UNDERCURRENTS.
1884-1889.
TO MISS S. H. WARD.
January 1, 1884.
DEAR SUSIE WARD,--Something has just brought you to mind; I saw your
address in print in an almanac, and I felt like sending a New Year’s
greeting to the schoolgirl I knew--_was_ it thirty years ago?
I am very fond of those dear girls of mine, though I seldom see them,
and would like to send a New Year’s greeting to them all.
Ever your friend,
LUCY LARCOM.
TO THE SAME.
BEVERLY, MASS., January 15, 1884.
MY DEAR SUSIE,--It is so pleasant to take up the threads of an old
friendship again! It always reassures me of the hereafter of souls,
that even here after long intervals, we find ourselves still at home
with those who had slipped away from us apparently. They are really
still in their place, and we are sure of them and know where to find
them.
I have had many changes since we were much together, but life is the
same good gift of the Lord I always knew it to be, only more wonderful
as one gets deeper into it.
Always yours,
LUCY LARCOM.
TO J. G. WHITTIER.
WOLFVILLE, NOVA SCOTIA,
August 21, 1884.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I am moved to write to you from here, where I sit
looking out upon the Basin of Minas, and Grand Pré itself, the mud
of which latter I have been trying to remove from my dress, though I
suppose I ought to let it stay spattered with poetic associations!
Yesterday we were taken to drive through the Valley of the Gaspereau,
a lovely region, under perfect cultivation,--and so on, over the old
dikes of Grand Pré, where we stood upon the site of the old church, and
saw the cellar of what was supposed to be the priest’s house, close by
the church.
The people here think they know where Evangeline’s father lived, and
just where Basil the blacksmith had his forge,--so mixed are our
illusions with our historic certainties! I find myself believing in
Evangeline as a real maiden, one who once lived and suffered on this
very soil, and I gathered a daisy and a wild rose for you, which her
hand might have plucked, instead of mine, as a memorial of her lost
home.
Miss J---- and I are stopping at the village doctor’s. Mrs. Fitch, who
keeps his house, takes a very few boarders. His orchard is loaded with
apples and pears, and his garden opens out on the meadow close upon the
first dike built by the French Acadians. We are finding the hottest
weather of the season, and are glad not to be in any city just now.
We had a pleasant sail to Halifax--the sea as smooth as glass, and so
no excuse for sickness. I had friends in Halifax, who took us to the
citadel and the park, the latter the finest I ever saw, because left
chiefly to nature: just woods of pine and spruce, overlooking the
harbor, which I can well believe to be what the Nova Scotians claim for
it--the most beautiful harbor in the world.
We go the last of the week to Annapolis and Digby, and home by the way
of Mt. Desert, which I have never visited.
I go from there to Bethel, to spend September,--read my proof--and
escape hay-fever--(as I hope!).
You are often spoken of here, and by those who wish you would visit
the place. The journey is a long one, and I suppose, as I tell them,
that you would not feel like taking it. But there is a charm about the
people and the region which can only be felt by being here,--everybody
seems very intelligent, and very hospitable,--no extreme poverty
anywhere, that I can see.
Thine always,
LUCY LARCOM.
TO PHILLIPS BROOKS.
12 CONCORD SQUARE, March 26, 1885.
DEAR MR. BROOKS,--I called at the chapel yesterday afternoon, but
others were waiting to see you, and it was getting late in the day, so
I did not stay. I had, indeed, no good excuse for taking your time; but
it would have been a great pleasure to speak to you, after my winter’s
imprisonment with illness.
It is only within a week or two that I have come to Boston, or been
out to church at all. I have enjoyed, almost to pain, the few services
I have attended, for I am not sure that I hold myself in the right
manner towards God’s people, with whom I so fully sympathize in spirit.
I wonder if I really am in the Church! My childish consecration was
sincere; I entered the communion of the sect in which I was baptized
and brought up, from an earnest longing to come nearer to Christ,--a
desire which has grown with me through all the years; only now it
reaches out beyond all names and groupings, towards the whole Communion
of Saints in Him. Nothing less than this is the real Church to me. Some
narrowness I find in every denomination, and this distresses and repels
me, so that I cannot tell where I belong. Yet when I go to Trinity
Church, I feel myself taken possession of, borne upward on the tide of
loving loyalty to Christ; and I know that it has not been well for me
to live apart from my kindred.
I wish I could find myself among the group who consecrate themselves
to-night: but, as you once said to me, if that were the way for me, it
would be made plain. And I shall consider Trinity as home, whenever I
am in Boston.
I did have one little request to make,--it was liberty to use some
paragraphs from your printed sermons in a compilation which I may
prepare this year. I shall take it that I have permission, unless
forbidden.
Faithfully yours,
LUCY LARCOM.
TO ----
December 3, 1885.
I heard Canon Farrar preach and lecture. He is not remarkable, it seems
to me, except for his moral and spiritual earnestness, but that is
remarkable, as men go. I liked his lecture, for it will help to foster
a good feeling between us two brother nations of the English race.
England and America ought to feel themselves one....
When the summer came, Miss Larcom always looked forward with pleasure
to her mountain-homes, of which she had a number, in New Hampshire
and Maine. The hills gave her rest; and the beauty of the views, with
the grand distances, suggesting freedom and the thought of being
above the common level, gave her inspiration for her work. Each year
she tried to visit the various points she loved--Ossipee Park, The
Notch, Bethlehem, Moosilauke, Bethel, Centre Harbor, and Berlin Falls.
Bethel fascinated her with its sight of the Androscoggin and its
majestic elms, and the view of Mt. Moriah and some of the Presidential
Range,--Madison, Adams, and Washington. At Mr. John Russell’s Riverside
Cottage she was always welcome; and back of the house, on the crest of
the mountain, was a little glen, shaded by evergreens, in which she
used to sit and read, called “Miss Larcom’s Retreat.” Sitting on the
low bench, in this nook, she wrote the poem “On the Ledge:”--
“Here is shelter and outlook, deep rest and wide room;
The pine woods behind, breathing balm out of gloom;
Before, the great hills over vast levels lean,--
A glory of purple, a splendor of green.
As a new earth and heaven, ye are mine once again,
Ye beautiful meadows and mountains of Maine.”
She always enjoyed Ossipee Park, with its wonderful brook, “set in the
freshness of perfect green,” and watched it widen into pools and leap
into cascades. She wrote of it, “Ah! this is the sort of retreat for
friends who like to meet or separate within the sound of a voice which
surely wins them together again side by side.”
Bethlehem, besides giving her freedom from hay-fever, was always “the
beautiful.” Moosilauke was her favorite summit. From these places she
generally wrote charming letters to the Portland “Transcript,” which
its readers will remember, and others may judge of by the following
from Wood-Giant’s Hill, Centre Harbor.
“There is a peculiar charm in New Hampshire hill scenery just at
this season, before the roses have faded, or the hay is mown, or the
bobolinks have ceased singing among the clover blossoms, and while
the midsummer-tide is rolling up over all, and blending all in haze
and heat,--a mingling of freshness and ripeness that is indescribably
lovely. One should surely be among the hills before the Fourth of July,
to catch the best of their beauty, as well as to escape the dust and
distractions of the patriotic anniversary.
“To sit at a western window and look off upon the Beulah-like
landscape, slope upon slope of rolling, forest-crowned hills ascending
towards bluer heights which lose themselves among dim lines of
half-revealed higher horizons--to feel the air sweeping across from
the softly-blended infinite spaces, over pine woods and fields in full
flower--to breathe it all in like the odor of some divine nectar--is
there anything like it in the whole year, except at the meeting point
of June and July, and in such a region as this. For we know that there
are lakes all around us, sleeping unseen in the midsummer haze, and
we know that the invisible mountains lie just beyond those lovely
ascending distances before us.
“And so, when a sweeter waft of coolness refreshes every sense, and we
ask with wonder what makes it so sweet, the answer seems borne onward
with its very breath:--
“‘The gale informs us, laden with the scent.’
“It brings us the spice of pine woods and the clear drip of ice-cold
waterfalls; the breath of pond lilies and sweet-brier and unmown
scented grasses, clover-tops and mountain-tops, blended in one draught;
and that delicate bubble of song which rises from the meadows, the
faint farewell chorus of summer birds that seem loth to go, makes the
full cup overflow with musical foam.
“I saw the sun drop last evening--its magnified reflection,
rather--into the larger Lake Asquam, like a ball of crimson flame. The
sun itself went down, hot and red, into a band of warm mist that hung
over the hills. The ‘Wood Giant’ stood above me audibly musing. His
twilight thoughts were untranslatable, but perhaps the wood-thrushes
understood, for they sent up their mystical chant from the thickets
below, in deep harmony with the music of his boughs.
“The higher summits have not unveiled themselves yet, not even
Cardigan or Mount Israel. Steaming across the lake from Wolfboro’
three sunsets since, it seemed to me that there was a compensation in
this invisibility of the loftier hills. Only Red Hill and the Ossipee
Range were to be seen; and they loomed up in huge grandeur, asserting
themselves to be, as they are, the dominant guardians of Winnipiseogee.
It is seldom that the Beautiful Lake loses them from sight.”
TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.
CENTRE HARBOR, N. H., October 7, 1855.
... I have had my “outing” at Bethlehem; I went there hardly able to
sit up during the journey, but gained strength at once, and am well now.
I stayed there more than four weeks, and enjoyed it much. Mr. Howells
and family were at the next house, and I saw them several times.
Bethlehem is a very public place. I found a good deal of calling and
visiting going on. But the house life was delightful.
I spent last week at Ossipee Park, the loveliest spot in New England, I
think.
I am here for a week or more, at the place where Mr. Whittier was
in the summer. Mrs. Sturtevant is an old friend of mine, and her
housekeeping leaves nothing to be desired. You would like the place
and it is easily accessible,--only a mile back of Centre Harbor. Mr.
Whittier’s poem, “The Wood Giant,” was written here. You can see the
tree above others, ten miles across the lake, at Ossipee Park--it is
down in the pasture, a little way from this house, looking towards
sunset over the lake....
TO J. G. WHITTIER.
HOTEL BYRON,
BOSTON, April 23, 1886.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I have been in and about Boston for the past three
weeks, and of late have been interested in this new study of
Theosophy, which so many are looking into. I have wondered how you
regard it.
What I most enjoy about it is the larger horizons it opens upon our
true spiritual sight,--glimpses only, it is true,--but we could not
bear more than that, doubtless. And the moral and spiritual truth it
unfolds and inculcates is of the loftiest. It harmonizes so entirely
with the highest Christianity, no believer in that can find cause for
cavil. And yet, it is far behind the spirit of Christianity, as we have
it from the Divine Teacher’s lips and life; in that the common mind is
shut out from a clear comprehension of its meaning. “The simplicity
that is in Christ” is the true gospel, whatever wisdom beside this may
be given to sages and seekers. The gospel for the poor and the ignorant
is the gospel for us all.
And I suppose those that go farthest into these other deep secrets are
the humblest. Spiritual pride is indeed pronounced the greatest of all
sins by these, and by Christian souls.
But how beautiful it is to know that truth is one, and that life is
one, and that all over the world, and through all the ages, men are
entering into and sharing the great inheritance!
I may find much that I cannot accept, but what of that, if I am brought
nearer to the heart of humanity, in its fraternal aspirations towards
the Father of our spirits!
Faithfully thy friend, LUCY LARCOM.
233 CLARENDON STREET,
BOSTON, December 28, 1886.
DEAR MISS LARCOM,--I cannot let your kind note pass without at least
a word of gratitude and welcome. It is good to know that you are in
Boston again, and that I may sometimes speak to you on Sundays. I
should be sorry indeed to think that the winter would pass without
letting me, somewhere, sometime, come to more familiar friendly talk
with you. You will find me the chance, I hope, either by coming here,
or letting me know where I may come to you.
At any rate, I am glad that you are here, and I send you my best New
Year’s wishes.
I do not want you to think that I am aspiring to poetry. “The Little
Town of Bethlehem” was written more than twenty years ago, for a
Christmas service of my Sunday school in Philadelphia. It has been
printed in hymn-books since, and sung at a good many Christmases, and
where the newspapers find it, all of a sudden, I do not know!
Ever faithfully your friend,
PHILLIPS BROOKS.
It has been stated that Miss Larcom was barely able to support herself
by her writings. She realized, like many another author, that Mr.
Whittier’s words were true when he wrote her that “the hardest way of
earning bread and butter in this world is to coin one’s brains, as an
author, into cash, or spin them into greenbacks.” She could, however,
do very well, so long as her health was good. In addition to the
copyright on her books, she received payment from the magazines for her
work,--“St. Nicholas” sometimes gave her fifty dollars for an article.
“Harper’s” and the “Independent” paid her the same rates as they
did to “H. H.” She also contributed to “Wide Awake,” the “Christian
Union,” the “Congregationalist,” and to many minor papers, like the
“Cottage Hearth.” But she was subject to severe attacks of illness,
which rendered her, for the time, incapable of writing. Then it was
that her friends came forward to aid her; any assistance, however, she
was loth to accept. This unwillingness to receive help gave rise to an
interesting scene between herself and Mr. Whittier. At one time, her
strength and resources had been reduced by illness. She was lying upon
her couch when Mr. Whittier came, and, seating himself beside her,
said, “Now, Lucy, this is altogether too bad.”
“What is too bad?”
“Why, that thee should work for the world all thy days, and then lie
here, worrying about expenses.”
“I don’t worry. The Lord has always taken care of me.”
“But, Lucy, thee ought to worry. The Lord has made thee capable of
caring for thyself. Why not be more practicable? I have done something
about this.”
“I knew you had, as soon as this talk began. Now, I thank you, but I
will not touch one cent of the money you collect.”
“Don’t be foolish. Thee will; and thee must not waste thy remaining
strength in rebellion.”
A compromise was made by her taking a pension of a hundred dollars
a year, from a Quaker Home, in Philadelphia, and a few annual
subscriptions--one from Mr. George W. Childs.
TO J. G. WHITTIER.
HOTEL BYRON, BERKELEY ST.,
BOSTON, MASS., February 4, 1887.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I have been away two days, and on returning, find thy
note and the enclosed check for one hundred dollars. A greater surprise
could not have awaited me.
And, curiously enough, I had been amusing myself just before, with the
thought of the great fortunes rolling about the world, without ever so
much as touching me! And I had said to myself that the Great Disposer
of all these things, who is also my Father, doubtless had a purpose in
it,--perhaps that I was to prove to the very end that life could be
very cheerful and comfortable without much money, and with unremitting
effort to earn a moderate living, so long as my strength should hold
out.
And I felt like acquiescing gratefully, happy in my restored health,
in my interest in my work, and in doing and being all that it is in me
to do and to be for others,--for life does look every day larger and
deeper and more beautiful in its possibilities, even this one small
life of mine, in this world of God’s. I think I was rather in danger of
looking down on the millionaires, and pitying them for their heavier
burdens of responsibility.
I always feel rich when I feel well, and I was not conscious of a
present want, although I knew my purse was getting light, and I was not
sure whether I could afford to stay in Boston through the winter, but
now I see that I can, for I shall take your advice, and keep the check.
I suppose I should never have consented to have my name used, as one
who needed assistance, but I have great confidence in your wisdom,
and if you thought it right, I could not object. But you know that I
have never suffered from want, and that I am able to work, although
three-score.
The only wish I have ever had in connection with money, is for the
freedom it might give me to choose my work, and the place where I
should live. When I can do that, I don’t know that I shall have any
further desire, for myself. And if I really need that, God will give it
to me.
If Mr. Childs has really sent the money to _me_, I must thank him for
it, and I will do so, if you will kindly send me his address. You see
how ignorant I am about our good rich people, when I don’t know whether
to address him as “Mr.” or “Esq.” or write with Quaker plainness! You
said, “Philadelphia.” Is that enough, without street or number?
I thank thee sincerely for all the kind thoughts that this matter
implies on thy part. And I feel more and more assured that the silver
and the gold belong to God, and that He spends it where He will. If He
puts it into Mr. Childs’ hand for me, I will not refuse it--not from
any good man’s hand. Only please remember that thee must not let people
think I am poor, when I am not. Shall we not see thee before long?
Gratefully yours,
LUCY LARCOM.
One of Miss Larcom’s greatest pleasures was the visits she was able to
make to her congenial friends. Not being tied by family cares, it was
possible for her to accept some of the many invitations she constantly
received from those who loved her. Her presence in a household was
like a peaceful influence, for she had the delightful gift of being an
agreeable guest. Always sympathetic, never intruding into the privacy
of family matters, reticent about her troubles, and eager to impart
her joys, with a fund of humor always at hand, she made a charming
companion; and her visit was always remembered as an event in the year.
There are many homes that have had the privilege of entertaining her,
and receiving something from the close contact with her personality.
One of her hostesses, Mrs. James Guild, of Roxbury, in whose house
she used to enjoy hours of Plato study, and where the last few years
of her life she found rest, says, “In passing the library, I often
looked through the portières, to behold the presence in the room,--the
white, peaceful face, that seemed to wear a halo. She would have three
or four books at once on her knee, and look up smiling to ask, ‘Am I
not greedy? I don’t know which of these to read first! I do love books,
but not better than friends; when you are at leisure, I am ready to sit
with you.’”
TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.
WILLIAMSTOWN, MASS., October 10, 1887.
... I came here, through Lake George and Saratoga, last Friday. I am
visiting at President Carter’s, my old friend, who has a charming
family and home. The town itself is most beautiful, and I have been
driving about among the Berkshire Hills, finding them no less enjoyable
for what I have seen of the Adirondacks.
President Carter is at present away on business. A case of possible
hazing is one of the most trying--the facts are so hard to get at. The
spirit of this college is entirely opposed to such things. He is also
a corporate member of the American Board. I do not sympathize with the
turn affairs have taken. It looks to me like a long step backward. It
cannot be that a disputed theological point is to settle the world’s
salvation. And the inquisitorial spirit tends so entirely to bitterness
and harsh judgment; it proves itself foreign to the spirit of Christ.
May God reveal himself to these benighted theologians!
TO J. G. WHITTIER.
BEVERLY, MASS., April 24, 1888.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--Yesterday I returned to Beverly, having done something
quite uncommon, for me,--taken a trip to the Jerseys. I went on urgent
invitation from old pupils and school-friends at Wheaton Seminary, who
gave a breakfast at Hotel Brunswick, New York.
I met a good many people I was glad to see, and made most of my visit
at Mr. Ward’s, of the “Independent.” His sister, who keeps house for
him, at Newark, is a former pupil of mine.
Then I had an invitation from a schoolmate at Monticello, Illinois, who
lives at Orange, New Jersey, and I stayed there several days. I went
over New York and Brooklyn by the bridge and the elevated railway, but
scarcely touched the metropolis.
However, I saw my old friends, and a good many new people, and had a
pleasant time.
And now, I am urgently invited to my old Illinois seminary, in June,
when it has its semi-centennial anniversary. I am afraid I shall have
to go, as my Minnesota sister seconds the motion, and she expects to
move to California, another year.
What a moving world it is!...
The “New England Girlhood,” published in 1889, was at once a success.
Few facts of Miss Larcom’s life had been generally known up to this
time: there had been, however, interesting biographical sketches
printed from time to time, notably Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney’s sketch,
in “American Women of Note,” and her own article, in the “Atlantic
Monthly,” with the title “Among Lowell Mill-Girls.” But in this book
she took her friends into her confidence, and showed such genuineness
of feeling, and love for her modest beginnings in the old town of
Beverly, with its lanes, its woods, and its seacoast, that her
description stirred up the memory of similar days in the thought of
New England people, at home, and in distant parts of the country. This
account of her youth contains the best elements of her thought and
life, in a story, charming for its simplicity and truthful portraiture
of New England homes before any of the modern changes had taken
place,--those changes that introduced stoves and shut up the great
fireplaces, that substituted for the stage-coach the horse and electric
car, put clocks on the mantelpiece, and relegated to the junk-shops the
“tin kitchens” and the three-legged “trivet.” Its homely incident and
the sincerity of its religious sentiment render it an excellent book
to put into the hands of young girls; by reading it they are brought
into connection with the refined and vigorous girlhood of an actual
life. One critic remarked, “If there could be more biography like this,
there would be less call for fiction.” Miss Larcom received numerous
letters of thanks for having written the book. A gentleman sent her a
check, as an evidence of his satisfaction. An aged man wrote,--“If
it was written for the young, it certainly was for the old. I am now
eighty-five years old and never was more delighted.” Mr. Whittier
sent his approval: “I am reading the book for the second time, with
increased pleasure; I recall my first meeting with thee at Lowell,
after thy return from the West.”
That she enjoyed these tokens of appreciation, this letter indicates.
TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.
214 COLUMBUS AVENUE,
Saturday evening, December 28, 1889.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I have just come in and read Mrs. S----’s letter,
which I return. Her enthusiasm inspires me just as I like to be
inspired. I felt in writing the book that I was just entering into my
past life, and taking my friends with me. I did not feel that I was
making a “literary effort,” but just taking a little journey backward.
I appreciate the readers who will simply go along with me, as Mrs.
S---- does. I am glad to give myself to those who understand the
gift, and I would like to find more in myself for them, if I could.
It is just like taking hold of hands all round, these pleasant
acknowledgments that come to me. It is _our_ life that we are enjoying
together....
Mr. Brooks sent one of his short, characteristic notes, thanking her
for “A New England Girlhood.”
233 CLARENDON STREET,
BOSTON, December 9, 1889.
MY DEAR MISS LARCOM,--I have never been a Yankee girl, and yet I felt
that I recognized every picture in what I read, and I have read it all.
To hear of the American First Class Book again was like a breeze out of
my childhood!
And I hope all the girls are reading it, and catching the flavor of its
healthy spirit.
At any rate, I thank you for it, and I am yours most sincerely,
PHILLIPS BROOKS.