WRITINGS AND LETTERS.
1868-1880.
Though Miss Larcom’s formal connection with school life ended when
she left Norton, she continued to deliver occasional, and sometimes
weekly, lectures at different schools, on topics illustrating English
literature. In 1867, and at intervals for years after, at the Ipswich
Academy, at Wheaton, at Dr. Gannett’s school, and at Bradford Academy,
the students never forgot her addresses on “Criticism,” “Elizabethan
Poetry,” “The Drama,” and “Sidney’s ‘Arcadia.’”
In spite of the fact that she received a fair salary from “Our Young
Folks,” and added to her resources by teaching and by printing poems
in the magazines, it was necessary for her to practice economy. With
the intention of being careful in her expenditures, she took rooms in
Boston, purchasing and cooking her own food. She alluded to the plan
thus: “In my housekeeping plan, I am going to carry out a pet notion.
People generally prefer indigestible food, I find; at least, I cannot
often get what I can digest. So I am going to teach myself to make
unleavened bread, and all sorts of coarse-grained eatables, and these,
with figs and dates, and baked apples, and a little meat now and then,
will keep me in clover.” Her friends, hearing of the way in which she
“caricatured housekeeping,” sent her boxes full of good things. It was
with the pleasure of a school girl receiving a Thanksgiving box, that
she acknowledged the receipt of eggs, cranberries, apples, and “such
exquisitely sweet butter.” She proved that with very little expense
one can be happy, if the spirit is cheerful. This incident is an
illustration of a lifetime of economical living.
The year 1868 was an important one to her, for in it her first volume
of verse was printed. Influenced by the wishes of her friends for a
keepsake, and feeling that, if she published, it would be a record of
work done, and from it, as a mile-stone, she would be encouraged to
do better verse-making in the future, she launched upon the literary
market her book, entitled simply “Poems.” It contained many of the
lyrics upon which her fame as a poet will always be based. “Hannah,”
and “Skipper Ben,” and “Hilary” have a place in it. “Hand in Hand with
Angels” keeps before one the thought of unseen spiritual presences. “A
Year in Heaven” reminds one of the life beyond, while “At the Beautiful
Gate” expresses the longing of the soul for greater truth:--
“Lord, open the door, for I falter,
I faint in this stifled air.”
The sweet quietude of “The Chamber called Peace” surrounds the reader,
for it merited Mr. Whittier’s remark that “it is really one of the
sweetest poems of Christian consolation I have read.” The rich, full
notes of “A Thanksgiving” are heard, as a human soul pours forth its
earnest gratitude:--
“For the world’s exhaustless beauty,
I thank thee, O my God!”
About this poem, Rev. J. W. Chadwick said to her, “Your ‘Thanksgiving’
has become ritual in my church. If the people did not hear it every
year, they would think the times were out of joint.”
Miss Ingelow wrote her that she liked best “A White Sunday,” with its
hopeful lines, expressing “the earnest expectation of the creature:”--
“The World we live in wholly is redeemed;
Not man alone, but all that man holds dear:
His orchards and his maize; forget-me-not
And heart’s-ease, in his garden; and the wild
Aerial blossoms of the untrained wood,
That makes its savagery so home-like; all
Have felt Christ’s sweet Love watering their roots
His Sacrifice has won both Earth and Heaven.”
The “Poems” were well received everywhere, and the reviewers were
generally most complimentary. It was seen at once that a real poet, of
true inspiration, had taken a permanent place in American literature.
The musical modulations of the verse, with its tender lyrical quality,
its local New England coloring, and its strong moral sentiment, soon
gained her the affections of the people.
The name “Lucy Larcom” was now well known; but, curiously enough, it
was not associated with her personality, for it was thought to be a
fictitious name, with “Apt alliteration’s artful aid.” A habit common
among certain authors of the day was to have such euphonious _noms de
plume_ as “Minnie Myrtle,” “Fanny Forrester,” “Grace Greenwood;” and it
was natural that “Lucy Larcom” should be classed with them. She often
had amusing encounters with strangers about her identity. On the cars
one day, a woman changed her seat for one in front of Miss Larcom, and,
turning round, put the question, “Are you really Lucy Larcom, the poet?
Some one said you were.”
“Yes, that is my name.”
“Then it is not a made-up name? Well, we never thought it was real when
we read your pieces; and we thought you were younger.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you.”
“Oh! You don’t disappoint me! I like the looks of you; only, people
will have their ideas about poets.”
A gentleman who had just been introduced to her was discussing the
subject of names. He asked the derivation of her name; she told him
that it was originally “Lark-Holme,” the home of the larks; then he
said, “Is there not some one who takes your name, and writes poetry,
calling herself ‘Lucy Larcom’? I never read any of the stuff.”
In 1872, she did her first work of collaboration with Mr. Whittier.
Conceiving the plan of printing a volume of poems dealing with the
life of children, he secured her aid, and “Child-Life” was the first
book which they produced in this way. He deferred to her judgment in
the selection of the material, and, when doubtful, he always accepted
her opinion. In sending her some poems for the collection, he wrote,
“I leave thee to thy judgment; I think they will do, but I defer to
thy wisdom.” Her name is thus associated with the happy hours of many
children, who were, and are, brought up on the wholesome verses of this
nursery book. “The Owl and the Pussycat,” “The Spider and the Fly,” and
“Philip, my King,” with appropriate pictures, first became known to
thousands of children, from this green-covered daily companion.
“Child-Life in Prose” came as a natural sequel to child-life in poetry;
and Hawthorne’s “Little Annie’s Ramble,” Lamb’s “Dream Children,” “The
Ugly Duckling” of Hans Andersen, and “The Story without End,” were made
familiar through the medium of its pages.
Doubtless influenced by these publications, Miss Larcom decided to
print, in a volume of her own, the children’s poems she had written,
especially those for “Our Young Folks;” so in 1873 her “Childhood
Songs” appeared.
AMESBURY, November 25, 1874.
DEAR FRIEND,--I have just been looking over the beautiful book of
“Childhood Songs,” and my judgment is, that it is the best book of
the kind I have ever seen. It has many poems, which, beside their
adaptation to children, have a merit as lyrics, which I do not know
where to look for in other collections of this sort. The heart is
generally right in such books, but here head and heart are both
satisfactory.
We did not get up so good a book as this in our “Child-Life.”
Thy friend,
J. G. WHITTIER.
TO MRS. MARY MAPES DODGE.
BEVERLY FARMS, December 3, 1874.
DEAR MRS. DODGE,--The publishers assure me that they sent you a copy of
“Childhood’s Songs,” as I requested. I hope you received it, at last. I
care to have you like it, as a lover of children, quite as much as to
have it spoken of in the magazine.
Your own little book must be nice; I hope to see it when I go to Boston.
Doubtless you are right about the verses. I always accept an editor’s
decision, without objecting, as I know the difficulties of the
position. I will write when I can. For a month or two, I shall be
specially busy, and possibly may not have time for “St. Nicholas,” for
which it is a pleasure to write.
Yours most truly, LUCY LARCOM.
TO THE SAME.
BEVERLY FARMS, December 30, 1874.
MY DEAR MRS. DODGE,--Your charming “Rhymes and Jingles” followed
your pleasant note, and I thank you for both. The book is just what
children most enjoy, as a real mother’s book will be sure to be; and
you have some sweet little poems which seem to hide themselves too
modestly among the merry rhymes.
I think I have the mother-feeling,--ideally, at least; a woman is not a
woman quite, who lacks it, be she married or single. The children--God
bless them!--belong to the mother-heart that beats in all true women.
They seem even dearer, sometimes, because I have none of my own to love
and be loved by, for there is a great emptiness that only child-love
can fill. So God made us, and I thank Him for it. The world’s
unmothered ones would be worse off if it were not so.
Thank you for writing of yourself, and your boys. I wish I knew you,
face to face. I am sure we should find ourselves in sympathy in many
ways.
I send a verse or two, for by and by, when the March winds blow.
When I get to a little clearing of leisure, I will write more for “St.
Nicholas.”
Truly your friend,
LUCY LARCOM.
TO MRS. J. T. FIELDS.
BEVERLY FARMS, December 5, 1875.
DEAR ANNIE,--I had a pleasant little visit at Mrs. Pitman’s after I
left you. We went to Professor Thayer’s, in Cambridge, that evening,
and heard Emerson’s noble paper on “Immortality,” which is soon to be
published. There is great satisfaction in hearing such words from such
a man’s own lips, for we know that Emerson has as little as mortal can
have of the haze of vanity between himself and the truth; and it is
this surely, oftener than anything else, that blinds men’s minds to the
open secret of eternal life.
Mr. Longfellow was there, and I had a pleasant talk with him. He spoke
of the book he is preparing and told me he wanted to put into it
“Hannah Binding Shoes.”
Mr. Garrison and Henry Vincent, the lecturer, were at Mrs. P.’s the
next day.
I have been in Newburyport since I left Somerville, at my friend Mrs.
Spalding’s. Mr. Whittier came there on his way from Boston, and I did
not see that he was the worse for the woman-avalanche that descended
upon him at your door....
In 1875, “An Idyl of Work,” dedicated to working women, was issued
by Osgood & Co. It is a long poem in blank verse, written chiefly in
pentameters, and describes most beautifully the life of the Lowell
factory girls, in “The Forties.” There is a song of delight in work,
running through it all. The incidents of prosaic labor are invested
with a charm; and the toiler’s lot is shown to have its bright side
in the community of womanly interests that develop strong traits of
character, and lead to lifelong attachments. It is an epic of labor,
giving a history of an episode in American manufacture, that proved
how mental and moral culture can be aided by hand-work, when the
laborer looks upon his occupation as his privilege.
In the following year, “Roadside Poems,” a well-edited compilation of
mountain poetry, added a new interest to the country and the mountains,
for the summer traveler. Shelley, Wordsworth, Longfellow, Browning, and
Lowell, were made to act as interpreters of the wonders of the lane,
and the beauty of the sunrise over mountain sanctuaries, and to explain
the meaning of the storm reverberating among the hills. It is a little
book filled with glimpses of the sky, the fragrance of flowers, the
earth-smell of ferns, and the coloring of autumn leaves.
TO J. G. WHITTIER.
83 WALTHAM STREET, BOSTON,
January 1, 1878.
... Of course you must have grown very tired of the poetry written
to you, and about you. I sent my verses to the “Transcript,” because
I thought you seemed too much pleased to think I had spared you the
infliction! Discipline can never come too late in life, I am confident!
Still, I didn’t say a word more than the truth, and I think I spoke
sincerely for many others. It is a great thing to have won a nation’s
affection,--much greater than the greatest amount of mere fame.
Judging from our own inside view, none of us deserve to be as well
thought of by our friends as we are; but the beauty of it is, that real
friendship knows us best after all, because it sees in us our best aim,
endeavor, and possibilities, and lets our failures and imperfections
pass by and be forgotten. Why not, when the judge is always so
imperfect, too?
The sum of which is, that we all think you a pretty good sort of man,
as men go.
Always thy friend,
LUCY LARCOM.
TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.
83 WALTHAM STREET, January 17, 1878.
I have been reading the Book of Romans through, trying to forget that I
had ever read it before, and I find that “justification by faith” seems
to me a very different doctrine from the one I was brought up on. I
don’t know that I should understand it as Luther did. But it seems to
me grander than I have dreamed of before. It is freedom to stand with
our faces to the light, whatever our past may have been; freedom to do
right from the love of it, and not as burdensome duty; and the love of
doing right as the proof of deliverance. Is not this the “grace wherein
ye stand,” which Paul preached as free grace in Christ?
I find very little in the Book of Romans which points to some _future_
salvation. It is the life redeemed from love of sin, which he seems
to be talking to the Romans about. I do wish religion were made more
practical in theology, after this Pauline fashion. I do not care for
any commentator’s judgment. I think that common sense and a sincere
desire for truth will be shown the right interpretation....
During part of the winter of 1878, Miss Larcom made her only foreign
trip--a visit to Europe never being possible, on account of the
expense--to Bermuda, which she thoroughly enjoyed. She wrote letters to
the Boston “Daily Advertiser,” describing the “Still vexed Bermoothes,”
with enthusiastic appreciation. The recollection of Miranda and
Prospero, with “hag-born” Caliban, interested her as much as the houses
with walls of coral, or the transparency of the beryl sea, through
which one could see the sponges, and large purple amenones, and fish
of brilliant hues. “A banana plantation is rather a shabby-looking
affair; the leaves are beaten to tatters by the island tempests; but
for a contrast there is the royal palm, to see which for the first time
is an era in one’s life, lifting its stately column above the cocoanut
and India rubber trees. And we are satisfied that roses smell no less
sweet for growing on the border of an onion patch. After all this
wonder of foreign growths it is pleasant to see a dandelion in flower,
and to find little mats of pimpernel on the hillside before our hotel.
These little home-blossoms deepen the home feeling, and we are no more
foreigners, even here.”
A poem full of semi-tropical scenery, written on this trip, appeared in
“Harper’s Magazine:”--
“Under the eaves of a southern sky,
Where the cloud-roof bends to the ocean floor,
Hid in lonely seas, the Bermoothes lie,
An emerald cluster that Neptune bore
Away from the covetous earth-god’s sight,
And placed in a setting of sapphire light.”
For “pot-boilers,” Miss Larcom undertook various inferior kinds of
literary work, such as compilations of poetical calendars, and short
biographical notices of famous people. One of her books of this class,
“Landscape in American Poetry,” with beautiful illustrations by Mr. J.
Appleton Brown, was published in 1879. There was some original writing
in it, but in the main, it was a collection from many sources, of poems
dealing with interesting places in America.
TO MRS. E. B. WHEATON.
627 TREMONT STREET, BOSTON,
January 21, 1879.
MY DEAR MRS. WHEATON,--I have been intending to write, ever since I was
at Norton, and tell you how much I enjoyed being there, and returning
to the spirit of my old days at the Seminary.
I was so ill the last years of my stay there, I hardly knew how much
of a home it was to me. To go back in restored health was a revelation
of the old joy in my work. I think there must be something of the same
feeling in looking back from the better world we hope for, when we
have passed from this. We shall never know how good and beautiful a
world we have lived in until we get away from it, and can get a glimpse
of it with all our weariness and cares laid aside.
I think a great deal of the beautiful atmosphere which pervades the
Norton life is due to the generous idea in which the school was
founded. It gives the place a home feeling rarely found in such schools.
Ever truly yours,
LUCY LARCOM.
TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.
BOSTON, December 6, 1879.
When I came home from the reception and breakfast given to Dr. Holmes
on Wednesday, I thought I would sit down and write you about it at
once.... The breakfast was a splendid success; you have probably read
about it, but there was a certain exhilaration in being in the presence
of so many bright people, and feeling perfectly at home, which was
indescribable. I never expected to enjoy anything of the kind at all,
but I was really taken off my feet, in a figurative sense. Dr. Holmes
filled the place of honor in a delightful manner. It was really like
sitting down at his own breakfast table. Mrs. Whitney and I went at
twelve as invited. I left at a little past six and they were not
through with their letters and speeches then. I was introduced to ever
so many people I never saw before.
... I don’t know but the pleasantest thing to me was the opportunity of
speaking to Rev. Phillips Brooks, or rather of hearing him speak face
to face. To look up into his honest, clear eyes, was like seeing the
steady lights in a watch-tower; and a tower of strength he is among us.
The outward largeness of the man is a type of his moral strength and
mental breadth and spiritual height, I am more than ever convinced. I
never spoke to a man who seemed so thoroughly grand to me.
Mr. Whittier came, but remained a very short time. I saw him only a
moment, just before we went in. My escort--they were all coupled off by
a printed plan--was Mr. William Winter, a New York poet and journalist.
He was very entertaining, and I think his poem was the best and most
effective of the occasion.
... I am fast getting to be a dissipated woman, but I must and will put
myself to work steadily for a week or two.
This was the first meeting between Miss Larcom and Mr. Brooks. She
had heard him preach at Trinity Church and was greatly helped by his
sermons, for which she had often thanked him by letter, and, in return,
had received some few characteristic lines, like the following:--
BOSTON, April 14, 1879.
MY DEAR MISS LARCOM,--The preaching of Christ as a personal friend
and Saviour of all our souls becomes to me more and more the one
interesting work of life, and the readiness of the people to hear that
one simple message, which, in its endlessly various forms, is always
the same, gives me ever new satisfaction and delight.
I have known you by your verses for years. I hope some day we may meet.
Yours very truly,
PHILLIPS BROOKS.
The friendship between them deepened, as the years went on. They had
many serious conversations on spiritual subjects, and he became to
her the great religious guide of her life. His personality, with its
earnest, and even fierce, love for the simplicity of truth, and the
power with which he presented it, made the deepest impression upon her
in her last decade, and brought to the fruition of spiritual loveliness
the remaining years of her career.
BOSTON, March 20, 1880.
MY DEAR MISS LARCOM,--You will allow me to thank you for your note and
to say how truly glad I am if anything I said on Wednesday evening
helped you in your thought of the Lord’s Supper. To me the Personalness
of the great Sacrament seems to be the key to all its meaning, and its
simplicity is its grandeur and its charm.
Ever yours sincerely,
PHILLIPS BROOKS.
TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.
627 TREMONT STREET,
February 12, 1880.
... You must be disheartened often, in having to listen to the vagaries
of the many who have ordained themselves prime ministers of divine
affairs. I really cannot feel it right to put myself in the way of
hearing such talk.
What can the end be, since there is common sense among the people, but
a disgust for preaching altogether?
But I believe in a movement towards a service in which worship shall
be the chief element; and I don’t think I am a step nearer Episcopacy,
either. I am trying to like that, because I have always been unjustly
prejudiced against it, but I am a born Independent at heart....
The years of Miss Larcom’s greatest poetical production were brought to
a close by the printing, in 1880, of “The Wild Roses of Cape Ann.” Her
works were bound together in a Household Edition, in 1884. After this,
she wrote continually for the magazines, and on anniversary occasions
of various kinds. Some of these verses were included, with a few new
ones, in the booklet “Easter Gleams,” and in the selection of religious
poems, called “At the Beautiful Gate,” but no noted additions were made
to her poems after this, though there are many of her lines of great
beauty, scattered through the pages of current ephemeral literature,
up to the time of her death.
TO S. T. PICKARD.
BETHEL, ME., September 30, 1880.
MY DEAR MR. PICKARD--I go to-morrow to Berlin Falls, New Hampshire, to
stay at the Cascade House until I have finished reading my proof.[7] I
wish to thank you for your interest in the book about to be. It will
have more character and more local color than the other; but I do not
write for critics, but for my friends, as the dedication will show, and
I do not care much whether critics like it or not, provided my friends
do.
I can conceive of no greater damper upon one’s poetic attempts than
the cold water of criticism. It is from heart to heart, from friend to
friend, that I write; and I find in that the highest inspiration to do
my best. Of course I am glad to enlarge the circle of my friends in
this way; and poetry has amply repaid me in the coin of friendship.
One gives out life in writing; and nothing but life in return--life
enlarged and filled--gives any true satisfaction. Of course I shall
send you a copy, not editorially, but personally.
The “Wild Roses” were fragrant, and delighted some of the critics,
even, for in addition to those that grew along Cape Ann, there were
many cultivated ones, that blossomed beside the still waters of
thought, and in the quiet retreats of meditation:--
“A Rose is sweet,
No matter where it grows: and roses grow
Nursed by the pure heavens, and the strengthening earth,
Wherever men will let them. Every waste
And solitary place is glad for them,
Since the old prophets sang, so, until now.”
“Phebe” has a prominent place in the book--the poem that drew from Mr.
Howells, when he was editor of the “Atlantic,” a most graceful note of
acceptance:--
MY DEAR MISS LARCOM,--You take rejections so sweetly, that I have
scarcely the heart to accept anything of yours. But I do like “Phebe,”
and I am going to keep her.
“Shared” excited admiration; and was pronounced by one competent critic
to be the best religious lyric of the decade:--
“The air we breathe, the sky, the breeze,
The light without us and within,
Life, with its unlocked treasuries,
God’s riches, are for all to win.”
The theological poem, “The Heart of God,” was the cause of controversy.
A stranger wrote, asking her to change it, for he thought it expressed
too clearly “the old doctrine of the Divinity of Christ.” She answered
politely, but with a strong statement of her faith, that what he
called “the old Doctrine” was the inspiration of the verses: “To me,
Christ is the Infinite Person, at once human and divine. God exists
as impersonal Spirit, but I know Him only as a person through Christ.
The historical Christ is entirely true to me, as the only way in which
God could humanly be known to us. It is no more impossible for me to
believe that the ‘Eternal Christ of God,’ the personal manifestation of
Deity, should veil Himself for a time with the human form, than that
we, in our humble personality, as sharers of the Divine Nature, should
wear it as we do.” The same truth she put strongly in “Our Christ,”
when she wrote:--
“In Christ I feel the Heart of God.”
Concerning this poem, the Rev. W. Garrett Horder, the English
hymnologist, writes that it has been accorded a place in “Hymns
Supplemental” for Congregational churches, and was sung for the first
time in England, February 14, 1894, in Colby Chapel, Bradford.
In making an analytical study of Miss Larcom’s poetry, the range of
her verse becomes apparent. She finds expression for her muse in
almost all forms of versification: the epic, as in “An Idyl of Work;”
the ballad, with its merry lines, relating some story of early New
England days, or some delightful old legend; the lyric in its numerous
forms,--pastoral songs that breathe of the fields and pretty farms,
lyrics of nature in her peaceful moods when the wayside flower dwells
securely, or in her grander moods when the mountains hide themselves
in storm-clouds, or the sea moans in the deepening tempest; lyrics of
grief, when, in solemn and plaintive strains, she chants the dirge of
Elizabeth Whittier, or tolls the passing bell of Lincoln, or sheds a
tear over the grave of Garfield; and sacred lyrics, in which she deals
with the deepest emotions of the human heart, expressing its longing
after immortality, and its adoration for God. The range of her verse
is further enlarged by the addition of the sonnet’s “narrow plot of
ground,” and the stately movement of the ode.
Her lines always have a musical flow born of intense emotion. They have
a smoothness and ripple, like the flow of the summer brook, or the even
modulations of the tides. At times, they possess a cadence not unlike
what Mr. Arnold, speaking of Spenser, calls “fluidity,”--an effect
produced by combinations of melodious sounds, as in these lines from
“On the Beach:”--
“And glimmering beach, and plover’s flight,
And that long surge that rolls
Through bands of green and purple light,
Are fairer to our human sight
Because of human souls.”
Again, in “Golden-Rod:”--
“The swinging harebell faintly tolled
Upon the still autumnal air,
The golden-rod bent down to hold
Her rows of funeral torches there.”
And in “My Mountain:”--
“I shut my eyes in the snow-fall,
And dream a dream of the hills;
The sweep of a host of mountains,
The flash of a hundred rills.”
Together with the music, there is strength in her verses, when she
attempts to deal with subjects that call for vigorous treatment. In the
“Rose Enthroned,” there is a strong grasping at the origin of things,
and powerful descriptions of the primeval birth-throes that, from the
war of elements, issued forth in the fairness of creation.
“Built by the warring elements they rise,
The massive earth-foundations, tier on tier,
Where slimy monsters with unhuman eyes
Their hideous heads uprear.”
In her mountain descriptions there is the same power. The wind-beaten
and thunder-scarred summit of Whiteface presents itself to her as the
visage of a monarch, who seems to rule the race of giant hills. The
effect of a mountain whose slopes plunge into the sea is graphically
given in the phrase, “Plunged knee-deep in yon glistening sea.” Her
appreciation for beautiful details of nature, that seemed to escape
the common observer, is seen in her similes and epithets; the little
streams winding through the marshes are called “sea-fed creeks;” the
mists that rise in the evening, reflecting the light of the descending
sun, are “violet mists;” the quiet of the fields of clover, when one
is out of sound of the waves, are fitly called “sweet inland silences;”
the heart of the woods, where are the shadows, has its “forest crypts;”
and there are “mosaics of tinted moss.”
Dr. Holmes very well describes her when he says: “She was as true a
product of our Essex County soil as the bayberry; and her nature had
the chaste and sweet fragrance of its fair and wholesome leaves. She
was a true poetess, and a noble woman.” Her writings have the genuine
flavor of the soil, like the perfume of the woods, or the salt spray
that bathes one’s face along the seashore. Mr. Whittier thus analyzed
her powers as a poet: “She holds in rare combination the healthfulness
of simple truth and common sense, with the fine and delicate fancy, and
an artist’s perception of all beauty.” Mr. Stedman, in his “Poets of
America,” speaks of her as a sweet-voiced singer of “orchard notes.”
This is a good partial description of certain of her songs, but as
an estimate of her poetical ability it is very limited. She was not
disturbed by the criticism, but wrote thus to a friend.
TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.
4 HOTEL BYRON, BERKELEY STREET,
BOSTON, March 8, 1886.
... Don’t be troubled about “orchard-notes.” I consider it the highest
compliment.
Think of goldfinches and linnets, song-sparrows and orioles! I know and
love their separate songs, and should feel proud if I thought _my_
singing deserved comparison with theirs. Why, three fourths of the
cheer of the spring and summer-time is in those same orchard-notes!
I shall have to try hard to live up to my reputation. But if you do
think I get up a little higher into the air, a little farther off into
the wilderness sometimes, for a more meditative flight of song, just
remember that very high critics do not always comprehend the music in
the air about them. Does not Milton write of Shakespeare as “Fancy’s
child,” and of his poetry as “wood-notes wild”?
Such an estimate must be imperfect, because it leaves out of
consideration the moral power of her religious writings, which, more
than her nature-songs, have won for her a place in the regard of the
people. A gentleman thanking her for the gift of one of her books,
expressed for many readers a recognition of this deeper hold: “A soul
once fed and inspired as was mine, at a critical and sad juncture of
its life, by your poetry, is likely to open, as I did, the beautiful
book your kindness sent me, with strange delight.” One who could write
“A Thanksgiving,” with its noble lines,--
“For thine own great gift of Being,
I thank Thee, O my God,”
and the words,--
“Lord, enter this house of my being
And fill every room with Thy light,”--
should certainly be called a religious poet of a high order; and her
poems are filled with such passages as that which follows, presenting
religious thought simply and convincingly:--
“God hears
The prayer the good man means, the Soul’s desire,
Under whatever rubbish of vain speech;
And prayer is, must be, each man’s deepest words.
He who denies its power, still uses it,
Whenever he names God, or thinks of Him.”
Poetry, to her, was vastly more than word-shaping, or combinations of
accented and unaccented syllables; it was an attitude of mind and soul
towards all existence, a view-point of her being, from which she saw
such visions, and heard such sounds, that the impulse was irresistible
to record in recognized poetic form her ideas and feelings. She found
poetry in everything around her; it was the atmosphere she breathed,
the medium, like imponderable ether, through which she saw life. Nature
had a more profound meaning to her than the charm of color, or the
changing pleasures of the land or the sea. It was the visible evidence
of the unseen, the prophecy of a greater fulfillment, the proclamation
of the spiritual element within, which the senses of themselves could
not perceive. She once said, “Nature is one vast metaphor through which
spiritual truth may be read:”--
“The Universe is one great loving Thought,
Written in Hieroglyphs of bud and bloom.”
The delicate and spiritual nature of womanhood, too, with its heroism,
breathed through all she wrote. Everything she touched glowed with
the light of purity. Her aim was to uplift and sweeten life, by a
revelation of its true meaning. Her measures are choice; her passion
is genuine; her verses sincere; and the _morale_ of them is always
elevating.
Our literature is not rich in women poets of the highest genius, but
there are many who have sung true songs. Maria Lowell was permitted to
give us a few notes only of her chaste singing. The Cary sisters, Mrs.
Cook, Mrs. Greenough, and Helen Hunt Jackson, and many who now enliven
our magazines, have done genuine work; but one often looks in vain for
the power that distinguished Miss Larcom. Considering the range of
the versification, the music of the lines, the strength of phrase and
beauty of metaphor, and lofty moral intensity of her poetry, it is not
claiming too much to say that it exhibits a genius as versatile and as
rich in its utterance as that of any of her female contemporaries, and
considering the impression that she has made upon the people, at their
firesides and in their worship, she holds a place, equal to any, in
their hearts.
Her poems have been recognized in many collections in our land and in
England. Mr. Longfellow in his “Poems of Places” has remembered her.
She is honored in Emerson’s “Parnassus;” one of her hymns is included
in Dr. Martineau’s “Hymns of the Spirit;” she has been given a place,
by Mr. Garrett Horder, in “A Treasury of Sacred Song from American
Sources;” by Mr. Higginson, in “American Sonnets;” by Mr. Richard Grant
White, in “The Poetry of the Rebellion;” and by Mr. W. M. Rossetti, in
his “English Selections from Popular Poets.”
The following letter to Dr. John Hunter of Glasgow shows that she
enjoyed this recognition of her work:--
BEVERLY, MASS., July 10, 1890.
DEAR SIR,--A friend gave me your “Hymns of Faith and Life,” in the
winter, telling me she had found one or two of mine in it. On looking
it over, I find five, not all of which are credited to me, though
all are included in the Household Edition of my poems, published
by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. I thought you would like to know the
authorship, and therefore write.
Of course I am gratified to know that my hymns were taken on their own
merit apparently, and I am glad if anything I have written is a natural
expression of sincere worship for other hearts and voices than my own.
Truly yours,
LUCY LARCOM.
The two following letters illustrate how Dr. Holmes and Mr. Longfellow
appreciated Miss Larcom’s work.
296 BEACON STREET, November 17, 1880.
MY DEAR MISS LARCOM,--I have been reading your poems at all the
spare moments I could find this evening. Many of them I read
carefully--every page I tasted. My wife and daughter were sitting
opposite to me, and I had to shade my eyes with my hand that they
should not see the tears shining in them--this over and over again.
The poems are eminently wholesome, sweet, natural. Their perfume is as
characteristic of the soil they spring from as that of the sweet fern
or the bayberry.
It is pleasant to me to find my name in such good company as it is in
your pages, and if anything I have written has ever given you pleasure
this volume has amply repaid me.
Very sincerely yours,
O. W. HOLMES.
P.S. (Worth all the rest). I got a letter from Mr. Whittier which reads
as follows:--
“Has thee seen Miss Larcom’s ‘Cape Ann’? I like it, and in reading it I
thought thee would also. Get it and see if she has not a right to stand
with the rest of us. Wishing thee a pleasant Thanksgiving after the
manner of the enclosed card, I am faithfully thy friend,
J. G. WHITTIER.”
CAMBRIDGE, December 24, 1880.
DEAR MISS LARCOM,--I thank you very much for your beautiful volume
of beautiful poems. I have been reading it this morning with great
enjoyment.
I always liked your poetry, and now like it more than ever. It is not
merely verse, but possesses the true poetic instinct and insight.
One little song among the many particularly charms me. It is “At her
Bedside.” It ought to be set to music. Thanks, and all good wishes.
Sincerely yours,
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.