Читать книгу Lucy Larcom: Life, Letters, and Diary - Daniel Dulany Addison - Страница 5

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IN ILLINOIS.

1846–1852.

A journey from Massachusetts to Illinois, in 1846, was long, and filled with inconveniences. A little time-worn diary, written in pencil, kept by Lucy Larcom on the journey, is interesting for itself, and preserves the record of the difficulties that beset early travelers to the West.

Monday, April 13, 1846. Returned to Boston in the morning, and now, in the afternoon, we have really started. Passing through Massachusetts and Connecticut, we encountered a snowstorm, something quite unexpected at this season! Came on board the steamboat “Worcester,” in darkness. And here we are, three of us, squeezed into the queerest little cubby-hole of a state-room that could be thought of. We all sat down on the floor and laughed till we cried, to see ourselves in such close companionship! We had a dispute, just for the fun of it, as to who should occupy the highest shelf. It was out of the question to put E. and the baby up there, and for myself, I painted the catastrophe which would occur, should I come down with my full weight upon the rest, in such glowing colors, that they were willing to consign me to the second shelf; and here I lie while the rest are asleep (if they can sleep on their first steamboat trip) trying to write of my wonderful experiences as a traveler.

Tuesday. Alas! Must I write it? The boast of our house must cease. When it has been said with so much pride that a Larcom was never seasick!—I have proved the contrary. I only thought to eat a bit of “ ’lasses gingerbread,” on occasion of my departure from Yankee Land, and while I lay to-day in my berth, I was inwardly admonished that the angry Neptune was not pleased with my feasting, and I was obliged to yield up the precious morsel as a libation to him. Small sleep had I this night.

In the morning, S. and I rose long before daylight, and went out to peep at the sea by moonlight. It was strange and new to see the path of the great creature in the waters. After daylight most of the passengers came on deck. It was delightful sailing into New York by sunrise.

Passing through Hellgate, I was reminded of the worthy Dutch who went this way long ago, as Dick Knickerbocker records. Passed Blackwell’s Island—saw prisoners at work—looked like pigs. Also passed the fort on Frog’s Neck; small beauty in the great smoky city for me; an hour’s stay and a breakfast at the hotel were enough. Took the cars across New Jersey. Don’t like the appearance of this State at all. Reached Philadelphia about noon. Went immediately aboard the “Ohio”—a beautiful boat, and a lovely afternoon it was when we sailed down the Delaware. The city looked so pleasant with the sun shining on it, and the green waving trees about it, while the waves looked so smooth in their white fringes, that I could have jumped overboard for joy! Never shall I forget that afternoon. At evening, took the cars to—somewhere, on the Chesapeake Bay, and thence to Baltimore on another boat. Saw hedges, for the first time, in Maryland. Had an unpleasant sail in an unpleasant boat. Sister and S. wretchedly seasick; so was nearly everybody, but I redeemed my fame, dancing attendance from baby to the sick ones continually. The wind blew, the boat rocked, and the tide was against us. One poor little Irish woman, who was going with her baby to meet her husband, was terribly frightened. I tried to comfort her, but she said “she would pull every curl out of her old man’s head, for sending for her and the baby.” All the while, a queer-looking German couple were on deck; the man appeared as if intoxicated, first scolding and then kissing! The wind was cold, but the man shook his fists when one young lady asked the woman to come inside and get warm. She would cry when he scolded her, and “make up” again as soon as he was disposed to. Then they would promenade together very lovingly and very awkwardly.

Came into Baltimore between ten and eleven. S. had her pocket picked on the way! Stopped at the National Hotel for the night, and left B. again in the morning, in the cars. Glad enough, too, for I hate cities, and B. worst of all. Rode through Maryland. A very delightful state, but slavery spoils it. Saw the first log-cabin; it was quite decent-looking, in comparison with the idea I had formed of it. Stopped at a station where there were three little negroes sitting on a bench, sunning themselves, and combing each other’s wool meanwhile. They looked the picture of ignorance and happiness.

Were all day Thursday riding through the State of Maryland. Saw flowers and trees in blossom: delightful country, quite hilly, and well watered. Followed the course of the Potomac a long way, and at noon stopped at Harper’s Ferry, a wild-looking place, though I think not so romantic as a place we passed just before it, where the waters curve in gentle flow from between two bold hills. Now saw the mountains around Cumberland. At Cumberland, were squeezed into a stage, to cross the Alleghenies. Oh, what misery did we not endure that night! Nine, and a baby, in the little stage! I tried to reconcile myself to my fate, but was so cross if anybody spoke to me! When we got out of the stage in the morning I felt more like a snake crawling from a heap of rocks than anything else. We stretched ourselves, and took breakfast, such as we could get, at a poor-looking tavern. Then into the stage again, and over the mountains to Brownsville; never imagined mountains could be so high, when we were riding on mountains all the time. Reached Brownsville about twelve—a dingy place down among the hills. Took a little walk here. Embarked for Pittsburgh; was glad enough to stow myself away into a berth and rest. Didn’t trouble the Monongahela with a glance after the boat started, for I was “used up.” Found ourselves at Pittsburgh in the morning, a dirty city indeed. Everything black and smoky. Should think the sun would refuse to shine upon it.

Friday noon. Here we take another boat—the “Clipper”—the prettiest one I have seen yet. Splendidly furnished, neat, comfortable berths, and all we could ask for. The Ohio is a beautiful stream. I sit in my state-room with the door open, “taking notes.” I am on the Ohio side; the banks are steep—now and then we pass a little town. We have stopped at one, now; men and boys are looking down on us from a sand-bank far above our heads. Why the people chose a sand-bank, when they might have had a delightful situation almost anywhere, I wonder much! Oh, dear! nothing looks like home! but I must not think of that, now.

Saturday noon. We are passing through a delightful country. Peach-trees along the banks of the river, in full bloom, reflected in the water by sunrise, and surrounded by newly-leaved trees of every shade of green—they were beautiful indeed. Have been perfectly charmed with the varied prospect. Hills stretching down to the margin of the river, covered with trees, and sunny little cottages nestled at their base, surrounded with every sort of fruit-tree—old trees hanging over the river, their topmost boughs crowned with the dark green mistletoe. Think I should like to live here a little while. Sat on the deck this forenoon, and sang “Sweet Home,” and “I would not live alway,” with Mr. C. and S. Thunder-storm this afternoon; went on deck after tea to see the sunset—beautiful! Water still, and reflecting gold from motionless clouds. Went out again at dusk, and heard the frogs singing. It seemed a little like Saturday evening at home; but no! Passed North Bend before sunset. Beautiful place: large house, standing back from the road, half hid by trees; a small green hill near the house covered with young trees; and a fine orchard in bloom on another hill, near by. The river bends on the Ohio side.

21st. Stopped at St. Louis, about ten o’clock. Lay here till nearly dark, waiting for canal to be mended. Oppressively hot; could not sit still nor sleep. Going through the canal very slowly.

22d. Passed through the locks in the night. Morning—found Illinois on the right. Dogwort looked sweet among the light green foliage. Stopped at Evansville in the afternoon, and took in a freight of mosquitoes. Cabin full. Retired early, to get out of their way.

23d. Played chess, forenoon. Came to the north of the bend about ten. Went on deck to see the meeting of the waters. Grand sight. Cairo, small town on the point, has been overflowed. So near my new home; begin to be homesick.

The new home was destined to be a log-cabin on Looking-Glass Prairie, St. Clair County, Illinois, with the broad rolling country all around, and a few houses in sight. This settlement was designated “Frogdom” by some of the residents.

The little family had to put up with great inconveniences, the house not even being plastered, and the furniture being of the most primitive kind. Soon after their arrival, they were all ill with malarial fever, commonly called “agey,” but their spirits never flagged. Lucy somewhere speaks of herself as having a cheerful disposition; it helped her, at this time, to deal with the discomforts of the novel surroundings. Her sister refers to her, in a letter to Beverly, as “our merry young sister Lucy.”

Some of the neighbors were not as comfortable as these new farmers. One of them, living not very far off, had for a home a hastily constructed shanty, with a bunk for a bed, and innumerable rat-holes to let the smoke out when he had a fire. Others were “right smart” folk from Pennsylvania. Her main object, however, was not to be a farmer, but to become a district-school teacher. She soon secured a position; and began the itinerant life of a teacher, spending a few months in many different places. She received her salary every three months. Once, when there was a little delay in the payment, she requested it. The forty dollars were paid with the remark that “it was a powerful lot of money for only three months’ teaching.”

The rough boys and untrained girls called forth all her patience, and the need of holding their attention forced her to adopt a straightforward method of expressing herself. Sometimes her experiences were ludicrous. One day, having to discipline a mischievous urchin, she put him on a stool near the fireplace, and then went on with the lessons, not noticing him very much. Looking to see what he was doing, she was surprised at his disappearance from the room. The question was, “Where has he gone?” It was answered by one of the scholars, “He’s gone up the chimney.” He had indeed crawled up the wide open fireplace, and, having thus escaped, was dancing a jig in front of the school-house.

Miss Larcom taught in many different places—Waterloo, Lebanon, Sugar Creek, Woodburn—and generally the rate of payment was fourteen dollars a month. Board and lodging cost her one dollar and twenty-five cents a week. She did her own washing and ironing. The frequent change of schools made her form attachments for the children that had to be quickly broken. Speaking of a farewell at one school, she said, “The children cried bitterly when I dismissed them, whether for joy or sorrow it isn’t for me to say.”

Her letters to Beverly were brimful of fun; they give, in an easy style, a vivid account of the hardships of these log-cabin days. The two following letters were written to her sisters, Abby and Lydia.

TO MRS. ABBY O. HASKELL.

Looking-Glass Prairie, May 19, 1846.

Dear Sister Abby—I think it is your turn to have a letter now, so I’ve just snuffed the candle, and got all my utensils about me, and am going to see how quickly I can write a good long one.

Well, for my convenience, I beg that you will borrow the wings of a dove, and come and sit down here by me. There—don’t you see what a nice little room we are in? To be sure, one side of it has not got any side to it, because the man couldn’t afford to lath and plaster it, but that patch curtain that Emeline has hung up makes it snug enough for summer time, and reminds us of the days of ancient tapestried halls, and all that. That door, where the curtain is, goes into the entry; and there, right opposite, is another one that goes into the parlor, but I shall not go in there with you, because there aren’t any chairs in there; you might sit on Emeline’s blue trunk, or Sarah’s green one, though; but I’m afraid you’d go behind the sheet in the corner, and steal some of Emeline’s milk that she’s saving to make butter of; and then, just as likely as not, you’d want to know why that square piece of board was put on the bottom of the window, with the pitchfork stuck into it to keep it from falling; of course, we shouldn’t like to tell you that there’s a square of glass out, and I suppose you don’t know about that great tom-cat’s coming in, two nights, after we had all gone to bed, and making that awful caterwauling. So you had better stay here in the kitchen, and I’ll show you all the things; it won’t take long. That door at the top of three steps leads upstairs; the little low one close to it is the closet door—you needn’t go prying in there, to see what we’ve got to eat, for you’ll certainly bump your head if you do; pass by the parlor door and the curtain, and look out of that window on the front side of the house; if it was not so dark, you might see the beautiful flower-beds that Sarah has made—a big diamond in the centre, with four triangles to match it. As true as I live, she has been making her initials right in the centre of the diamond! There’s a great S, and an M, but where’s the H? Oh! you don’t know how that dog came in and scratched it all up, and laid down there to sun himself, the other day. We tell her there’s a sign to it—losing her maiden name so soon. She declares she won’t have it altered by a puppy, though. These two windows look (through the fence) over to our next neighbor’s; that’s our new cooking-stove between them; isn’t it a cunning one? the funnel goes up clear through Emeline’s bedroom, till it gets to “outdoors.” We keep our chimney in the parlor. Then that door on the other side looks away across the prairie, three or four miles; and that brings us to where we started from.

As to furniture, this is the table, where I am writing; it is a stained one, without leaves, large enough for six to eat from, and it cost just two dollars and a quarter. There are a half dozen chairs, black, with yellow figures, and this is the rocking-chair, where we get baby to sleep. That is E.’s rag mat before the stove, and George fixed that shelf for the water-pail in the corner. The coffee-mill is close to it, and that’s all. Now don’t you call us rich? I’m sure we feel grand enough.

Now, if you would only just come and make us a visit in earnest, Emeline would make you some nice corn-meal fritters, and you should have some cream and sugar on them; and I would make you some nice doughnuts, for I’ve learned so much; and you should have milk or coffee, just as you pleased; it is genteel to drink coffee for breakfast, dinner, and supper, here. Then, if you didn’t feel satisfied, we should say that it was because you hadn’t lived on johnny-cakes and milk a week, as we did.

I have got to begin to be very dignified, for I am going to begin to keep school next Monday, in a little log-cabin, all alone. One of the “committee men” took me to Lebanon, last Saturday, in his prairie wagon, to be examined. You’ve no idea how frightened I was, but I answered all their questions, and didn’t make any more mistakes than they did. They told me I made handsome figures, wrote a good hand, and spoke correctly, so I begin to feel as if I knew most as much as other folks.

Emeline does not gain any flesh, although she has grown very handsome since she came to the land of “hog and hominy.” Your humble servant is as fat as a pig, as usual, though she has not tasted any of the porkers since her emigration, for the same reason that a certain gentleman would not eat any of Aunt Betsey’s cucumbers—“not fit to eat.” That’s my opinion, and if you had seen such specimens of the living animal as I have, since I left home, you’d say so, too.

Lucy.

TO MRS. I. W. BAKER.

Looking-Glass Prairie, June 9, 1846.

Dear Sister—Here I am, just got home from school; all at once a notion takes me that I want to write to you, and I’m doing it. I’m sitting in our parlor, or at least, what we call our parlor, because the cooking-stove is not in it, and because Emeline has laid her pretty rag mat before the hearth, and because the sofa is in here. There! you didn’t think we’d get a sofa out here, did you? Well, to be sure, it isn’t exactly like your sofa, because it isn’t stuffed, nor covered, nor has it any back, only the side of the house; nor any legs, only red ones, made of brick; dear me! I’m afraid you’ll “find out,” after all—but it certainly did come all the way from St. Louis, in the wagon with the other furniture. We keep our “cheers” in the kitchen, and we find that Becky Wallis’s definition of them, i.e., “to sit on,” don’t tell the whole story now.

But don’t you want to hear how we like it, out here, in this great country? Oh, happy as clams! and we haven’t been homesick, either, only once in a while, when it seemed so queer getting “naturalized,” that we couldn’t help “keepin’ up a terrible thinkin’.” By the way, we were all sick last week—no, not all; Emeline and the baby were not. George and Sarah and I all had the doctor at once. I was taken first, and had the most violent attack, and got well soonest. Our complaint was remittent fever, which is only another name for chills and fever, I suspect. I felt ashamed to get “the chills” so soon after coming here, and I believe the doctor was kind enough to call it something else. I did have one regular “chill,” though; the blood settled under my nails, and though I didn’t shake, I shivered “like I had the agey.” That’s our Western phraseology. Blue pills and quinine I thought would be the death of me; but I believe they cured me after all. I had to leave school for a week, but yesterday I commenced again.

My school! Oh, the times I do have there with the young Suckers! I have to walk rather more than a mile to it, and it is in just the most literal specimen of a log-cabin that you can form any idea of. ’Tis built of unhewn logs, laid “criss-cross,” as we used to say down in the lane; the chinks filled up with mud, except those which are not filled up “at all, at all,” and the chimney is stuck on behind the house. The floor lies as easy as it can on the ground, and the benches are, some of them (will you believe it?), very much like our sofa. They never had a school in this district before, and my “ideas” are beginning to “shoot” very naturally, most of them. I asked one new scholar yesterday how old she was. “Don’t know,” she said, “never was inside of a school-house before.” Another big girl got hold of my rubbers the other day, “Ouch,” said she, “be them Ingin robbers? I never seen any ’fore.” Some of them are bright enough to make up for all this, and on the whole I enjoy being “schoolma’am” very much. I have not seen a snake since I came here, and if I didn’t have to pass through such a sprinkling of cattle on my way to school, I shouldn’t have a morsel of trouble. Everybody turns his “cattle-brutes” out on the open prairie to feed, and they will get right into my path, and such a mooing and bellowing as they make! George has three big cows and two little ones, and two calves, and a horse, and ten hens, and a big pig and a little one: only the big pig has dug a subterranean passage, and “runned away.” And I don’t milk the cows, and I won’t learn to, if I can help it, because they will be so impolite as to turn round and stare me in the face always when I go near them.

Talk to me about getting married and settling down here in the West! I don’t do that thing till I’m a greater goose than I am now, for love nor money. It is a common saying here, that “this is a fine country for men and dogs, but women and oxen have to take it.” The secret of it is that farmers’ wives have to do all their work in one room, without any help, and almost nothing to work with. If ever I had the mind to take the vestal vow, it has been since I “emigrated.” You’ll see me coming back one of these years, a “right smart” old maid, my fat sides and cheeks shaking with “the agey,” to the tune of “Oh, take your time, Miss Lucy!”

I’ve a good mind to give you a picture, for the sun is setting, and it makes me feel “sort o’ romantic.” Well, in the first place, make a great wide daub of green, away off as far as the sunset; streak it a little deeper, half-way there, for the wheat fields. A little to the right make a smooth, bluish green hill, as even as a potato hill—that’s the Blue Mound. A little one side, make a hundred little red, black, and white specks on the grass—them’s the “cattle-brutes.” Right against the sun, you may make a little bit of a house, with one side of the roof hanging over like an umbrella—that’s Mr. Merritt’s. And here, right before you, make a little whitewashed log-cabin, with a Virginia fence all round it ever so far, and a bank on one side sloping down to a little brook, where honey-locust trees a-plenty grow. Make it green in a great circle all round, just as if you were out at sea, where it’s all blue; then put on a great round blue sky for a cover, throw in a very few clouds, and have a “picter,” or part of one, of our prairie. There now, don’t you think I should have been an artist, if circumstances had only developed my natural genius? All send love. Your everlasting sister,

Lucy.

The pioneer family found it necessary to move their main headquarters, for Mr. Spaulding, the husband of Emeline, decided to give up farming, and become a minister. Ministers were scarce in that region, and seeing the need, he carried out a cherished plan of his youth by being ordained as a preacher of the gospel. Consequently they deserted their home, and went to Woodburn, with all their newly acquired furniture on three wagons, each drawn by three yoke of oxen that splashed through the mud, until they came to a cottage possessing more rooms than the house they had left, though the doors were made of rough boards. These rooms were papered by Lucy, with Boston “Journals.” She grew to love this cottage, for it represented home to her on the prairie.

In spite of cares and unpoetical methods of living, her pen was not idle. She wrote of the little prairie rose:—

“Flowers around are thick and bright,

The purple phlox and orchis white,

The orange lily, iris blue,

And painted cups of flaming hue.

Not one among them grows,

So lovely as the little prairie rose.”

The spirit of a jolly ride over the snow she caught in some lines called “A Prairie Sleigh-Ride:”—

“Away o’er the prairies, the wide and the free,

Away o’er the glistening prairies with me;

The last glance of day lights a blush on the snow,

While away through the twilight our merry steeds go.”

She also felt the awe inspired by the silence and immensity of the land, with the blue heavens arching over.

“But in its solemn silence,

Father, we feel thou art

Filling alike this boundless sea,

And every humble heart.”

When Lucy had been teaching district school for two years, she was conscious of her deficiencies, and longed for a chance to acquire a more thorough education. She wished to fit herself for promotion in her calling, and ambitions to become a writer were not absent from her thoughts. An opportunity for study presented itself in Monticello Female Seminary, Alton, Illinois, which was about twenty miles away from her home. This institution, founded by Captain B. Godfrey, was one of the first established in the country for the higher education of women. The prospectus of 1845, adorned with a stiff engraving of the grounds and large stone building, offered in its antiquated language, attractions which seemed to suit her needs: “The design of the Institution, is to furnish Young Ladies with an education, substantial, extensive and practical—that shall at the same time develop harmoniously their physical, intellectual, and moral powers, and prepare them for the sober realities and duties of life.” All this was to be had for a sum less than one hundred dollars, in a situation so healthful that there “had never been a death in the institution.”

TO MRS. I. W. BAKER.

Woodburn, November 23, 1848.

… I have a new notion in my head, and I suppose I may as well broach it at once. There is a certain Seminary in the neighborhood at which I am very anxious to pass a year or so. It is one of the best of its kind. I want a better education than I have. Now I am only a tolerable sort of a “schoolma’am” for children; but if I could teach higher branches, I could make it more profitable, with less labor. I suppose I must call teaching my trade; and though I don’t like it the “very best kind,” I want to understand it as well as possible. And then if I don’t always keep school I may be able to depend on my pen for a living. …

As Lucy was not able to pay the full tuition, the principal, Miss Fobes, arranged that she should be both student and teacher, thus helping to defray her expenses. She entered the school in September, 1849, and studied, in earnest, history, metaphysics, English literature, and higher mathematics, and laid the foundation for a thorough education.

Her schoolmates remember with pleasure the beauty of her lite at Monticello. They speak of the gentleness and peculiar sweetness of her character. Nothing coarse or mean could be associated with her. Being older than the other girls she was looked up to with reverence by them. Her singular purity of mind was illustrated by a remark to one of her companions, when they were talking about the Christian life—“I never knew there was any other way to live.” One of her schoolmates writes: “I felt homesick, until one day I was introduced to a large, fair-faced woman, and looked up to meet a pair of happy blue eyes smiling down upon me, so full of sweet human kindness that the clouds fell straight away. And from that day the kindness never failed me—I think it never failed anyone. ‘The sunshine of her face’ were words that went out in many of my letters in those days.”

She studied industriously each subject of the course. Her note-books contain full extracts from the authors she was reading, with long comments by herself. Those on philosophy indicate a mind naturally delighting in speculative questions; and when her reasoning touches upon theology, she seems especially in earnest. History appealed to her imagination, and she seized upon the more dramatic incidents for comment. English literature opened a new world of thought to her, and she studied enthusiastically the origin and growth of poetry. In these studies of English it was first suggested to her that there was an art of versification, which could be cultivated. From this time her lines conform more to poetic rules, her ear for music being supplemented by a knowledge of metre.

There was one subject she could not master—mathematics: “I am working on spherical trigonometry, just now. I don’t fancy it much; it needs a clearer head than mine to take in such abstract matters as the sides and angles of the triangle that can be imagined, but not seen.” She would exclaim, when studying Conic Sections, that she could see all the beauty, and feel all the poetry, but could not take the steps. When, however, after great work, she did understand a proposition, she accepted it as an eternal fact which God used for infinite purposes.

The girls at Monticello had a debating society. They gained confidence in speaking on such questions as—“The blind man has more enjoyment in life, than the dumb man,” or, “Does the development of science depend more upon genius than industry?” Youthful wits were sharpened as a result of affirming and denying these momentous propositions, in arguments as strong as could be had. Does not the following extract from one of Lucy’s speeches present a typical picture of the fortunes of war in debate, when members are sometimes overcome by the weight of their own wisdom? “The member from Otter Creek arose and said that immigrants to this country were not the lowest classes, that they were quite a decent sort of people—but upon uttering these words, she was shaken by a qualm of conscience, or some sudden indisposition, and compelled to take her seat.”

There were also compositions to be written. The subjects assigned for these monthly tests of literary ability were as artificial as those for debate. The object of the teacher in our early schools seems to have been the selection of topics for essays as far removed from anything usual or commonplace as possible. One can very easily imagine what would be the style of an essay on the topic, “It is the high prerogative of the heroic soul to propagate its own likeness.” Lucy managed to get a little humor into the discussion of the question—“Was the building of Bunker Hill Monument a wise expenditure of funds?” She argued: “Is there a use in monuments? Perhaps not, literally. We have heard of no process by which Bunker Hill Monument might be converted into a lodging-house, and though we are aware that our thrifty brethren of Yankee-land have made it yield its quota of dollars and cents, so that any aspirant may step into a basket and be swung to the pinnacle of a nation’s glory for ninepence, we are not in the habit of considering this its sole productive principle, unless gratitude and patriotism are omitted.”

Miss Larcom remained at Monticello Seminary until her graduation in June, 1852. Miss Fobes says: “When she left the institution, with her diploma, and the benediction of her Alma Mater, we felt sure that, with her noble equipment for service, the result should be success in whatever field she should find her work.” Her improvement had been so great that it was noticeable to the members of the family, who referred to her as “our learned sister.”

TO MRS. ABBY O. HASKELL.

Monticello Seminary, May 14th, 1850.

… But pray don’t call me your “learned sister” any more; for if I deserved the title, it would make me feel like a something on a pedestal, and not plain Lucy Larcom: the sister of some half-dozen worthy matrons.

I think it must be a mistake about my having improved so very much; though I should be sorry to have lived all these years and made no advancement. Folks tell me that I am dignified, sometimes, but I don’t know what it means. I have never tried to be, and I seem just as natural to myself as anything.

I don’t know how I could ever get along with all your cares. I should like tending the babies well enough, but when it came to washing, baking, brewing, and mending, my patience would take “French leave.” Still I don’t believe that any married woman’s trials are much worse than a “schoolma’am’s.” …

There was an event in her life in the West to be touched on. It relates to her one serious love affair. A deep attachment sprang up between Lucy and a young man who had accompanied her sister’s family to Illinois, and for a time lived with them during their log-cabin experiences, but afterwards went to California. When he left, though they could hardly be called engaged, there was an understanding between them that, when he returned during the last days of her school life, they were to decide the matter finally. After three years of separation, they were no nearer a conclusion. Some years after this, it became clear to Miss Larcom that their marriage would not be for the best interests of either.

In 1852, her thoughts turned again to her native town of Beverly. Equipped with her Monticello education, she felt prepared to support herself by teaching in her congenial home in the East. The memories of her childhood drew her back in thought to her old home. She wrote to her brother Benjamin in March, “The almanac says I am twenty-eight years old, but really, Ben, I do believe it fibs, for I don’t feel half so old. It seems only the other day that Lydia and I were sitting by the big kitchen fireplace, down the lane, and you opposite us, puffing cigar-smoke into our hair, and singing, ‘My name is Apollyon.’ ”

To her sister Lydia, whose birthday was on the same day of the month as her own, she sent some verses recalling her childhood.

“In childhood we looked gayly out,

To see this blustering dawn begin

And hailed the wind whose noisy shout

Our mutual birthday ushered in.

“For cakes, beneath our pillow rolled,

We laughing searched, and wondered, too,

How mother had so well foretold

What fairy people meant to do.”