One Sister have I in our house -
And one, a hedge away.
There’s only one recorded,
But both belong to me.
One came the road that I came -
And wore my last year’s gown -
The other, as a bird her nest,
Builded our hearts among.
She did not sing as we did -
It was a different tune -
Herself to her a music
As Bumble bee of June.
Today is far from Childhood -
But up and down the hills
I held her hand the tighter -
Which shortened all the miles -
And still her hum
The year among,
Deceives the Butterfly;
Still in her Eye
The Violets lie
Mouldered this many May.
I spilt the dew -
But took the morn;
I chose this single star
18
From out the wide night’s numbers -
Sue - forevermore!
Una Sorella ho nella nostra casa -
E una, a una siepe di distanza.
Una sola è registrata,
Ma entrambe mi appartengono.
Una venne per la strada che feci io -
E portò la mia veste dell’anno scorso -
L’altra, come un uccello il nido,
Costruì fra i nostri cuori.
Lei non cantava come noi -
Era una melodia diversa -
Se stessa a sé una musica
Come Bombo di giugno.
Oggi è lontano dall’Infanzia -
Ma su e giù per le colline
Le tenni la mano più stretta -
Il che accorciò tutte le miglia -
E ancora il suo ronzio
Lungo l’anno,
Inganna la Farfalla;
Ancora nel suo Occhio
Le Violette giacciono
Marcite da tanti Maggi.
Versai la rugiada -
Ma presi il mattino;
Scelsi quest’unica stella
18
Fra le schiere della vasta notte -
Sue - per sempre!
I had a guinea golden -
I lost it in the sand -
And tho’ the sum was simple
And pounds were in the land -
Still, had it such a value
Unto my frugal eye -
That when I could not find it-
I sat me down to sigh.
I had a crimson Robin -
Who sang full many a day
But when the woods were painted -
He - too - did fly away -
Time brought me other Robins -
Their ballads were the same -
Still, for my missing Troubadour
I kept the “house at hame”.
I had a star in heaven -
One “Pleiad” was it’s name -
And when I was not heeding,
It wandered from the same -
And tho’ the skies are crowded -
And all the night ashine -
I do not care about it -
Since none of them are mine -
My story has a moral -
I have a missing friend -
“Pleiad” it’s name - and Robin -
And guinea in the sand -
28
And when this mournful ditty
Accompanied with tear -
Shall meet the eye of traitor
In country far from here -
Grant that repentance solemn
May seize opon his mind -
And he no consolation
Beneath the sun may find.
Avevo una ghinea dorata -
La persi nella sabbia -
E benché la somma fosse semplice
E di sterline ve ne fossero nel paese -
Pure, aveva un tale valore
Per il mio occhio frugale -
Che quando non potei trovarla -
Mi sedetti a sospirare.
Avevo un Pettirosso cremisi -
Che cantò per molti e molti giorni
Ma quando i boschi furono dipinti -
Anche - lui - volò via -
Il Tempo mi portò altri Pettirossi -
Le loro ballate erano le stesse -
Pure, per il mio Trovatore perduto
Tenni la “casa at hame”.
Avevo una stella in cielo -
“Pleiade” era il suo nome -
E quando non badavo,
Se ne vagò via -
E benché i cieli siano affollati -
E tutta la notte splendente -
Non me ne curo -
Poiché nessuna di loro è mia -
La mia storia ha una morale -
Ho un amico perduto -
“Pleiade” il suo nome - e Pettirosso -
E ghinea nella sabbia -
28
E quando questa mesta canzoncina
Accompagnata da lacrime -
Incontrerà l’occhio del traditore
In un paese lontano da qui -
Fate che un pentimento solenne
S’impadronisca della sua mente -
E che egli nessuna consolazione
Sotto il sole possa trovare.
My friend attacks my friend!
Oh Battle picturesque!
Then I turn Soldier too,
And he turns Satirist!
How martial is this place!
Had I a mighty gun
I think I’d shoot the human race
And then to glory run!
Il mio amico attacca il mio amico!
Oh Battaglia pittoresca!
Allora anch’io mi faccio Soldato,
E lui si fa Satirico!
Com’è marziale questo luogo!
Avessi un possente fucile
Credo che sparerei al genere umano
E poi correrei alla gloria!
HER SIDE,
When Katie walks, this simple pair accompany her side,
When Katie runs unwearied they follow on the road,
When Katie kneels, their loving hands still clasp her pious knee —
Ah! Katie! Smile at Fortune, with two so knit to thee!
IL SUO FIANCO,
Quando Katie cammina, questa semplice coppia accompagna il suo fianco,
Quando Katie corre instancabile la seguono sulla strada,
Quando Katie s’inginocchia, le loro mani amorose stringono ancora il suo pio ginocchio —
Ah! Katie! Sorridi alla Fortuna, con due a te così uniti!
WERE BORN TODAY
Lest any doubt that we are glad that they were born Today
Whose having lived is held by us in noble Holiday
Without the date, like Consciousness or Immortality —
NACQUERO OGGI
Perché nessuno dubiti che siamo lieti che siano nati Oggi
Il cui esser vissuti noi serbiamo in nobile Festa
Senza la data, come la Coscienza o l’Immortalità —
To see her is a Picture —
To hear her is a Tune —
To know her an Intemperance
As innocent as June —
To know her not — Affliction —
To own her for a Friend
A warmth as near as if the Sun
Were shining in your Hand.
Vederla è un Quadro —
Udirla è una Melodia —
Conoscerla un’Intemperanza
innocente come Giugno —
Non conoscerla — Afflizione —
Averla per Amica
Un calore così vicino come se il Sole
Splendesse nella tua Mano.
March 15, 1847 Sabbath Eve
EVER DEAR A.,—… We have spent our vacation of a fortnight, and school has commenced again since you wrote me. I go this term, and am studying Algebra, Euclid, Ecclesiastical History, and. reviewing Arithmetic again to be upon the safe side of things next autumn. We have a delightful school this term under the instruction of our former principals, and Miss R. Woodbridge, daughter of Rev. Dr. W. of Hadley, for preceptress. We all love her very much. Perhaps a slight description of her might be interesting to my dear A. She is tall and rather slender, but finely proportioned, has a most witching pair of blue eyes, rich brown hair, delicate complexion, cheeks which vie with the opening rose-bud, teeth like pearls, dimples which come and go like the ripples in yonder little merry brook, and then she is so affectionate and lovely. Forgive my glowing description, for you know I am always in love with my teachers. Yet, much as we love her, it seems lonely and strange without “our dear Miss Adams.” I suppose you know that she has left Amherst, not again to return as a teacher. It is indeed true that she is to be married. Are you not astonished? Nothing was known but that she was to return to the school, until a few days before she left for Syracuse, where she has gone to make her “wedding gear.” She is to be married the first of next April, to a very respectable lawyer in Conway, Massachusetts. She seemed to be very happy in anticipation of her future prospects, and I hope she will realize all her fond hopes. I cannot bear to think that she will never more wield the sceptre and sit upon the throne in our venerable schoolhouse, and yet I am glad she is going to have a home of her own, and a kind companion to take life’s journey with her. I am delighted that she is to live so near us, for we can ride up and see her often. You cannot imagine how much I enjoyed your description of your Christmas fête at Miss Campbell’s. How magnificent the “Christmas tree” must have been, and what a grand time you must have had, so many of you! Oh!!
I had a great many presents, Christmas and New Year’s holidays, both, but we had no such celebration of the former which you describe… . Do write me soon—a long letter—and tell me how soon you are coming, and how long we can keep you when you come. Your affectionate
MY DEAR A.,—I am really at Mount Holyoke Seminary, and this is to be my home for a long year. Your affectionate letter was joyfully received, and I wish that this might make you as happy as yours did me. It has been nearly six weeks since I left home, and that is a longer time than I was ever away from home before now. I was very homesick for a few days, and it seemed to me I could not live here. But I am now contented and quite happy, if I can be happy when absent from my dear home and friends. You may laugh at the idea that I cannot be happy when away from home, but you must remember that I have a very dear home and that this is my first trial in the way of absence for any length of time in my life. As you desire it, I will give you a full account of myself since I first left the paternal roof. I came to South Hadley six weeks ago next Thursday. I was much fatigued with the ride, and had a severe cold besides, which prevented me from commencing my examinations until the next day, when I began. I finished them in three days, and found them about what I had anticipated, though the old scholars say they are more strict than they ever have been before. As you can easily imagine, I was much delighted to finish without failures, and I came to the conclusion then, that I should not be at all homesick, but the reaction left me as homesick a girl as it is not usual to see. I am now quite contented and am very much occupied in reviewing the Junior studies, as I wish to enter the middle class. The school is very large, and though quite a number have left, on account of finding the examinations more difficult than they anticipated, yet there are nearly 300 now. Perhaps you know that Miss Lyon is raising her standard of scholarship a good deal, on account of the number of applicants this year, and she makes the examinations more severe than usual.
You cannot imagine how trying they are, because if we cannot go through them all in a specified time, we are sent home. I cannot be too thankful that I got through as soon as I did, and I am sure that I never would endure the suspense which I endured during those three days again for all the treasures of the world.
I room with my cousin Emily, who is a Senior. She is an excellent room-mate, and does all in her power to make me happy. You can imagine how pleasant a good room-mate is, for you have been away to school so much. Everything is pleasant and happy here, and I think I could be no happier at any other school away from home. Things seem much more like home than I anticipated, and the teachers are all very kind and affectionate to us. They call on us frequently and urge us to return their calls, and when we do, we always receive a cordial welcome from them. I will tell you my order of time for the day, as you were so kind as to give me yours. At 6 o’clock we all rise. We breakfast at 7. Our study hours begin at 8. At 9 we all meet in Seminary Hall for devotions. At 10¼ I recite a review of Ancient History, in connection with which we read Goldsmith and Grimshaw. At 11, I recite a lesson in Pope’s Essay on Man, which is merely transposition. At 12 I practise calisthenics, and at 12¼ read until dinner, which is at 12½, and after dinner, from 1½ until 2, I sing in Seminary Hall. From 2¾ until 3¾ I practise upon the piano. At 3¾ I go to Sections, where we give in all our accounts for the day, including absence, tardiness, communications, breaking silent study hours, receiving company in our rooms, and ten thousand other things which I will not take time or place to mention. At 4½ we go into Seminary Hall and receive advice from Miss Lyon in the form of a lecture. We have supper at 6, and silent study hours from then until the retiring bell, which rings at 8¾, but the tardy bell does not ring until 9¾, so that we don’t often obey the first warning to retire. Unless we have a good and reasonable excuse for failure upon any of the items that I mentioned above, they are recorded and a black mark stands against our names. As you can easily imagine, we do not like very well to get ‘exceptions,’ as they are called scientifically here.
My domestic work is not difficult and consists in carrying the knives from the first tier of tables at morning and noon, and at night washing and wiping the same quantity of knives. I am quite well and hope to be able to spend the year here, free from sickness. You have probably heard many reports of the food here; and if so, I can tell you that I have yet seen nothing corresponding to my ideas on that point from what I have heard. Everything is wholesome and abundant and much nicer than I should imagine could be provided for almost 300 girls. We have also a great variety upon our tables and frequent changes. One thing is certain, and that is, that Miss Lyon and all the teachers seem to consult our comfort and happiness in everything they do, and you know that is pleasant. When I left home I did not think I should find a companion or a dear friend in all the multitude. I expected to find rough and uncultivated manners, and, to be sure, I have found some of that stamp, but on the whole, there is an ease and grace, a desire to make one another happy, which delights and at the same time surprises me very much. I find no Abby nor Abiah nor Mary, but I love many of the girls. Austin came to see me when I had been here about two weeks, and brought Viny and A. need not tell you how delighted I was to see them all, nor how happy it made me to hear them say that “they were so lonely.” It is a sweet feeling to know that you are missed and that your memory is precious at home. This week, on Wednesday, I was at my window,: when I happened to look towards the hotel and saw father and mother, walking over here as dignified as you please. I need not tell you that I danced and clapped my hands, and flew to meet them, for you can imagine how I felt. I will only ask you, do you love your parents? They wanted to surprise me, and for that reason did not let me know they were coming. I could not bear to have them go, but go they must, and so I submitted in sadness. Only to think that in 2½ weeks I shall be at my own dear home again. You will probably go home at Thanksgiving time, and we can rejoice with each other.
You don’t [know] how I laughed at your description of your introduction to Daniel Webster, and I read that part of your letter to cousin Emily. You must feel quite proud of the acquaintance, and will not, I hope, be vain in consequence. However, you don’t know Governor Briggs, and I do, so you are no better off than I… . A., you must write me often, and I shall write you as often as I have time… .
P. S. My studies for this series are Astronomy and Rhetoric, which take me through to the Senior studies. What are you studying now, if you are in school, and do you attend to music? I practise only one hour a day this term.
Although nearly two years elapse between the last letter and the following, the handwriting is quite unaltered, being still exceedingly small and clear, and averaging twenty words to a line.
VERY DEAR A.,—The folks have all gone away; they thought that they left me alone, and contrived things to amuse me should they stay long, and I be lonely. Lonely, indeed,—they didn’t look, and they couldn’t have seen if they had, who should bear me company. Three here, instead of one, wouldn’t it scare them? A curious trio, part earthly and part spiritual two of us, the other, all heaven, and no earth. God is sitting here, looking into my very soul to see if I think right thoughts. Yet I am not afraid, for I try to be right and good; and He knows every one of my struggles. He looks very gloriously, and everything bright seems dull beside Him; and I don’t dare to look directly at Him for fear I shall die. Then you are here, dressed in that quiet black gown and cap,—that funny little cap I used to laugh at you about,—and you don’t appear to be thinking about anything in particular,—not in one of your breaking-dish moods, I take it. You seem aware that I’m writing you, and are amused, I should think, at any such friendly manifestation when you are already present. Success, however, even in making a fool of myself, isn’t to be despised; so I shall persist in writing, and you may in laughing at me,—if you are fully aware of the value of time as regards your immortal spirit. I can’t say that I advise you to laugh; but if you are punished, and I warned you, that can be no business of mine. So I fold up my arms, and leave you to fate—may it deal very kindly with you! The trinity winds up with me, as you may have surmised, and I certainly wouldn’t be at the fag-end but for civility to you. This self-sacrificing spirit will be the ruin of me!
I am occupied principally with a cold just now, and the dear creature will have so much attention that my time slips away amazingly. It has heard so much of New Englanders, of their kind attentions to strangers, that it’s come all the way from the Alps to determine the truth of the tale. It says the half wasn’t told it, and I begin to be afraid it wasn’t. Only think—came all the way from that distant Switzerland to find what was the truth! Neither husband, protector, nor friend accompanied it, and so utter a state of loneliness gives friends if nothing else. You are dying of curiosity; let me arrange that pillow to make your exit easier. I stayed at home all Saturday afternoon, and treated some disagreeable people who insisted upon calling here as tolerably as I could; when evening shades began to fall, I turned upon my heel, and walked. Attracted by the gayety visible in the street, I still kept walking till a little creature pounced upon a thin shawl I wore, and commenced riding. I stopped, and begged the creature to alight, as I was fatigued already, and quite unable to assist others. It wouldn’t get down, and commenced talking to itself: “Can’t be New England—must have made some mistake—disappointed in my reception—don’t agree with accounts. Oh, what a world of deception and fraud! Marm, will you tell me the name of this country—it’s Asia Minor, isn’t it? I intended to stop in New England.” By this time I was so completely exhausted that I made no further effort to rid me of my load, and travelled home at a moderate jog, paying no attention whatever to it, got into the house, threw off both bonnet and shawl, and out flew my tormentor, and putting both arms around my neck, began to kiss me immoderately, and express so much love it completely bewildered me. Since then it has slept in my bed, eaten from my plate, lived with me everywhere, and will tag me through life for all I know. I think I’ll wake first, and get out of bed, and leave it; but early or late, it is dressed before me, and sits on the side of the bed looking right into my face with such a comical expression it almost makes me laugh in spite of myself. I can’t call it interesting, but it certainly is curious, has two peculiarities which would quite win your heart,—a huge pocket-handkerchief and a very red nose. The first seems so very abundant, it gives you the idea of independence and prosperity in business. The last brings up the “jovial bowl, my boys,” and such an association’s worth the having. If if ever gets tired of me, I will forward it to you—you would love it for my sake, if not for its own; it will tell you some queer stories about me, —how I sneezed so loud one night that the family thought the last trump was sounding, and climbed into the currant-bushes to get out of the way; how the rest of the people, arrayed in long night-gowns, folded their arms, and were waiting; but this is a wicked story,—it can tell some better ones. Now, my dear friend, let me tell you that these last thoughts are fictions,—vain imaginations to lead astray foolish young women. They are flowers of speech; they both make and tell deliberate falsehoods; avoid them as the snake, and turn aside as from the rattle-snake, and I don’t think you will be harmed. Honestly, though, a snakebite is a serious matter, and there can’t be too much said or done about it. The big serpent bites the deepest; and we get so accustomed to its bites that we don’t mind about them. “Verily I say unto you, fear him.” Won’t you read some work upon snakes?—I have a real anxiety for you. I love those little green ones that slide around by your shoes in the grass, and make it rustle with their elbows; they are rather my favorites on the whole; but I wouldn’t influence you for the world. There is an air of misanthropy about the striped snake that will commend itself at once to your taste,—there is no monotony about it—but we will more of this again. Something besides severe colds and serpents, and we will try to find that something. It can’t be a garden, can it? or a strawberry-bed, which rather belongs to a garden; nor it can’t be a schoolhouse, nor an attorney-at-law. Oh, dear! I don’t know what it is. Love for the absent don’t sound like it; but try it, and see how it goes.
I miss you very much indeed; think of you at night when the world’s nodding, nid, nid, nodding—think of you in the daytime when the cares of the world, and its toils, and its continual vexations choke up the love for friends in some of our hearts; remember your warnings sometimes—try to do as you told me sometimes—and sometimes conclude it’s no use to try; then my heart says it is, and new trial is followed by disappointment again. I wondered, when you had gone, why we didn’t talk more,—it wasn’t for want of a subject; it never could be for that. Too many, perhaps,—such a crowd of people that nobody heard the speaker, and all went away discontented. You astonished me in the outset, perplexed me in the continuance, and wound up in a grand snarl I shall be all my pilgrimage unravelling. Rather a dismal prospect certainly; but “it’s always the darkest the hour before day,” and this earlier sunset promises an earlier rise—a sun in splendor—and glory, flying out of its purple nest. Wouldn’t you love to see God’s bird, when it first tries its wings? If you were here I would tell you something—several somethings—which have happened since you went away; but time and space, as usual, oppose themselves, and I put my treasures away till “we two meet again.” The hope that I shall continue in love towards you, and vice versa, will sustain me till then. If you are thinking soon to go away, and to show your face no more, just inform me, will you? I would have the “long, lingering look,” which you cast behind,—it would be an invaluable addition to my treasures, and “keep your memory green.” “Lord, keep all our memories green,” and help on our affection, and tie the “link that doth us bind” in a tight bow-knot that will keep it from separation, and stop us from growing old; if that is impossible, make old age pleasant to us, put its arms around us kindly, and when we go home, let that home be called heaven.
DEAR AUSTIN,—… I have read Ellen Middleton. I needn’t tell you I like it, nor need I tell you more, for you know already.
I thank you more and more for all the pleasures you give me—I can give you nothing, Austin, but a warm and grateful heart that is yours now and always. Love from all.
…, We have been free from company by the “Amherst and Belchertown Railroad” since J. went home, though we live in constant fear of some other visitation. “Oh, would some power the giftie gie” folks to see themselves as we see them.—Burns.
I have read the poems, Austin, and am going to read them again. They please me very much, but I must read them again before I know just what I think of “Alexander Smith.” They are not very coherent, but there’s a good deal of exquisite frenzy, and some wonderful figures as ever I met in my life. We will talk about it again. The grove, looks nicely, Austin, and we think must certainly grow. We love to go there—it is a charming place. Everything is singing now, and everything is beautiful that can be in its life… . The time for the New London trip has not been fixed upon. I sincerely wish it may wait until you get home from Cambridge if you would like to go.
The cars continue thriving—a good many passengers seem to arrive from somewhere, though nobody knows from where. Father expects his new buggy to arrive by the cars every day now, and that will help a little. I expect all our grandfathers and all their country cousins will come here to spend Commencement, and don’t doubt the stock will rise several per cent that week. If we children could obtain board for the week in some “vast wilderness,” I think we should have good times. Our house is crowded daily with the members of this world, the high and the low, the bond and the free, the “poor in this world’s goods,” and the “almighty dollar”; and what in the world they are after continues to be unknown. But I hope they will pass away as insects or vegetation, and let us reap together in golden harvest time. You and I and our sister Vinnie must have a pleasant time to be unmolested together when your school-days end. You must come home from school, not stopping to play by the way… . We all send our love to you, and miss you very much, and think of seeing you again very much. Write me again soon. I have said a good deal to-day.
The first letter was written in 1848; the others at intervals until 1853. Though placed in order, they were not dated by Mrs. Ford.
… When I am as old as you, and have had so many friends, perhaps they won’t seem so precious, and then I sha’n’t write any more little billets-doux like these, but you will forgive me now, because I can’t find many so dear to me as you. Then I know I can’t have you always; some day a “brave dragoon” will be stealing you away, and I will have farther to go to discover you at all, so I shall recollect all these sweet opportunities, and feel so sorry if I didn’t improve them… .
About this time (December, 1849), the following little note was sent to Mr. Bowdoin, a law student in Mr. Dickinson’s office, “on returning Jane Eyre.” The leaves mentioned were box leaves.
I have just come home from meeting, where I have been all day, and it makes me so happy to think of writing you that I forget the sermon and minister and all, and think of none but you… . Imiss you always, dear Emily, and I think now and then that I can’t stay without you, and half make up my mind to make a little bundle of all my earthly things, bid my blossoms and home good-by, and set out on foot to find you. But we have so much matter of fact here that I don’t dare to go, so I keep on sighing, and wishing you were here.
I know you would be happier amid this darling spring than in ever so kind a city, and you would get well much faster drinking our morning dew—and the world here is so beautiful, and things so sweet and fair, that your heart would be soothed and comforted.
I would tell you about the spring if I thought it might persuade you even now to return, but every bud and bird would only afflict you and make you sad where you are, so not one word of the robins, and not one word of the bloom, lest it make the city darker, and your own home more dear.
But nothing forgets you, Emily, not a blossom, not a bee; for in the merriest flower there is a pensive air, and in the bonniest bee a sorrow—they know that you are gone, they know how well you loved them, and in their little faces is sadness, and in their mild eyes, tears. But another spring, dear friend, you must and shall be here, and nobody can take you away, for I will hide you and keep you—and who would think of taking you if I hold you tight in my arms?
Your home looks very silent—I try to think of things funny, and turn the other way when I am passing near, for sure I am that looking would make my heart too heavy, and make my eyes so dim. How I do long once more to hear the household voices, and see you there at twilight sitting in the door—and I shall when the leaves fall, sha’n’t I, and the crickets begin to sing?
You must not think sad thoughts, dear Emily. I fear you are doing so, from your sweet note to me, and it almost breaks my heart to have you so far away, where I cannot comforts you.
All will be well, I know, and I know all will be happy, and I so wish I was near to convince my dear friend so. I want very much to hear how Mr. Ford is now. I hope you will tell me, for it’s a good many weeks since I have known anything of him. You and he may come this way any summer; and how I hope he may—and I shall pray for him, and for you, and for your home on earth, which will be next the one in heaven.
… Father told me you were going. I wept for the little plants, but rejoiced for you. Had I loved them as well as I did, I could have begged you to stay with them, but they are foreigners now, and all, a foreigner. I have been sick so long I do not know the sun. I hope they may be alive, for home would be strange except them, now the world is dead.
A——N——lives here since Saturday, and two new people more, a person and his wife, so I do little but fly, yet always find a nest. I shall go home in two weeks. You will get me at Palmer?
Love for E——and Mr. D——.
“Whom seeing not, we” clasp.
DEAR MR. BOWLES,—I got the little pamphlet. I think you sent it to me, though unfamiliar with your hand—I may mistake.
Thank you, if I am right. Thank you, if not, since here I find bright pretext to ask you how you are to-night, and for the health of four more, elder and minor Mary, Sallie and Sam, tenderly to inquire.
I hope your cups are full.
I hope your vintage is untouched. In such a porcelain life one likes to be sure that all is well lest one stumble upon one’s hopes in a pile of broken crockery.
My friends are my estate. Forgive me then the avarice to hoard them! They tell me those were poor early have different views of gold. I don’t know how that is.
God is not so wary as we, else He would give us no friends, lest we forget Him! The charms of the heaven in the bush are superseded, I fear, by the heaven in the hand, occasionally.
Summer stopped since you were here. Nobody noticed her—that is, no men and women. Doubtless, the fields are rent by petite anguish, and “mourners go about” the woods. But this is not for us. Business enough indeed, our stately resurrection! A special courtesy, I judge, from what the clergy say! To the “natural man” bumblebees would seem an improvement, and a spicing of birds, but far be it from me to impugn such majestic tastes!
Our pastor says we are a “worm.” How is that reconciled? “Vain, sinful worm” is possibly of another species.
Do you think we shall “see God”? Think of Abraham strolling with Him in genial promenade!
The men are mowing the second hay. The cocks are smaller than the first, and spicier. I would distil a cup, and bear to all my friends, drinking to her no more astir, by beck, or burn, or moor!
Good-night, Mr. Bowles. This is what they say who come back in the morning; also the closing paragraph on repealed lips. Confidence in daybreak modifies dusk.
Blessings for Mrs. Bowles, and kisses for the bairns’ lips. We want to see you, Mr. Bowles, but spare you the rehearsal of “familiar truths.”
DEAR FRIEND,—Had we the art like you, to endow so many, by just recovering our health, ‘twould give us tender pride, nor could we keep the news, but carry it to you, who seem to us to own it most.
So few that live have life, it seems of quick importance not one of those escape by death. And since you gave us fear, congratulate us for ourselves—you give us safer peace.
How extraordinary that life’s large population contain so few of power to us—and those a vivid species who leave no mode, like Tyrian dye.
Remembering these minorities, permit our gratitude for you. We ask that you be cautious, for many sakes, excelling ours. To recapitulate the stars were useless as supreme. Yourself is yours, dear friend, but ceded, is it not, to here and there a minor life? Do not defraud these, for gold may be bought, and purple may be bought, but the sale of the spirit never did occur.
Do not yet work. No public so exorbitant of any as its friend, and we can wait your health. Besides, there is an idleness more tonic than toil.
The loss of sickness—was it loss? Or that ethereal gain You earned by measuring the grave, Then measuring the sun.
Be sure, dear friend, for want you have estates of lives.
If she had been the mistletoe, And I had been the rose, How gay upon your table My velvet life to close! Since I am of the Druid, And she is of the dew, I’ll deck tradition’s buttonhole, And send the rose to you.
E.
DEAR MR. BOWLES,—I can’t thank you any more. You are thoughtful so many times you grieve me always; now the old words are numb, and there aren’t any new ones.
Brooks are useless in freshet time. When you come to Amherst—please God it were to-day—I will tell you about the picture—if I can, I will.
Speech is a prank of Parliament, Tears a trick of the nerve,— But the heart with the heaviest freight on Doesn’t always swerve.
Besides the verses given here, many others were sent to Mr. and Mrs. Bowles, as to the Hollands, which, having already been published in one or the other volume of the Poems, will not be reprinted.
DEAR FRIENDS,—I am sorry you came, because you went away.
Hereafter, I will pick no rose, lest it fade or prick me.
I would like to have you dwell here.
Though it is almost nine o’clock, the skies are gay and yellow, and there’s a purple craft or so, in which a friend could sail. To-night looks like “Jerusalem”! … I hope we may all behave so as to reach Jerusalem.
How are your hearts to-day? Ours are pretty well. I hope your tour was bright, and gladdened Mrs. Bowles. Perhaps the retrospect will call you back some morning.
You shall find us all at the gate if you come in a hundred years, just as we stood that day. If it become of “jasper” previously, you will not object, so that we lean there still, looking after you.
I rode with Austin this morning. He showed me mountains that touched the sky, and brooks that sang like bobolinks. Was he not very kind? I will give them to you, for they are mine, and “all things are mine,” excepting “Cephas and Apollos,” for whom I have no taste. Vinnie’s love brims mine.
DEAR MRS. BOWLES,—Since I have no sweet flower to send you, I enclose my heart. A little one, sunburnt, half broken sometimes, yet close as the spaniel to its friends. Your flowers come from heaven, to which, if I should ever go, I will pluck you palms.
My words are far away when I attempt to thank you, so take the silver tear instead, from my full eye.
You have often remembered me.
I have little dominion. Are there not wiser than I, who, with curious treasure, could requite your gift?
Angels fill the hand that loaded
DEAR FRIEND,—Vinnie accidentally mentions that you hesitated between the Theophilus and the Junius.
Would you confer so sweet a favor as to accept that too, when you come again?
I went to the room as soon as you left, to confirm your presence, recalling the Psalmist’s sonnet to God beginning
I have no life but this— To lead it here, Nor any death but lest Dispelled from there. Nor tie to earths to come, Nor action new, Except through this extent— The love of you.
It is strange that the most intangible thing is the most adhesive.
How lovely to remember! How tenderly they told of you! Sweet toil for smitten hands to console the smitten!
Labors as endeared may engross our lost. Buds of other days quivered in remembrance. Hearts of other days lent their solemn charm.
Life of flowers lain in Sowers—what a home of dew! And the bough of ivy; was it as you said? Shall I plant it softly?
There were little feet, white as alabaster.
Dare I chill them with the soil?
Nature is our eldest mother, she will do no harm.
Let the phantom love that enrolls the sparrow shield you softer than a child.
Bravo, L——, the cape is a beauty, and what shall I render unto F——, for all her benefits? I will take my books and go into a corner and give thanks! Do you think I am going “upon the boards” that I wish so smart attire? Such are my designs, though. I beg you not to disclose them! May I not secure L——for drama, and F——for comedy? You are a brace of darlings, and it would give me joy to see you both, in any capacity… . Will treasure all till I see you. Never fear that I shall forget! In event of my decease, I will still exclaim “Dr. Thompson,” and he will reply “Miss Montague.” My little L——pined for the hay in her last communication. Not to be saucy, dear, we sha’n’t have any more before the first of March, Dick having hid it all in a barn in a most malicious manner; but he has not brought the sunset in, so there is still an inducement to my little girls. We have a sky or two, well worth consideration, and trees so fashionable they make us all passée.
I often remember you both, last week. I thought that flown mamma could not, as was her wont, shield from crowd, and strangers, and was glad Eliza was there. I knew she would guard my children, as she has often guarded me, from publicity, and help to fill the deep place never to be full. Dear cousins, I know you both better than I did, and love you both better, and always I have a chair for you in the smallest parlor in the world, to wit, my heart.
This world is just a little place, just the red in the sky, before the sun rises, so let us keep fast hold of hands, that when the birds begin, none of us be missing.
“Burnham” must think F——a scholastic female. I wouldn’t be in her place! If she feels delicate about it, she can tell him the books are for a friend in the East Indies.
Won’t F——give my respect to the “Bell and Everett party” if she passes that organization on her way to school? I hear they wish to make me Lieutenant-Governor’s daughter. Were they cats I would pull their tails, but as they are only patriots, I must forego the bliss… .
Love to papa.
… Mother drives with Tim to carry pears to settlers. Sugar pears with hips like hams, and the flesh of bonbons. Vinnie fastens flowers from the frosts… .
Lifetime is for two, never for committee.
I saw your Mrs. H——. She looks a little tart, but Vinnie says makes excellent pies after one gets acquainted.
… Thank you for the passage. How long to live the truth is! A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.
… J——is coming to put away her black hair on the children’s pillow. I hoped she’d come while you were here, to help me with the starch, but Satan’s ways are not as our ways. I’m straightening all the property, and making things erect and smart, and to-morrow, at twilight, her little heel boots will thump into Amherst. It being summer season she will omit the sleigh-bell gown, and that’s a palliative. Vinnie is all disgust, and I shall have to smirk for two to make the manners even.
DEAR BERKELEYS,—I should feel it my duty to lay my “net” on the national altar, would it appease finance, but as Jay Gooke can’t wear it, I suppose it won’t. I believe he opened the scare. M——says D——pulled her hair, and D——says M——pulled her hair, but the issue at court will be, which pulled the preliminary hair. I am not yet “thrown out of employment,” nor ever receiving “wages” find them materially “reduced,” though when bread may be a “tradition” Mr. C——alone knows. I am deeply indebted to F——, also to her sweet sister Mrs. Ladislaw; add the funds to the funds, please. Keep the cap till I send—I could not insult my country by incurring expressage now… . Buff sings like a nankeen bumble-bee, and a bird’s nest on the syringa is just in line with the conservatory fence, so I have fitted a geranium to it and the effect is deceitful.
I see by the paper that father spends the winter with you. Will you be glad to see him? … Tell L——when I was a baby father used to take me to mill for my health. I was then in consumption! While he obtained the “grist,” the horse looked round at me, as if to say “ ‘eye hath not seen nor ear heard the things that’ I would do to you if I weren’t tied!” That is the way I feel toward her… .
Maggie will write soon, says it was Mount Holyoke, and not sweet-brier she gave you! Thanks for the little “news.” Did get F——‘s note and thank it. Have thousands of things to say as also ten thousands, but must abate now.
… There is that which is called an “awakening” in the church, and I know of no choicer ecstasy than to see Mrs.——roll out in crape every morning, I suppose to intimidate antichrist; at least it would have that effect on me. It reminds me of Don Quixote demanding the surrender of the wind-mill, and of Sir Stephen Toplift, and of Sir Alexander Cockburn.
Spring is a happiness so beautiful, so unique, so unexpected, that I don’t know what to do with my heart. I dare not take it, I dare not leave it—what do you advise?
Life is a spell so exquisite that everything conspires to break, it.
“What do I think of Middlemarch?” What do I think of glory—except that in a few instances this “mortal has already put on immortality.”
George Eliot is one. The mysteries of human nature surpass the “mysteries of redemption,” for the infinite we only suppose, while we see the finite… . I launch Vinnie on Wednesday; it will require the combined efforts of Maggie, Providence and myself, for whatever advances Vinnie makes in nature and art, she has not reduced departure to a science… .
What is it that instructs a hand lightly created, to impel shapes to eyes at a distance, which for them have the whole area of life or of death? Yet not a pencil in the street but has this awful power, though nobody arrests it. An earnest letter is or should be life-warrant or death-warrant, for what is each instant but a gun, harmless because “unloaded,” but that touched “goes off”?
Men are picking up the apples to-day, and the pretty boarders are leaving the trees, birds and ants and bees. I have heard a chipper say “dee” six times in disapprobation. How should we like to have our privileges wheeled away in a barrel? …
The Essex visit was lovely. Mr. L——remained a week. Mrs.——re-decided to come with her son Elizabeth. Aunt L——shouldered arms. I think they lie in my memory, a muffin and a bomb. Now they are all gone, and the crickets are pleased. Their bombazine reproof still falls upon the twilight, and checks the softer uproars of the departing day.
Earnest love to F——. This is but a fragment, but wholes are not below. EMILY
After entering the volunteer army of the Civil War, Colonel Higginson received the following letter while in camp in South Carolina, early in 1863:—
DEAR FRIEND,—A letter always feels to me like Immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend. Indebted in our talk to attitude and accent, there seems a spectral power in thought that walks alone. I would like to thank you for your great kindness, but never try to lift the words which I cannot hold.
Should you come to Amherst, I might then succeed, though gratitude is the timid wealth of those who have nothing. I am sure that you speak the truth, because the noble do, but your letters always surprise me.
My life has been too simple and stem to embarrass any. “Seen of angels,” scarcely my responsibility.
It is difficult not to be fictitious in so fair a place, but tests’ severe repairs are permitted all.
When a little girl I remember hearing that remarkable passage and preferring the “power,” not knowing at the time that “kingdom” and “glory” were included.
You noticed my dwelling alone. To an emigrant, country is idle except it be his own. You speak kindly of seeing me; could it please your convenience to come so far as Amherst, I should be very glad, but I do not cross my father’s ground to any house or town.
Of our greatest acts we are ignorant. You were not aware that you saved my life. To thank you in person has been since then one of my few requests… . You will excuse each that I say, because no one taught me.
DEAR FRlEND,—I will be at home and glad.
I think you said the 15th. The incredible never surprises us, because it is the incredible.
Enough is so vast a sweetness, I suppose it never occurs, only, pathetic counterfeits.
Fabulous to me as the men of the Revelations who “shall not hunger any more.” Even the possible has its insoluble particle.
After you went, I took Macbeth and turned to “Birnam Wood.” Came twtce “to Dunsinane.” I thought and went about my work… .
The vein cannot thank the artery, but her solemn indebtedness to him, even the stolidest admit, and so of me who try, whose effort leaves no sound.
You ask great questions accidentally. To answer them would be events. I trust that you are safe.
I ask you to forgive me for all the ignorance I had. I find no nomination sweet as your low opinion.
Speak, if but to blame your obedient child.
You told me of Mrs. Lowell’s poems. Would you tell me where I could find them, or are they not for sight? An article of yours, too, perhaps the only one you wrote that I never knew. It was about a “Latch.” Are you willing to tell me?11
If I ask too much, you could please refuse. Shortness to live has made me bold.
Abroad is close to-night and I have but to lift my hands to touch the “Heights of Abraham.”
DEAR FRIEND,—I think of you so wholly that I cannot resist to write again, to ask if you are safe? Danger is not at first, for then we are unconscious, but in the after, slower days.
Do not try to be saved, but let redemption find you, as it certainly will. Love is its own rescue, for we, at our supremest, are but its trembling emblems.
DEAR FRIEND,—You were once so kind as to say. you would advise me. Could I ask it now?
I have promised three hymns to a charity, but without your approval could not give them.
They are short, and I could write them quite plainly, and if you felt it convenient to tell me if they were faithful, I should be very grateful, though if public cares too far fatigue you, please deny
DEAR FRIEND,—Thank you for the advice. I shall implicitly follow it.
The one who asked me for the lines I had never seen.
He spoke of “a charity.” I refused, but did not inquire. He again earnestly urged, on the ground that in that way I might “aid unfortunate children.” The name of “child” was a snare to me, and I hesitated, choosing my most rudimentary, and without criterion.
I inquired of you. You can scarcely estimate the opinion to one utterly guideless. Again thank you.
MR. COWAN graduated at Amherst College in 1866, and “Peter” was Emily Dickinson’s especial appellation for this favorite cousin. The first letter was written upon the occasion of his marriage to Miss Margaret Elizabeth Rhea.
The handwriting of this first little stanza sent to Miss Whitney is that of the early middle period, and is too definite to be safely dated; but before the next letter, a long interval seems to have elapsed.
DEAR FRIEND,—I am constantly more astonished that the body contains the spirit—except for overmastering work it could not be borne.
I shall miss saying to Vinnie when we hear the Northampton bell—as in subtle states of the west we do—“Miss Whitney is going to church,” though must not everywhere be church to hearts that have, or have had, a friend?
Could that sweet darkness where they dwell Be once disclosed to us, The clamor for their loveliness Would burst the loneliness.
I trust you may have the dearest summer possible to loss. One sweet, sweet more, one liquid more, of that Arabian presence!
You spoke very sweetly to both of us, and your sewing and recollecting is a haunting picture, a sweet, spectral protection. Your name is taken as tenderly as the names of our birds, or the flower, for some mysterious cause, sundered from its dew… .
In a brief memoir of Parepa, in which she was likened to a rose,—“thomless until she died,” some bereaved one added. To miss him is his only stab, but that he never gave!
A word from you would be sacred.
DEAR FRIEND,—The little package of Ceylon arrived in fragrant safety, and Caliban’s “clust’ring filberds” were not so luscious nor so brown.
Honey in March is blissful as inopportune, and to caress the bee a severe temptation, but was not temptation the first zest?
We shall seek to be frugal with our sweet possessions, though their enticingness quite leads us astray, and shall endow Austin, as we often do, after a parched day.
For how much we thank you.
Dear arrears of tenderness we can never repay till the will’s great ores are finally sifted; but bullion is better than minted things, for it has no alloy.
Thinking of you with fresher love, as the Bible boyishly says, “New every morning and fresh every evening,”
DEAR FRIEND,—I cannot depict a friend to my mind till I know what he is doing, and three of us want to depict you. I inquire your avocation of Austin, and he says you are “engaged in a great work”! That is momentous but not defining. The thought of you in the great city has a halo of wilderness.
Console us by dispelling it…
Vinnie is happy with her duties, her pussies, and her posies, for the little garden within, though tiny, is triumphant.
There are scarlet carnations, with a witching suggestion, and hyacinths covered with promises which I know they will keep.
How precious to hear you ring at the door, and Vinnie ushering you to those melodious moments of which friends are composed.
This also is fiction.
I fear we shall care very little for the technical resurrection, when to behold the one face that to us comprised it is too much for us, and I dare not think of the voraciousness of that only gaze and its only return.
Remembrance is the great tempter.
DEAR FRIEND,—I did not know.
God bless you indeed!
Extend to that small hand my own “right hand of fellowship,” and guide the woman of your heart softly to my own.
I give “his angels charge”—well-remembered angels, whose absence only dims our eyes. The magnanimity I asked, you how freely gave!
If ever of any act of mine you should be in need, let me reply with the laureate, “Speak that I live to hear.”
In the dim and early dawn of a fragrant summer morning soon after, Emily caused a large cluster of sweet-peas to be gathered from her dewy, old-fashioned garden, that they might be put on the very first train to Springfield, taking the freshness of summer itself to her friends. This note accompanied them:—
… Atmospherically it was the most beautiful Christmas on record. The hens came to the door with Santa Claus, the pussies washed themselves in the open air without chilling their tongues, and Santa Claus—sweet old gentleman —was even gallanter than usual. Visitors from the chimney were a new dismay, but all of them brought their hands so full and behaved so sweetly, only a churl could have turned them away. And then the ones at the barn were so happy! Maggie gave the hens a check for potatoes, each of the cats had a gilt-edged bone, and the horse had new blankets from Boston.
Do you remember dark-eyed Mr. Dickinson who used to shake your hand when it was so little it had hardly a stem? He, too, had a beautiful gift of roses from a friend away. It was a lovely Christmas. But what made you remember me? Tell me with a kiss—or is it a secret?
DEAR FRIENDS,—The seraphic shame generosity causes is perhaps its most heavenly result.
To make even Heaven more heavenly, is within the aim of us all.
I was much touched by the little fence dividing the devotions, though devotion should always wear a fence, to pre-empt its claim.
Why the full heart is speechless, is one of the great wherefore.
The first of the following notes, accompanied with a box of flower, was an apology for tardy congratulutions upon Mrs. Tuckerman’s safe return from a long visit in Europe:
DEAR FRIEND,—I fear my congratulation, like repentance according to Calvin, is too late to be plausible, but might there not be an exception, were the delight or the penitence found to be durable?
DEAR FRIEND,—It was so long my custom to seek you with the birds, they would scarcely feel at home should I do otherwise, though as home itself is far from home since my father died, why should custom tire?
I send you inland buttercups as out-door flowers are still at sea. EMILY
Is it that words are suddenly small, or that we are suddenly large, that they cease to suffice us to thank a friend?
Perhaps it is chiefly both.
Thank you, sweet friend, I am quite better.
Were I not, your dainty redemption would save me.
To find my sweet friend is more difficult than to bless her, though I trust both are slightly possible this dearest afternoon.
The following little poem-note contained a pressed dandelion tied with scarlet ribbon.
The presence in life of so sweet an one is of itself fortune—a covert wealth of spirit I shall not disclose.
I have taken all the naughty boys, and Vinnie the navy.
What lovely conceits!
Then the little Smyrna in the dish-—how tiny, how affecting—though the heart in the rear not tiny. Oh, no, vast as the sea.
To caress its billows is our liquid aim.
Do “men gather grapes of thorns”?
No, but they do of roses, and even the classic fox hushed his innuendo, as we unclasped the little box.
Sherbets untold, and recollection more sparkling than sherbets!
How wondrous is a friend, the gift of neither Heaven nor earth, yet coveted of both!
If the “archangels veil their faces,” is not the sacred diffidence on this sweet behalf?
Though a stranger, I am unwilling not to thank you personally for the delicate attention to my family.
For the comprehension of suffering, one must one’s self have suffered.
DEAR FMEND,—Mother thanks you through me, as she does not use her hand for writing. I hope the vicariousness may not impair the fervor.
Mother is very fond of flowers and of recollection, that sweetest flower.
Please accept her happiness, and ours for causing hers.
Trusting an April flower may not curtail your February, that month of fleetest sweetness.
DEAR FRIEND,—Maggie was taking you a flower as you were going out.
Please accept the design, and bewail the flower, that sank of chagrin last evening.
DEAR FRIEND,—I shall deem the little tumblers forever consecrated by the “unseemliness.”
Please accept the progeny of the pinks you so kindly brought mother in winter, with the hope that “wisdom is justified of her children.”
DEAR FRIEND,—Nothing inclusive of a human heart could be “trivial.” That appalling boon makes all things paltry but itself.
To thank you would profane you—there are moments when even gratitude is a desecration.
Go, thy great way! The stars thou meetest Are even as thyself. For what are stars but asterisks To point a human life?
DEAR FRIEND,—In a world too full of beauty for peace, I have met nothing more beautiful.
DEAR FRIENDS,—We are snatching our jewels from the frost, and ask you to help us wear them, as also the trinkets more rotund, which serve a baser need.
With sweet Christmas for the “little brethren and sisters of the mystic tie.”
Without the hope of requiting the Sabbath morning blossoms, still sweetly remembered, please allow me to try.
With untold thanks, and the little dish, founded while she was here, too late to overtake her, too small for her to sip, but her large heart will excuse.
Vocal is but one form of remembrance, dear friend—the cherishing that is speechless is equally warm.
With a kiss and a flower, one of which will endure, I am whom you infer.
Persian hues for my dark-eyed neighbor.
The missing Maggie is much mourned, and I am going out for “black” to the nearest store.
All are very naughty, and I am naughtiest of all.
The pussies dine on sherry now, and humming-bird cutlets.
The invalid hen took dinner with me, but a hen like Dr. T——‘s horse soon drove her away. I am very busy picking up stems and stamens as the hollyhocks leave their clothes around.
What shall I send my weary Maggie? Pillows or fresh brooks?
Mother was much touched by dear Mrs. Emerson’s thoughtfulness, and thanks her exceedingly sweetly. She also asks a remembrance to Mr. Emerson, whom she trusts is well.
DEAR FRIEND,—The little book will be subtly cherished. All we secure of beauty is its evanescence. Thank you for recalling us.
Delicate as bread of flowers. How sweetly we thank you!
To have “been faithful in a few things” was the delicate compliment paid one by God. Could I not commend a rarer candidate for his approval in my loyal Cousin?
Which will I thank—the perpetrator, the propagator, or the almoner of the delightful bread—or may I compromise and thank them all?
I for the first time appreciate the exultation of the robin toward a crumb, though he must be a seductive robin, with whom I would share my own.
With the hope to requite the loveliness in a future way,
Aunt Katie never forgets to be lovely, and the sweet clusters of yesterday only perpetuate a heart warm so many years.
Tropic, indeed, a memory that adheres so long. They were still vivid and fragrant when they reached my fingers, and were the wrist that bears them bolder, it would give reply. As it is, only a kiss and a gratitude, and every grace of being, from your loving niece. “I give his angels charge!”
Should I say his flowers, for qualified as saints they are.
Vinnie’s and my transport.
DEAR FRIEND,—I do not know the depth of my indebtedness. Sorrow, benighted with fathoms, cannot find its mind.
Thank you for assisting us.
We were timidly grateful.
How charming the magnanimity which conferring a favor on others, by some mirage of valor considers itself receiving one!
Of such is the kingdom of knights!
DEAR FRIEND,—I bring you a chill gift—My Cricket14 and The Snow.15 A base return, indeed, for the delightful book which I infer from you, but an earnest one.
LOVED MRS. CARMICHAEL AND MRS. SKEEL,—I heard long since at school that Diogenes went to sea in a tub. Though I did not believe it, it is credible now.
Against the peril of ocean steamers I am sweetly provided, and am sure you had my safety in mind, in your lovely gifts.
I have taken the passengers from the hold—passengers of honey—and the deck of silk is just promenaded by a bold fly, greedy for its sweets. The little tub with the surcingle I shall keep till the birds, filling it then with nectars, in Mrs. Skeel’s sweet honor.
Will each of the lovely friends present my thanks to the other, as Vinnie’s correspondence with them is too impressive for what dear Dickens calls “the likes of me” to invade.
Their sweet intercession with Santa Claus in my behalf, I shall long remember.
I was much chagrined by the delayed flower—please accept its apology.
Should you not have this flower, the first of spring with me, I should regret not sending it. Your azaleas are still vivid, though the frailer flowers are flitted away.
I send a violet, for L———. I should have sent a stem, but was overtaken by snowdrifts. I regret deeply not to add a butterfly, but have lost my hat, which precludes my catching one.
DEAR SIR,—Your request to “remain sincerely” mine demands investigation, and if after synopsis of your career all should seem correct, I am tersely yours. I shall try to wear the unmerited honor with becoming volume.
Commend me to your kindred, for whom, although a stranger, I entertain esteem.
I approve the paint—a study of the Soudan, I take it, but the Scripture assures us our hearts are all Dongola.
Is it too late to touch you, dear? We this moment knew Love marine and love terrene, Love celestial too.
I give his angels charge.
Let me thank the little cousin in flowers, which, without lips, have language.
DEAR “GENIE,”—The lovely flower you sent me is like a little vase of spice, and fills the hall with cinnamon.
You must have skilful hands to make such sweet carnations. Perhaps your doll taught you. I know that dolls are sometimes wise. Robins are my dolls. I am glad you love the blossoms so well. I hope you love birds, too. It is economical. It saves going to Heaven.
To the Same, with a Wedding Gift, October 20, 1885
Will the sweet cousin who is about to make the Etruscan experiment, accept a smile which will last a life, if ripened in the sun?
The flower keeps its appointment—should the heart be tardy?
When Memory rings her bell, let all the thoughts run in.
DEAR FRlEND,—That without suspecting it you should send me the preferred flower of life, seems almost supernatural, and the sweet glee that I felt at meeting it I could confide to none. I still cherish the clutch with which I bore it from the ground when a wondering child, an unearthly booty, and maturity only enhances mystery, never decreases it. To duplicate the vision is even more amazing, for God’s unique capacity is too surprising to surprise. I know not how to thank you. We do not thank the rainbow, although its trophy is a snare.
To give delight is hallowed—perhaps the toil of angels, whose avocations are concealed.
I trust that you are well, and the quaint little girl with the deep eyes, every day more fathomless.
DEAR FRIEND,—Nature forgot. The circus reminded her.
Thanks for the Ethiopian face.
The Orient is in the west.
“You knew, oh Egypt,” said the entangled Antony.
And later,—