dealing with topics in the largest and most interesting way, she
often used up the time in discussion, so that the girls who did not
know their lessons sometimes took advantage of this peculiarity by
asking questions, for the sole purpose of needlessly prolonging her
explanation. It was often a joke among the scholars that she did not
know where the lesson was; but so soon as she found the place, she
made clear the portion assigned, and brought all her knowledge to
bear so fully on the subject, that the scholars caught glimpses of
unexplored fields of thought, which were made to contribute something
to illustrate the theme in hand.
She did more for the girls than by simply teaching them in the
class-room. She enlarged their intellectual life by founding a paper,
called “The Rushlight,” by which they not only gained confidence,
but centralized the literary ability of the school. She explained
the origin of the paper thus: “I said to myself, as I glanced over
the bright things from the pile of compositions that rose before me
semi-weekly, ‘Why cannot we have a paper?’ I said it to the girls,
and to the teachers also, and everybody was pleased with the idea.”
She also founded the Psyche Literary Society, to stimulate the girls’
studies in literature and art.
Another element in her power as a teacher was her personal interest
in the girls. It was not solely an intellectual or literary interest,
but she thought of their characters and religious training. To one of
the girls she wrote, “I never felt it an interruption for you to come
into my room; how we used to talk about everything!” When they were in
trouble, they came naturally to her with their confidences. She was
sometimes called “Mother Larcom,” and she earned the title, for she
acted like a mother to the homesick girl, and quieted by her gentle
persuasiveness the tears of repentance, or bitter weeping of sorrow, of
some of the more unfortunate of her pupils. Writing about one of the
girls whose religious development she had watched, she said, “She is
unfolding from the heart to God most openly, now. I am sure there is a
deep life opening in her. I have rejoiced over her.”
She discovered, through their moods--as in the case of one who was
crying a great deal--or by the frequency of a permitted correspondence,
their real or fancied love-affairs. After winning their confidence
she could wisely advise them. Thus in one instance she wrote: “If such
intimacy is true friendship, it will be a benefit to both; yet it
is not without danger. I have seen the severest sufferings from the
struggle between duty and feeling in such relations. I have seen life
embittered by reason of the liberty allowed to a cousinly love, left
unwatched. It is hard to keep the affections right in quantity and
quality. But I need not say that a true love needs no limits; it is
only falsehood that embitters every sweet and pure cup.”
When the girls left school, they carried her love with them; and by
correspondence and visits to their homes, where she was always a
welcome guest, she followed them through the deepest experiences of
their lives. One of her scholars said, “If I were to sum up the strong
impression she made upon me, I should say it all in ‘I loved her.’”
Another wrote, “Miss Larcom was to me a peerless star, unattainable
in the excellence and purity of her character. She stood as the ideal
woman, whom I wished to be like.”
When death invaded a home, she knew how to write:--
NORTON, October 7, 1855.
... Why is it we dread the brief parting of death so much? Do we really
doubt meeting them again? Will they have lost themselves in the great
crowd of immortals, so that when our time comes to follow them we
cannot find them? I am just reading for the first time, “In Memoriam,”
and it fills my mind with these questions. I think I should be homesick
in a mansion filled with angels, if my own precious friends whom I
loved were not within call....
The following letter shows her intimacy with the girls:--
TO MISS SUSAN HAYES WARD.
NORTON, April 2, 1855.
MY DEAR SUSIE,--I find it almost impossible to feel at home in a
boarding-school; and then I know I never was made for a teacher,--a
schoolmistress I mean. Still, among so many, one feels an inspiration
in trying to do what is to be done, though the feeling that others
would do it better is a drawback. And then, at such a place, I always
find somebody to remember forever. For that I am thankful for my
winter’s experience. There are buds opening in the great human garden,
which are not to be found at our own hearthstone: and it is a blessed
task to watch them unfolding, and shield them from blight. And yet what
can one mortal do for another? There is no such thing as helping, or
blessing, except by becoming a medium for the divine light, and that is
blessedness in itself.
It seems to me that to be a Christian is just to look up to God, and be
blessed by his love, and then move through the world quietly, radiating
as we go....
The development of her own religious life was marked by many radical
changes. She was no longer satisfied by the theology in which she had
been reared. She sought new foundations for her belief. Her classes in
philosophy led her into the world of controversy. Plato was constantly
by her side, and she refreshed herself by reading Coleridge’s “Aids to
Reflection,” from which she gained more nutriment than from any other
religious book, except the Bible. Swedenborg taught her that “to grow
old in heaven is to grow young.” Sears’s “Foregleams and Foreshadows”
made her feel the joy of living, as presented in the chapter on “Home.”
She also read “Tauler’s Sermons,” and Hare’s “Mission of the Comforter.”
Interwoven with her religious thought were the life and influence of
one of the dearest friends she ever knew, Miss Esther S. Humiston
of Waterbury, Connecticut, a woman of rare powers, and wonderful
sweetness of character. The two women were not unlike. They had the
same spiritual longings, similar views of life, and equal intellectual
attainments. Miss Larcom looked up to Esther for guidance, and such was
the perfect accord between them, that she wrote to her fully about her
deepest thoughts, and most sacred experiences.
In the spring of 1858, she wrote thus to Esther:--“You do not realize
how very unorthodox I am. I do not think a bond of church-membership
ought to be based upon intellectual belief at all, but that it should
simply be a union in the divine love and life. Now I do not formally
belong to any particular church,--that is, I have a letter from a
little Congregational church on the prairies, which I have never used,
and I know not how, honestly I can. For should I not be required
virtually to say I believe certain things? I believe the Bible, but not
just as any church I know explains it, and so I think I must keep aloof
until I can find some band, united simply as Christian, without any
‘ism’ attached. We all do belong to Christ’s Church who love Him, so I
do not feel lost or a wanderer, even though I cannot externally satisfy
others.”
TO ESTHER S. HUMISTON.
BEVERLY, MASS., August 2d, 1858.
... I regard Christianity as having to do with the heart and life, and
not with the opinions; and my own opinions are not definite on many
points. The disputed doctrines of total depravity, predestination,
etc., with some of those distinctly called “evangelical,” such as
the atonement, and the duration of suffering after death, I find
more and more difficulty in thinking about; so that I cannot yet say
what “views” I “hold.” There,--will you be my “sister confessor”?
As I see things now, the “atonement” is to me, literally, the
“at-one-ment,”--our fallen natures lifted from the earthly by redeeming
love, and brought into harmony with God; Jesus, the Mediator, is doing
it now, in every heart that receives Him, and I think our faith should
look up to Him as He is, the living Redeemer, and not merely back to
the dead Christ,--for “He is not dead.” Then, as to the future state
of those who die unrepentant: after probing my heart, I find that it
utterly refuses to believe that there is any corner in God’s universe
where “hope never comes.” There must be suffering, anguish, for those
who choose sin, so long as they choose it; but can a soul, made in
the image of God, who is Light, choose darkness forever? There is but
one God, whose is the “kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and
ever;” is there any depth of darkness, which this sovereign radiance
shall not at last pierce? I know the Bible testimony, and it seems
to me that the inmost meaning, even of those fearfully denunciatory
passages, would confirm this truth. Now, you can imagine how these
sentiments would be received by an Orthodox Church....
TO THE SAME.
NORTON, September 2, 1860.
... I enjoyed being with my friends. I told you that they were
Universalists, but theirs is a better-toned piety than that of some
Orthodox friends. Still, there was a want in it, a something that left
me longing; it was as if they were looking at the sunlit side of a
mountain, and never thought of the shadows which must be beyond. The
mystery of life is in its shadows, and its beauty, in great part, too.
There isn’t shadow enough in Universalism to make a comprehensible
belief for me. And yet I believe there is no corner of God’s universe
where His love is not brooding, and seeking to penetrate the darkest
abyss....
The question about her marriage was definitely settled while she was
at Norton. She decided, in the first place, on general grounds, that
it would be best for her not to marry. There were various reasons for
this. She had many premonitions of the breaking down of her health,
which finally came in 1862, when she had to give up teaching; and
owing to some exaggeration of her symptoms--for at times she felt that
her mind might give way--she thought it unwise for her to take up the
responsibilities of matrimony. In addition to this, she grew fond of
her independence, and as her ability asserted itself, she seemed to
see before her a career as an authoress, which she felt it her duty to
pursue. Special reasons, of course, one cannot go into fully, though
there are some features of them that may be mentioned; to Esther she
stated an abundantly sufficient one,--“I am almost sure there are
chambers in my heart that he could not unlock.” She also differed
radically from her lover on the subject of slavery. Her feelings as
an abolitionist were so strong that she knew where there was such a
division of sentiments a household could not be at peace within itself.
This difference of opinion concerning all the questions that culminated
in the Civil War resulted in a final refusal, which afterwards found
public expression in her noted poem, “A Loyal Woman’s No,” an energetic
refusal of a loyal woman to a lover who upheld slavery:--
“Not yours,--because you are not man enough
To grasp your country’s measure of a man,
If such as you, when Freedom’s ways are rough,
Cannot walk in them,--learn that women can!”
The poem was not written entirely out of her own experience. In making
a confession about it to a friend, she says, “I have had a thousand
tremblings about its going into print, because I feel that some others
might feel hurt by the part that is not from my own experience. If
it is better for the cause, let me and those old associations be
sacrificed.” The publication of the poem was justified by the way it
was received everywhere. It was quoted in the newspapers all over the
North. An answer was printed in “The Courier,” called “A Young Man’s
Reply.” This interested Miss Larcom, and she referred to it as “quite
satisfactory, inasmuch as it shows that somebody whom the coat fitted
put it on! If it does make unmanly and disloyal men wince, I am glad I
wrote it.”
TO ESTHER S. HUMISTON.
NORTON, June 1, 1858.
... I shall probably never marry. I can see reasons why it would be
unwise for me; and yet I will freely tell you that I believe I should
have been very happy, “if it might have been.” A true marriage (_the_
is the word I should have used) is the highest state of earthly
happiness,--the flowing of the deepest life of the soul into a kindred
soul, two spirits made one,--to be a double light and blessing to other
souls has, I doubt not, been sometimes, though seldom, realized on
earth....
This touch of real romance in her life shows that she had a woman’s
true nature, and that she did not escape the gentle grasping of the
divine passion, though she shook herself free from it, deciding that it
was better for her to walk alone. Some lines of her poem, “Unwedded,”
suggest the reasons for her decision:--
“And here is a woman who understood
Herself, her work, and God’s will with her,
To gather and scatter His sheaves of good,
And was meekly thankful, though men demur.
“Would she have walked more nobly, think,
With a man beside her, to point the way,
Hand joining hand in the marriage link?
Possibly, Yes: it is likelier, Nay.”
TO MISS ESTHER S. HUMISTON.
NORTON, January 15, 1859.
... The books came through the post-office, with the note separate;
they were brought to me while I was having a class recite logic in my
room,--the dryest and most distasteful of all subjects to me, but it is
a select class, and that makes up for the study. The young ladies who
compose it are on quite familiar terms with me, and when the messenger
said, “Three books and two letters for Miss Larcom,” their curiosity
was greatly excited, and there was so much sly peeping at corners and
picking at strings that they were not, on the whole, very _logical_.
They asked to hold them for me till I was ready to open them, and I
believe in letting “young ladies” act like children while they can....
I was thinking how much I should enjoy a quiet forenoon writing to you,
when the words, “Study hour out”--accompanied the clang of the bell,
and a Babel of voices broke into the hall outside my door.
I am trying not to hear--to get back into the quiet places of thought
where your letters, open before me, were leading me, but I cannot;
there is a jar, a discord,--and I suppose it is selfish in me not to
be willing to be thus disturbed. How I long for a quiet place to live
in! I never found a place still enough yet. But all kinds of natural
sounds, as winds, waters, and even the crying of a baby, if not _too_
loud and protracted, are not noises to me. Is it right to feel the
sound of human voices a great annoyance? One who loved everybody would
always enjoy the “music of speech,” I suppose, and would find music
where I hear only discord.
TO THE SAME.
Sabbath evening.
... I read in school yesterday morning, something from the “Sympathy
of Christ.” We have had some very naughty girls here, and have had to
think of expulsion; but one of them ran away, and so saved us the
trouble. How hard it is to judge the erring rightly--Christianly. I am
always inclined to be too severe, for the sake of the rest; one corrupt
heart that loves to roll its corruption about does so much evil. I do
not think that a school like this is the place for evil natures--the
family is the place, it seems to me, or even something more solitary.
And yet there have been such reforms here, that sometimes I am in
doubt. When there is a Christian, sympathizing heart to take the erring
home, and care for her as a mother would, that is well. But we are all
so busy here, with the _everythings_. I am convinced that I have too
much head-employment altogether; I get hardly breathing time for heart
and home life....
In 1854, Miss Larcom published her first book,--“Similitudes from the
Ocean and the Prairie.” It was a little volume of not more than one
hundred pages, containing brief prose parables drawn from nature,
with the purpose of illustrating some moral truth. The titles of the
Similitudes suggest their meaning: “The Song before the Storm;” “The
Veiled Star;” “The Wasted Flower;” and “The Lost Gem.” Though the
conception was somewhat crude, yet her desire to find in all things
a message of a higher life and a greater beauty, showed the serious
beginnings of the poet’s insight, which in after years was to reveal
to her so many hidden truths. She characterized the book as “a very
immature affair, often entirely childish.”
Her first distinct literary success was the writing of the Kansas Prize
Song, in 1855. When Kansas was being settled, the New England Emigrant
Aid Company offered a prize of fifty dollars for the best song, written
with the object of inspiring in the emigrants the sentiments of
freedom. The power of a popular melody was to be used in maintaining
a free soil. She gained this prize; and her stirring words were sung
all through the West. They were printed, with the appropriate music of
Mr. E. Norman, on cotton handkerchiefs, which were given away by the
thousand.
“Yeomen strong, hither throng,
Nature’s honest men;
We will make the wilderness
Bud and bloom again;
Bring the sickle, speed the plough,
Turn the ready soil;
Freedom is the noblest pay
For a true man’s toil.
“Ho, brothers! come, brothers!
Hasten all with me;
We’ll sing upon the Kansas plains
A song of liberty.”
Her next little book, “Lottie’s Thought-book,” was published by the
American Sunday School Union, Philadelphia, in 1858. Not unlike the
Similitudes in its method of teaching by parables, it gave the thoughts
of a clever child, as they would be suggested by such scenes as a
beautiful spring morning in the country, “when glad thoughts praise
God;” the first snow, typifying the purity of the earth; or the
thought of the joy of living, in the chapter “Glad to be alive” that
recalls an exclamation she uses in one of her letters, “Oh! how happy I
am, that I did not die in childhood!” These little books are like the
inner biography of her youth, a pure crystal stream of love, reflecting
the sunlight in every ripple and eddy.
She also wrote for various magazines, notably “The Crayon,” in which
appeared some criticisms of poetry, especially Miss Muloch’s, and some
of her poems, like “Chriemhild,” a legend of Norse romance. The only
payment she received was the subscription to the magazine. Her famous
poem, “Hannah Binding Shoes,” was first printed in the “Knickerbocker,”
without her knowledge,--then a few months later, in “The Crayon.” This
fact gave rise to the accusation of plagiarism which, though it greatly
annoyed her, brought her poem into general notice. Having sent the
poem to the “Knickerbocker,” but not receiving any answer about its
acceptance, she concluded that it had been rejected. She then sent it
to “The Crayon,” where it appeared, but in the mean time it had been
printed in the “Knickerbocker.” The editor of the last-named paper
wrote a letter to the “New York Tribune,” in which he accused Lucy
Larcom of being “a literary thiefess,” and claimed the “stolen goods.”
In answer to this, Miss Larcom wrote immediately a reply to the
“Tribune.”
NORTON. MASS., February 13, 1858.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE:
SIR,--Will you please say to “Old Nick” that he does not tell the
truth. His statements regarding me, in your paper, February 10, are
not correct. Lucy Larcom is not a “literary thiefess;” “Hannah Binding
Shoes” was not written “five or six years,” but about four years since.
I have only to blush that I wrote it, and that I sent it to the editor
of the “Knickerbocker.”
The latter was done at a time when it seemed desirable for me to
attempt writing for pecuniary profit,--a very ridiculous idea, of
course,--and I enclosed the poem in a letter, intimating such a desire
to that gentleman, and supposing that courtesy would suggest that the
letter should be answered, or the poem returned. As neither of these
things was done, I innocently considered it my own property, and sent
it to “The Crayon,” as an original composition.
I hereby reclaim from “Old Nick,” my “stolen goods,” which he has
inadvertently advertised.
Yours truly, LUCY LARCOM.
She wrote rather a severe letter to the “most honorable Old Nick”
himself, in which she says, “In my ignorance, I supposed that editors
were as polite as other people, in such matters as answering letters,
and acknowledging even small favors. I am sure I never would have
sent you a poem, if I had supposed you would one day have accused me
of stealing it, and I hereby promise with sincere penitence, never
to do so again. I suppose I can hardly look for the courtesy of an
explanation as public as your accusation has been.”
She also wrote an explanation to Mr. John Durand, the editor of “The
Crayon.”
TO JOHN DURAND.
NORTON, February 12, 1858.
DEAR MR. DURAND,--“Hannah Binding Shoes” I may truly say is “a poor
thing, sir, but mine own.” I should hardly have supposed that the
identity of so humble an individual would be thought worth calling in
question. The poem was written four years since, and was sent to the
editor of the “Knickerbocker” in my own name, but as I received no
acknowledgment from him, and have never seen a copy of the paper since,
I supposed it either failed to reach him, or was not accepted. Was I
not justifiable in sending it to you? I had no idea that it had been
published before.
Yours truly, LUCY LARCOM.
“Hannah Binding Shoes” was set to music, and became very popular. Rev.
Samuel Longfellow wrote her, “I wish you could have heard, as I did the
other evening, ‘Hannah’ sung by Adelaide Phillips.” Together with its
sequel, “Skipper Ben,” it recalled an incident very common in a New
England sea-town, where ships were lost and lovers never returned,
where every home had in it hearts that beat for those out at sea, and
where women stood on the shore and strained their eyes looking for a
sail. In these verses, as in all her poetry of the sea, she has caught
the dirge in the wind, and the lonesome sound of beating waves when the
skipper “faced his fate in a furious night.”
In 1859 Miss Larcom tried, at the suggestion of many friends, to find
a publisher for a volume of verses, but she was unsuccessful. A letter
from Mr. Whittier accompanying the manuscript did not win Ticknor and
Fields to her side. She took a very sensible view of her discomfiture.
TO JOHN DURAND.
NORTON, October 29, 1860.
... I should have regarded the thought of publishing as premature; but
most of my friends are not artistic, and do not look upon my unripe
fruits as I do. What I have written is at least genuine, sincere. I
believe it is in me to do better things than I have done, and I shall
work on in the faith of leaving something that will find its true place
in the right time, because of the life there is in it. To live out, to
express in some way the best there is in us, seems to me to be about
all of life....
After Miss Larcom’s return from the West, the friendship with the
Whittiers ripened and became a factor in her life. The gentle sweetness
of the poet’s sister Elizabeth soon won its way to her heart, and
the strength of the man greatly impressed her. They grew very fond of
her, and took an interest in her literary work. The attachment that
Elizabeth formed for her was based on a most genuine love. In one of
her letters she wrote, “Dear, dear Lucy,--Let me thank thee for all
thy love. I can never tell thee how sweet it has been to me. I could
have cried to think of thy loving care for me.” Again:--“I wish I
could see thee oftener. I need thee. I feel a little more rest with
thee than with most. Thou hast done me good since I first knew thee.”
The two lives mingled and blended in the contact of companionship,
for refinement of feeling, delicacy of thought, and strength of
moral purpose, were characteristic of both. Mr. Whittier found her
companionable, and admired her sincerity and poetical ability, which he
recognized very early. It was one of Miss Larcom’s greatest pleasures,
while at Norton, to run off and spend a few days at Amesbury in the
household that she loved. What Mr. Whittier said, she knew to be
true,--“Thee will always find the latchstring out;” and when away, she
knew she was remembered, for Elizabeth sent her word that “Greenleaf
has just filled thy blue and gold vase with the yellowest of flowers.”
Here is a letter to her, from Mr. Whittier, as early as 1853.
September 3, 1853.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I thank thee for thy note. The personal allusion
would be flattering enough, did I not know that it originated in a
sad misconception and overestimate of one who knows himself to be “no
better than he should be.” It is a way we have. We are continually
investing somebody or other with whatever is best in ourselves. It does
not follow that the objects themselves are worth much. The vines of our
fancy often drape the ugliest stumps in the whole forest.
I am anxious to see thy little book in print.[5] Whatever may be its
fate with the public at large, I feel quite sure it will give thee a
place in the best minds and hearts. The best kind of fame, after all.
Thy friend, J. G. WHITTIER.
At Mr. Whittier’s suggestion, she used to submit her work to him for
criticism; and he always indicated what he considered faulty, in rhyme
or metre. This practical training in the art of verse-making was
valuable to her. She continued it for many years until she felt that
she ought to be more self-reliant. Then she printed without consulting
him, and, at first, he reproved her for it. “But,” she said, “you have
taught me all that I ought to ask: why should I remain a burden on you?
Why should I always write with you holding my hand? My conscience and
my pride rebel. I will be myself, faults and all.”
In 1855, he wrote, “I have said in my heart, I wonder if Lucy Larcom
will write to me, as she proposed? I should love to have her.” Their
correspondence continued until the time of his death.