I robbed the Woods —
The trusting Woods.
The unsuspecting Trees
Brought out their Burs and mosses
My fantasy to please.
I scanned their trinkets curious — I grasped — I bore away —
What will the solemn Hemlock —
What will the Oak tree say?
Derubai i Boschi —
I fiduciosi Boschi.
Gli ignari Alberi
Tirarono fuori i loro Ricci e muschi
Per compiacere la mia fantasia.
Scrutai curiosa i loro gingilli — afferrai — portai via —
Che dirà il solenne Abete —
Che dirà l’albero di Quercia?
Once more, my now bewildered Dove
Bestirs her puzzled wings
Once more her mistress, on the deep
Her troubled question flings —
Thrice to the floating casement
The Patriarch’s bird returned,
Courage! My brave Columba!
There may yet be land
Ancora una volta, la mia Colomba ora smarrita
Scuote le sue ali perplesse
Ancora una volta la sua padrona, sull’abisso
Getta la sua turbata domanda —
Tre volte alla finestra galleggiante
Tornò l’uccello del Patriarca,
Coraggio! Mia prode Columba!
Terra ancora può esserci
A little East of Jordan,
Evangelists record,
A Gymnast and an Angel
Did wrestle long and hard —
Till morning touching mountain —
And Jacob, waxing strong,
The Angel begged permission
To Breakfast — to return —
Not so, said cunning Jacob!
”I will not let thee go
Except thou bless me” — Stranger!
The which acceded to —
Light swung the silver fleeces
”Peniel” Hills beyond,
And the bewildered Gymnast
Found he had worsted God!
Un poco a Est del Giordano,
Narrano gli Evangelisti,
Un Ginnasta e un Angelo
Lottarono a lungo e duro —
Finché il mattino toccando il monte —
E Jacob, facendosi forte,
L’Angelo chiese permesso
Di far Colazione — di tornare —
Non così, disse l’astuto Jacob!
”Non ti lascerò andare
Se non mi benedici” — Straniero!
Il che fu concesso —
Lievi ondeggiarono i velli d’argento
Oltre i Colli di “Peniel”,
E lo sbigottito Ginnasta
Scoprì d’aver battuto God!
“Sown in dishonor”!
Ah! Indeed!
May this “dishonor” be?
If I were half so fine myself
I’d notice nobody!
“Sown in corruption”!
Not so fast!
Apostle is askew!
Corinthians 1. 15. narrates
A Circumstance or two!
“Seminato nel disonore”!
Ah! Davvero!
Può questo “disonore” essere?
Se fossi io la metà così fine
Non noterei nessuno!
“Seminato nella corruzione”!
Non così in fretta!
L’Apostolo è di traverso!
Corinzi 1. 15. narra
Una Circostanza o due!
If the foolish, call them “flowers” —
Need the wiser, tell?
If the Savants “Classify” them
It is just as well!
Those who read the “Revelations”
Must not criticize
Those who read the same Edition —
With beclouded Eyes!
Could we stand with that Old “Moses” —
“Canaan” denied —
Scan like him, the stately landscape
On the other side —
Doubtless, we should deem superfluous
Many Sciences,
Not pursued by learned Angels
In scholastic skies!
Low amid that glad Belles lettres
Grant that we may stand,
Stars, amid profound Galaxies —
At that grand “Right hand”!
Se gli stolti, li chiamano “fiori” —
Occorre che i più saggi, dicano?
Se i Sapienti li “Classificano”
Va altrettanto bene!
Chi legge le “Rivelazioni”
Non deve criticare
Chi legge la stessa Edizione —
Con Occhi annebbiati!
Potessimo stare con quel Vecchio “Mosè” —
Negata “Canaan” —
Scrutare come lui, il paesaggio maestoso
Dall’altra parte —
Senza dubbio, giudicheremmo superflue
Molte Scienze,
Non coltivate dagli Angeli dotti
In cieli scolastici!
Umili fra quelle liete Belles lettres
Concedi che possiamo stare,
Stelle, fra Galassie profonde —
A quella grande “Destra”!
He forgot — and I — remembered —
‘Twas an everyday affair —
Long ago as Christ and Peter —
“Warmed them” at the “Temple fire.”
“Thou wert with him” — quoth “the Damsel”?
”No” — said Peter, ‘twasn’t me —
Jesus merely “looked” at Peter —
Could I do aught else — to Thee?
Lui dimenticò — e io — ricordai —
Era un fatto d’ogni giorno —
Tanto tempo fa quanto Cristo e Pietro —
Che “si scaldavano” al “fuoco del Tempio.”
“Tu eri con lui” — disse “la Fanciulla”?
”No” — disse Pietro, non ero io —
Gesù soltanto “guardò” Pietro —
Potrei fare altro — verso Te?
Did the Harebell loose her girdle
To the lover Bee
Would the Bee the Harebell hallow
Much as formerly?
Did the “Paradise” — persuaded —
Yield her moat of pearl —
Would the Eden be an Eden,
Or the Earl — an Earl?
Sciogliesse la Campanula la sua cintura
All’Ape amante
Santificherebbe l’Ape la Campanula
Quanto un tempo?
Cedesse il “Paradiso” — persuaso —
Il suo fossato di perla —
Sarebbe l’Eden un Eden,
O il Conte — un Conte?
Taking up the fair Ideal,
Just to cast her down
When a fracture — we discover —
Or a splintered Crown —
Makes the Heavens portable —
And the Gods — a lie —
Doubtless — “Adam” — scowled at Eden —
For his perjury!
Cherishing — our pool Ideal —
Till in purer dress —
We behold her — glorified —
Comforts — search — like this —
Till the broken creatures —
We adored — for whole —
Stains — all washed —
Transfigured — mended —
Meet us — with a smile —
Sollevando il bell’Ideale,
Solo per gettarla giù
Quando una frattura — scopriamo —
O una scheggiata Crown —
Rende i Cieli portatili —
E gli Dèi — una menzogna —
Senza dubbio — “Adamo” — guardò torvo l’Eden —
Per il suo spergiuro!
Custodendo — il nostro povero Ideale —
Finché in veste più pura —
La contempliamo — glorificata —
Consola — una ricerca — come questa —
Finché le creature spezzate —
Che adorammo — per intere —
Macchie — tutte lavate —
Trasfigurate — risanate —
Ci vengono incontro — con un sorriso —
—
Better — than Music! For I — who heard it —
I was used — to the Birds — before —
This — was different — ‘Twas Translation —
Of all tunes I knew — and more —
‘Twasn’t contained — like other stanza —
No one could play it — the second time —
But the Composer — perfect Mozart —
Perish with him — that Keyless Rhyme!
So — Children — told how Brooks in Eden —
Bubbled a better — Melody —
Quaintly infer — Eve’s great surrender —
Urging the feet — that would — not — fly —
Children — matured — are wiser — mostly —
Eden — a legend — dimly told —
Eve — and the Anguish — Grandame’s story —
But — I was telling a tune — I heard —
Not such a strain — the Church — baptizes —
When the last Saint — goes up the Aisles —
Not such a stanza splits the silence —
When the Redemption strikes her Bells —
Let me not spill — its smallest cadence —
Humming — for promise — when alone —
Humming — until my faint Rehearsal —
Drop into tune — around the Throne —
—
Meglio — che Musica! Perché io — che l’udii —
Ero avvezza — agli Uccelli — prima —
Questa — era diversa — Era Traduzione —
Di tutte le arie che sapevo — e più —
Non era contenuta — come altra stanza —
Nessuno poté suonarla — la seconda volta —
Ma il Compositore — perfetto Mozart —
Perisca con lui — quella Rima senza Chiave!
Così — i Bimbi — cui narrarono come i Ruscelli in Eden —
Gorgogliassero una migliore — Melodia —
Con arguzia inferiscono — la gran resa di Eva —
Che incalzava i piedi — che non — volevano — fuggire —
I Bimbi — maturati — sono più savi — perlopiù —
L’Eden — una leggenda — vagamente narrata —
Eva — e l’Angoscia — racconto di Nonna —
Ma — io dicevo un’aria — che udii —
Non tale melodia — la Chiesa — battezza —
Quando l’ultimo Santo — sale le Navate —
Non tale stanza fende il silenzio —
Quando la Redenzione batte le sue Campane —
Ch’io non versi — la sua minima cadenza —
Canticchiando — per promessa — quando sola —
Canticchiando — finché la mia fioca Prova —
Non cada in tono — intorno al Trono —
The Future — never spoke —
Nor will He — like the Dumb —
Reveal by sign — a syllable
Of His Profound To Come —
But when the News be ripe —
Presents it — in the Act —
Forestalling Preparation —
Escape — or Substitute —
Indifference to Him —
The Dower — as the Doom —
His Office — but to execute
Fate’s — Telegram — to Him —
Il Futuro — mai parlò —
Né vorrà — come il Muto —
Rivelare con un cenno — una sillaba
Del Suo Profondo Avvenire —
Ma quando la Notizia è matura —
La presenta — nell’Atto —
Prevenendo Preparazione —
Fuga — o Sostituto —
Indifferente a Lui —
La Dote — come la Condanna —
Suo Ufficio — solo eseguire
Del Fato — il Telegramma — a Lui —
Of Consciousness, her awful Mate
The Soul cannot be rid —
As easy the secreting her
Behind the Eyes of God.
The deepest hid is sighted first
And scant to Him the Crowd —
What triple Lenses burn upon
The Escapade from God —
Della Coscienza, sua tremenda Compagna
L’Anima non può liberarsi —
Tanto varrebbe occultarla
Dietro gli Occhi di Dio.
Il più profondo nascosto è avvistato per primo
E scarsa è per Lui la Folla —
Quali triple Lenti ardono sopra
La Fuga da Dio —
A loss of something ever felt I —
The first that I could recollect
Bereft I was — of what I knew not
Too young that any should suspect
A Mourner walked among the children
I notwithstanding went about
As one bemoaning a Dominion
Itself the only Prince cast out —
Elder, Today, a session wiser
And fainter, too, as Wiseness is —
I find myself still softly searching
For my Delinquent Palaces —
And a Suspicion, like a Finger
Touches my Forehead now and then
That I am looking oppositely
For the site of the Kingdom of Heaven —
Una perdita di qualcosa sempre sentii —
La prima che potessi ricordare
Privata ero — di cosa non sapevo
Troppo giovane perché alcuno sospettasse
Una Dolente camminava tra i bambini
Io nondimeno andavo attorno
Come chi lamenta un Dominio
Essendone il solo Principe scacciato —
Più adulta, Oggi, d’una sessione più saggia
E più fioca, anche, com’è la Saggezza —
Mi trovo ancora a cercare sommessamente
I miei Palazzi Delinquenti —
E un Sospetto, come un Dito
Tocca la mia Fronte di tanto in tanto
Che io stia guardando dalla parte opposta
Al sito del Regno dei Cieli —
Paradise is that old mansion
Many owned before —
Occupied by each an instant
Then reversed the Door —
Bliss is frugal of her Leases
Adam taught her Thrift
Bankrupt once through his excesses —
Il Paradiso è quell’antica dimora
Che molti possedettero prima —
Occupata da ciascuno un istante
Poi rivoltata la Porta —
La Beatitudine è frugale delle sue Locazioni
Adamo le insegnò la Parsimonia
Fallita una volta per gli eccessi di lui —
Of Paul and Silas it is said
There were in Prison laid
But when they went to take them out
They were not there instead.
Security the same insures
To our assaulted Minds —
The staple must be optional
That an Immortal binds.
Di Paolo e Sila si racconta
Che in Prigione furono posti
Ma quando andarono a prenderli
Essi non v’erano invece.
Sicurezza uguale assicura
Alle nostre Menti assalite —
Facoltativo dev’essere il ferro
Che un Immortale avvince.
What we see we know somewhat
Be it but a little —
What we don’t surmise we do
Though it shows so fickle
I shall vote for Lands with Locks
Granted I can pick ‘em —
Transport’s doubtful Dividend
Patented by Adam.
Ciò che vediamo lo sappiamo alquanto
Non fosse che un poco —
Ciò che non congetturiamo lo facciamo
Benché si mostri così volubile
Voterò per Terre con Serrature
Purché io possa scassinarle —
Del Trasporto il dubbio Dividendo
Brevettato da Adamo.
A Deed knocks first at Thought
And then — it knocks at Will —
That is the manufacturing spot
And Will at Home and well
It then goes out an Act
Or is entombed so still
That only to the ear of God
Its Doom is audible —
Un’Azione bussa prima al Pensiero
E poi — bussa alla Volontà —
È quello il luogo di fabbrica
E la Volontà a Casa e in salute
Poi esce fuori come Atto
O vien sepolta così immota
Che solo all’orecchio di Dio
La sua Condanna è udibile —
Risk is the Hair that holds the Tun
Seductive in the Air —
That Tun is hollow — but the Tun —
With Hundred Weights — to spare —
Too ponderous to suspect the snare
Espies that fickle chair
And seats itself to be let go
By that perfidious Hair —
The “foolish Tun” the Critics say —
While that delusive Hair
Persuasive as Perdition,
Decoys its Traveller.
Il Rischio è il Crine che regge la Botte
Seducente nell’Aria —
Quella Botte è vuota — ma la Botte —
Con Quintali — d’avanzo —
Troppo ponderosa per sospettare la trappola
Adocchia quella sedia incostante
E vi si siede per esser lasciata andare
Da quel perfido Crine —
La “Botte sciocca” dicono i Critici —
Mentre quel Crine ingannevole
Persuasivo come la Perdizione,
Adesca il suo Viaggiatore.
Elijah’s Wagon knew no thill
Was innocent of Wheel
Elijah’s horses as unique
As was his vehicle —
Elijah’s journey to portray
Expire with him the skill
Who justified Elijah
In feats inscrutable —
Il Carro di Elia non conobbe timone
Era innocente di Ruota
I cavalli di Elia unici
Quanto il suo veicolo —
Il viaggio di Elia a ritrarre
Spira con lui la perizia
Che giustificò Elia
In gesta imperscrutabili —
Shame is the shawl of Pink
In which we wrap the Soul
To keep it from infesting Eyes —
The elemental Veil
Which helpless Nature drops
When pushed upon a scene
Repugnant to her probity —
Shame is the tint divine.
La Vergogna è lo scialle di Rosa
In cui avvolgiamo l’Anima
Per non farle infestare gli Occhi —
Il Velo elementale
Che l’inerme Natura lascia cadere
Quando sospinta su una scena
Ripugnante alla sua probità —
La Vergogna è la tinta divina.
Belshazzar had a letter, —
He never had but one ;
Belshazzar’s correspondent
Concluded and begun
In that immortal copy
The conscience of us all
Can read without its glasses
On revelation’s wall.
Baldassarre ebbe una lettera, —
Non ne ebbe mai che una ;
Il corrispondente di Baldassarre
Concluse e cominciò
In quella copia immortale
Che la coscienza di noi tutti
Può leggere senza occhiali
Sul muro della rivelazione.
The Devil — had he fidelity
Would be the best friend —
Because he has ability —
But Devils cannot mend —
Perfidy is the virtue
That would but he resign
The Devil — without question
Were thoroughly divine
Il Diavolo — avesse fedeltà
Sarebbe il migliore degli amici —
Perché ha capacità —
Ma i Diavoli non si emendano —
La Perfidia è la virtù
Cui se soltanto rinunciasse
Il Diavolo — senza questione
Sarebbe interamente divino
“And with what body do they come?” —
Then they do come — Rejoice!
What Door — What Hour — Run — run — My Soul!
Illuminate the House!
“Body!” Then real — a Face and Eyes —
To know that it is them!
Paul knew the Man that knew the News —
He passed through Bethlehem —
“E con quale corpo vengono?” —
Allora vengono davvero — Gioisci!
Quale Porta — Quale Ora — Corri — corri — Anima mia!
Illumina la Casa!
“Corpo!” Allora reale — un Volto e Occhi —
Sapere che sono loro!
Paolo conobbe l’Uomo che conobbe la Novella —
Egli passò per Betlemme —
The Bible is an antique Volume —
Written by faded men
At the suggestion of Holy Spectres —
Subjects — Bethlehem —
Eden — the ancient Homestead —
Satan — the Brigadier —
Judas — the Great Defaulter —
David — the Troubador —
Sin — a distinguished Precipice
Others must resist —
Boys that “believe” are very lonesome —
Other Boys are “lost” —
Had but the Tale a warbling Teller —
All the Boys would come —
Orpheus’ Sermon captivated —
It did not condemn —
La Bibbia è un Volume antico —
Scritto da uomini sbiaditi
Su suggerimento di Santi Spettri —
Soggetti — Betlemme —
L’Eden — l’antica Dimora —
Satana — il Brigadiere —
Giuda — il Grande Insolvente —
Davide — il Trovatore —
Il Peccato — un distinto Precipizio
Cui altri devono resistere —
I Ragazzi che “credono” sono assai soli —
Gli altri Ragazzi sono “perduti” —
Avesse la Storia un Narratore canoro —
Verrebbero tutti i Ragazzi —
Il Sermone di Orfeo incantava —
Non condannava —
Who is it seeks my Pillow Nights —
With plain inspecting face —
“Did you” or “Did you not,” to ask —
‘Tis “Conscience” — Childhood’s Nurse —
With Martial Hand she strokes the Hair
Upon my wincing Head —
“All” Rogues “shall have their part in” what —
The Phosphorous of God —
Chi cerca il mio Guanciale la Notte —
Con schietto volto indagatore —
“L’hai fatto” o “Non l’hai fatto,” a chiedere —
È la “Coscienza” — dell’Infanzia la Nutrice —
Con Mano Marziale liscia i Capelli
Sul mio Capo che trasale —
“Tutti” i Furfanti “avranno la loro parte in” cosa —
Il Fosforo di Dio —
Eden is that old-fashioned House
We dwell in every day
Without suspecting our abode
Until we drive away.
How fair on looking back, the Day
We sauntered from the Door —
Unconscious our returning,
But discover it no more.
L’Eden è quella Casa all’antica
che abitiamo ogni giorno
senza sospettare la nostra dimora
finché non ce ne andiamo via.
Com’è bello, a guardare indietro, il Giorno
in cui uscimmo indolenti dalla Porta —
Ignari del nostro ritorno,
ma non la ritroviamo più.
No man saw awe, nor to his house
Admitted he a man
Though by his awful residence
Has human nature been.
Not deeming of his dread abode
Till laboring to flee
A grasp on comprehension laid
Detained vitality.
Returning is a different route
The Spirit could not show
For breathing is the only work
To be enacted now.
“Am not consumed,” old Moses wrote,
“Yet saw him face to face” —
That very physiognomy
I am convinced was this.
Nessun uomo vide lo sgomento, né nella sua casa
Ammise egli un uomo
Benché presso la sua tremenda dimora
Sia stata l’umana natura.
Ignara della sua terribile dimora
Finché, affannandosi a fuggire,
Una stretta posata sulla comprensione
Trattenne la vitalità.
Il ritorno è una via diversa
Che lo Spirito non poté mostrare
Poiché respirare è l’unica opera
Da compiersi ora.
“Non sono consumato,” scrisse il vecchio Mosè,
“Eppure lo vidi faccia a faccia” —
Quella stessa fisionomia
Sono convinta fosse questa.
Sweet is the swamp with its secrets,
Until we meet a snake;
‘Tis then we sigh for houses,
And our departure take
At that enthralling gallop
That only childhood knows.
A snake is summer’s treason,
And guile is where it goes.
Dolce è la palude coi suoi segreti,
Finché non incontriamo una serpe;
Allora sospiriamo per le case,
E prendiamo la nostra partenza
A quel galoppo travolgente
Che solo l’infanzia conosce.
Una serpe è il tradimento dell’estate,
E inganno è là dove va.
MY DEAR A.,—Your welcome epistle found me upon the eve of going home, and it is needless to say very happy. We all went home on Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and a stormy day it was, but the storm must not be in our way, so we tried to make the best of it and look as cheerful as we could. Many of the girls went very early in the morning in order to reach home the same day, and when we all sat down to the breakfast table, it seemed lonely enough to see so many places vacant. After breakfast, as we were not required to keep all the family rules, a number of us met together at one of the windows in the Hall to watch for our friends, whom we were constantly expecting. No morning of my life ever passed so slowly to me, and it really seemed to me they never were coming, so impatiently did I wait their arrival. At last, almost tired out, I spied a carriage in the distance, and surely Austin was in it. You, who have been away so much, can easily imagine my delight and will not laugh, when I tell you how I dashed downstairs and almost frightened my dignified brother out of his senses. All was ready in a moment or less than a moment, and cousin Emily and myself, not forgetting the driver, were far on our way towards home. The rain fell in torrents and the wind howled around the sides of the mountain over our heads, and the brooks below, filled by the rain, rushed along their pebbly beds almost frightfully, yet nothing daunted, we rode swiftly along, and soon the colleges and the spire of our venerable meeting-house rose to my delighted vision.
Never did Amherst look more lovely to me, and gratitude rose in my heart to God, for granting me such a safe return to my own dear home. Soon the carriage stopped in front of our own house, and all were at the door to welcome the returned one, from mother, with tears in her eyes, down to pussy, who tried to look as gracious as was becoming her dignity. Oh, A., it was the first meeting, as it had been the first separation, and it was a joyful one to all of us. The storm did not at all subside that night, but in the morning I was waked by the glorious sunshine [it] self, staring full in my face. We went to church in the morning and listened to an excellent sermon from our own minister, Mr. Colton. At noon we returned and had a nice dinner, which, you well know, cannot be dispensed with on Thanksgiving day. We had several calls in the afternoon, and had four invitations out for the evening. Of course we could not accept them all, much to my sorrow, but decided to make two visits. At about 7 o’clock father, mother, Austin, Viny, cousin Emily, and myself to bring up the rear, went down to Professor Warner’s, where we spent an hour delightfully with a few friends, and then bidding them good eve, we young folks went down to Mrs. S. M.’s, accompanied by sister Mary. There was quite a company of young people assembled when we arrived, and after we had played many games we had, in familiar terms, a “candy scrape.” We enjoyed the evening much, and returned not until the clock pealed out, “Remember ten o’clock, my dear, remember ten o’clock.” After our return, father wishing to hear the piano, I, like an obedient daughter, played and sang a few tunes, much to his apparent gratification. We then retired, and the next day and the next were as happily spent as the eventful Thanksgiving day itself.
You will probably think me foolish thus to give you an inventory of my time while at home, but I did enjoy so much in those short four days that I wanted you to know and enjoy it too. Monday came so soon, and with it came a carriage to our door, and amidst tears falling thick and fast away I went again. Slowly and sadly dragged a few of the days after my return to the Seminary, and I was very homesick, but “after a storm there comes a calm,” and so it was in my case. My sorrows were soon lost in study, and I again felt happy, if happiness there can be away from “home, sweet home.”
Our term closes this week on Thursday, and Friday I hope to see home and friends once more. I have studied hard this term, and aside from my delight at going home, there is a sweetness in approaching rest to me. This term is the longest in the year, and I would not wish to live it over again, I can assure you. I love this Seminary, and all the teachers are bound strongly to my heart by ties of affection. There are many sweet girls here, and dearly do I love some new faces, but I have not yet found the place of a few dear ones filled, nor would I wish it to be here. I am now studying Silliman’s Chemistry and Cutter’s Physiology, in both of which I am much interested. We finish Physiology before this term closes, and are to be examined in it at the spring examinations, about five weeks after the commencement of the next term. I already begin to dread that time, for an examination in Mount Holyoke Seminary is rather more public than in our old academy, and a failure would be more disgraceful then, I opine; but I hope, to use my father’s own words, “that I shall not disgrace myself.” What are you studying now? You did not mention that item in your last letters to me, and consequently I am quite in the dark as regards your progress in those affairs. All I can say is, that I hope you will not leave poor me far behind… .
MY VERY DEAR A.,—I love to sit here alone, writing a letter to you, and whether your joy in reading will amount to as much or more, or even less than mine in penning it to you, becomes to me just now a very important problem—and I will tax each power to solve the same for me; if as happy, indeed, I have every occasion for gratitude—more so, my absent friend, I may not hope to make you, but I do hope most earnestly it may not give you less. Oh, I do know it will not, if school-day hearts are warm and school-day memories precious! As I told you, it is Sunday to-day, so I find myself quite curtailed in the selection of subjects, being myself quite vain, and naturally adverting to many worldly things which would doubtless grieve and distress you: much more will I be restrained by the fact that such stormy Sundays I always remain at home, and have not those opportunities for hoarding up great truths which I would have otherwise. In view of these things, A., your kind heart will be lenient, forgiving all empty words and unsatisfying feelings on the Sabbath-day ground which we have just alluded to. I rejoice in one theme appropriate to every place and time—indeed it cannot intrude in the hour most unseemly for every other thought and every other feeling; and sure I am to-day, howe’er it may be holy. I shall not break or reproach by speaking of the links which bind us to each other, and make the very thought of you, and time when I last saw you, a sacred thing to me. And I have many memories, and many thoughts beside, which by some strange entwining, circle you round and round; if you please, a vine of fancies, towards which dear A. sustains the part of oak, and as up each sturdy branch there climbs a little tendril so full of faith and confidence and the most holy trust, so let the hearts do also, of the dear “estray”; then the farther we may be from home and from each other, the nearer by that faith which “overcometh all things” and bringeth us to itself.
Amherst and Philadelphia, separate indeed, and yet how near, bridged by a thousand trusts and a “thousand times ten thousand” the travellers who cross, whom you and I may not see, nor hear the trip of their feet, yet faith tells us they are there, ever crossing and re-crossing. Very likely, A., you fancy me at home in my own little chamber, writing you a letter, but you are greatly mistaken. I am on the blue Susquehanna paddling down to you; I am not much of a sailor, so I get along rather slowly, and I am not much of a mermaid, though I verily think I shall be, if the tide overtakes me at my present jog. Hard-hearted girl! I don’t believe you care, if you did you would come quickly and help me out of this sea; but if I drown, A., and go down to dwell in the seaweed forever and forever, I will not forget your name, nor all the wrong you did me!
Why did you go away and not come to see me? I felt so sure you would come, because you promised me, that I watched and waited for you, and bestowed a tear or two upon my absentee. How very sad it is to have a confiding nature, one’s hopes and feelings are quite at the mercy of all who come along; and how very desirable to be a stolid individual, whose hopes and aspirations are safe in one’s waistcoat pocket, and that a pocket indeed, and one not to be picked!
Notwithstanding your faithlessness I should have come to see you, but for that furious snow-storm; I did attempt in spite of it, but it conquered in spite of me, and I doffed my hood and shawl, and felt very crestfallen the remainder of the day. I did want one more kiss, one sweet and sad good-by, before you had flown away; perhaps, my dear A., it is well that I go without it; it might have added anguish to our long separation, or made the miles still longer which keep a friend away. I always try to think in any disappointment that had I been gratified, it had been sadder still, and I weave from such supposition, at times, considerable consolation; consolation upside down as I am pleased to call it.
… Shall I have a letter soon—oh, may I very soon, for “some days are dark and dreary, and the wind is never weary.”
I have just come in from church very hot and faded… . Our church grows interesting—Zion lifts her head—I overhear remarks signifying Jerusalem,—I do not feel at liberty to say any more to-day!
… I wanted to write you Friday, the night of Jennie Lind, but reaching home past midnight, and my room sometime after, encountering several perils starting and on the way, among which a kicking horse, an inexperienced driver, a number of Jove’s thunderbolts, and a very terrible rain, are worthy to have record. All of us went—just four—add an absent individual and that will make full five. The concert commenced at eight, but knowing the world was hollow we thought we’d start at six, and come up with everybody that meant to come up with us; we had proceeded some steps when one of the beasts showed symptoms; and just by the blacksmith’s shop exercises commenced, consisting of kicking and plunging on the part of the horse, and whips and moral suasion from the gentleman who drove—the horse refused to proceed, and your respected family with much chagrin dismounted, advanced to the hotel, and for a season halted; another horse procured, we were politely invited to take our seats, and proceed, which we refused to do till the animal was warranted. About half through our journey thunder was said to be heard, and a suspicious cloud came travelling up the sky. What words express our horror when rain began to fall, in drops, sheets, cataracts—what fancy conceive of drippings and of drenchings which we met on the way; how the stage and its mourning captives drew up at Warner’s Hotel; how all of us alighted, and were conducted in,—how the rain did not abate,—how we walked in silence to the old Edwards church1 and took our seats in the same—how Jennie came out like a child and sang and sang again—how bouquets fell in showers, and the roof was rent with applause—how it thundered outside, and inside with the thunder of God and of men—judge ye which was the loudest; how we all loved Jennie Lind, but not accustomed oft to her manner of singing didn’t fancy that so well as we did her. No doubt it was very fine, but take some notes from her Echo, the bird sounds from the Bird Song, and some of her curious trills, and I’d rather have a Yankee.
Herself and not her music was what we seemed to love —she has an air of exile in her mild blue eyes, and a something sweet and touching in her native accent which charms her many friends. Give me my thatched cottage as she sang she grew so earnest she seemed half lost in song, and for a transient time I fancied she had found it and would be seen “na mair”; and then her foreign accent made her again a wanderer—we will talk about her sometime when you come. Father sat all the evening looking mad, and yet so much amused you would have died a-laughing… . It wasn’t sarcasm exactly, nor it wasn’t disdain, it was infinitely funnier than either of those virtues, as if old Abraham had come to see the show, and thought it was all very well, but a little excess of monkey! She took $4,000 for tickets at Northampton aside from all expenses… .
About our coming to Boston—we think we shall probably come—we want to see our friends, yourself and Aunt L.’s family. We don’t care a fig for the Museum, the stillness, or Jennie Lind… . Love from us all.
KATIE,—Last year at this time I did not miss you, but positions shifted, until I hold your black in strong hallowed remembrance, and trust my colors are to you tints slightly beloved.
You cease, indeed, to talk, which is a custom prevalent among things parted and torn, but shall I class this, dear, among elect exceptions, and bear you just as usual unto the kind Lord?
We dignify our faith when we can cross the ocean with it, though most prefer ships.
How do you do this year? … How many years, I wonder, will sow the moss upon them, before we bind again, a little altered, it may be, elder a little it will be, and yet the same, as suns which shine between our lives and loss, and violets—not last year’s, but having the mother’s eyes.
Do you find plenty of food at home? Famine is unpleasant.
It is too late for frogs—or what pleases me better, dear, not quite early enough! The pools were full of you for a brief period, but that brief period blew away, leaving me with many stems, and but a few foliage! Gentlemen here have a way of plucking the tops of the trees, and putting the fields in their cellars annually, which in point of taste is execrable, and would they please omit, I should have fine vegetation and foliage all the year round, and never a winter month. Insanity to the sane seems so unnecessary —but I am only one, and they are “four and forty,” which little affair of numbers leaves me impotent. Aside from this, dear Katie, inducements to visit Amherst are as they were—I am pleasantly located in the deep sea, but love will row you out, if her hands are strong, and don’t wait till I land, for I’m going ashore on the other side.
God bless you, dear Mrs. Holland! I read it in the paper.
I’m so glad it’s a little boy, since now the little sisters have some one to draw them on the sled—and if a grand old lady you should live to be, there’s something sweet, they say, in a son’s arm.
I pray for the tenants of that holy chamber, the wrestler, and the wrestled for. I pray for distant father’s heart, swollen, happy heart!
Saviour keep them all!
MARY,—I do not know of you, a long while. I remember you—several times. I wish I knew if you kept me? The doubt, like the mosquito, buzzes round my faith. We are all human, Mary, until we are divine, and to some of us, that is far off, and to some as near as the lady ringing at the door; perhaps that’s what alarms. I say I will go myself—I cross the river, and climb the fence—now I am at the gate, Mary—now I am in the hall—now I am looking your heart in the eye!
Did it wait for me—did it go with the company? Cruel company, who have the stocks, and farms, and creeds —and it has just its heart! I hope you are glad, Mary; no pebble in the brook to-day—no film on noon.
I can think how you look; you can’t think how I look; I’ve got more freckles, since you saw me, playing with the school-boys; then I pare the “Juneating” to make the pie, and get my fingers “tanned.”
Summer went very fast—she got as far as the woman from the hill, who brings the blueberry, and that is a long way. I shall have no winter this year, on account of the soldiers. Since I cannot weave blankets or boots, I thought it best to omit the season. Shall present a “memorial” to God when the maples turn. Can I rely on your “name”?
How is your garden, Mary? Are the pinks true, and the sweet williams faithful? I’ve got a geranium like a sultana, and when the hummingbirds come down, geranium and I shut our eyes, and go far away.
Ask “Mamie” if I shall catch her a butterfly with a vest like a Turk? I will, if she will build him a house in her “morning-glory.”
Vinnie would send her love, but she put on a white frock, and went to meet to-morrow—a few minutes ago; mother would send her love, but she is in the “eave spout,” sweeping up a leaf that blew in last November; I brought my own, myself, to you and Mr. Bowles.
Please remember me, because I remember you—always.
Then follows the poem beginning “My river runs to thee,” published in the First Series of the Poems.
Don’t cry, dear Mary. Let us do that for you, because you are too tired now. We don’t know how dark it is, but if you are at sea, perhaps when we say that we are there, you won’t be as afraid.
The waves are very big, but every one that covers you, covers us, too.
Dear Mary, you can’t see us, but we are close at your side. May we comfort you?
Had you never spoken to any, dear, they would not upbraid you, but think of you more softly, as one who had suffered too much to speak. To forget you would be impossible, had we never seen you; for you were his for whom we moan while consciousness remains. As he was himself Eden, he is with Eden, for we cannot become what we were not.
I felt it sweet that you needed me—though but a simple shelter I will always last. I hope your boys and girls assist his dreadful absence, for sorrow does not stand so still on their flying hearts.
How fondly we hope they look like him—that his beautiful face may be abroad.
Was not his countenance on earth graphic as a spirit’s? The time will be long till you see him, dear, but it will be short, for have we not each our heart to dress—heavenly as his?
He is without doubt with my father. Thank you for thinking of him, and the sweet, last respect you so faithfully paid him.
Mother is growing better, though she cannot stand, and has not the power to raise her head for a glass of water. She thanks you for being sorry, and speaks of you with love… . Your timid “for his sake,” recalls that sheltering passage, “for his sake who loved us, and gave himself to die for us.”
DEAR CHILDREN,—When I think of your little faces I feel as the band does before it makes its first shout… .
… I know I love my friends—I feel it far in here where neither blue nor black eye goes, and fingers cannot reach. I know ‘tis love for them that sets the blister in my throat, many a time a day, when winds go sweeter than their wont, or a different cloud puts my brain from home.
I cannot see my soul, but know ‘tis there, Nor ever saw his house nor furniture, Who has invited me with him to dwell; But a confiding guest consult as well, What raiment honor him the most, That I be adequately dressed, For he insures to none Lest men specifical adorn Procuring him perpetual drest By dating it a sudden feast.
Love for the glad if you know them, for the sad if they know you.
… I open my window, and it fills the chamber with white dirt. I think God must be dusting; and the wind blows so I expect to read in The Republican “Cautionary signals for Amherst,” or “No ships ventured out from Phoenix Row.” … Life is so rotatory that the wilderness falls to each, sometime. It is safe to remember that… .
… A tone from the old bells, perhaps, might wake the children.
We send the wave to find the wave, An errand so divine The messenger enamored too, Forgetting to return, We make the sage decision still Soever made in vain, The only time to dam the sea Is when the sea is gone.
Would it be prudent to subject an apparitional interview to a grosser test?
The Bible portentously says “that which is spirit is spirit.”
Go not too near a house of rose, The depredation of a breeze Or inundation of a dew Alarm its walls away; Nor try to tie the butterfly, Nor climb the bars of ecstasy, In insecurity to lie Is joy’s insuring quality.
“My country, ‘tis of thee,”
has always meant the woods to me.
“Sweet land of liberty,”
I trust is your own.
How dare a tear intrude on so sweet a cheek?
Gentlest of neighbors, recall the “sparrows” and the great Logician.
DEAR FRIEND,—I had hoped to see you, but have no grace to talk, and my own words so chill and burn me that the temperature of other minds is too new an awe.
We shun it ere it comes, Afraid of joy, Then sue it to delay, And lest it fly Beguile it more and more. May not this be, Old suitor Heaven, Like our dismay at thee?
Expulsion from Eden grows indistinct in the presence of flowers so blissful, and with no disrespect to Genesis, Paradise remains.
Beaconsfield says “the time has now come when it must be decided forever, who possesses the great gates to India.”
I think it must be my neighbor.