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LIFE AT NORTON.

1853–1859.

In the autumn of 1853, Miss Larcom, having returned to Beverly, lived for a year with her sister, Mrs. Baker, in the pretty old-fashioned house on Cabot Street. Securing a few rooms in an unoccupied house not far away, she fitted them up as schoolroom and studio. Here she taught a little school with ten scholars. Most of these young girls were as far advanced as the second class at Monticello, and having already been instructed in the fundamental studies, they were not so difficult to teach as her untrained pupils in the West. The impression she made upon each of these young lives was strong, for, as a little family, she not only taught them the lessons, but gave them generously from her enthusiasm and faith. She imparted to them her love for all things true and beautiful. When the school year closed, she asked each girl to choose her favorite flower, upon which she wrote a few lines of verse—on the hyacinth, signifying jealousy—on the lily of the valley, meaning innocence.

“The fragrance Sarah would inhale

Is the lily of the vale:

‘Humility,’ it whispers low;

Ah! let that gentle breathing flow

Deep within, and then will you

Be a lily of the valley too.”

One of these pupils wrote to her years after: “Among the teachers of my girlhood, you are the one who stands out as my model of womanhood.”

While teaching, she still considered herself a scholar. Nor did she ever in after life overcome this feeling, for she was always eager to learn. When she was imparting her best instruction, and writing her most noteworthy books, she studied with great fidelity. At this time she took lessons in French and drawing; her love for color and form was always great. Often she had attempted in crude ways to preserve the spirit of a landscape, and so reproduce the color of the green ferns and variegated flowers; but now she set about the task in earnest. She had no special talent for painting, so she did nothing worthy of special notice, but some water-color sketches of autumn leaves, the golden-rod’s “rooted sunshine,” woodland violets, and the coral of the barberry, and apple-blossoms, “flakes of fragrance drifting everywhere,” are very pretty. This study of painting, however, trained her observation, and prepared her to appreciate works of art by giving her some knowledge of the use of the palette. This early attempt at artist’s work strengthened her love for pictures; and it was a special treat to her to visit the different galleries in Boston, where she was sure to be one of the first to see a celebrated painting.

It was a pleasure to her to be once more with her family, for the members of which she had the deepest affection. Writing to Miss Fobes, she expressed herself thus: “I am glad I came home, for I never realized before what a treasure my family circle was, nor how much I loved them. Then why do I not wish to stay? Simply because it does not seem to me that I can here develop the utmost that is in me. Ought I to be contented while that feeling remains?”

The feeling that she must develop “the utmost that is in me,” impelled her through life, as a duty that she must regard. She was not without opportunities for cultivation in Beverly. There were the two weekly Lyceum lectures, with good speakers—Miss Lucy Stone had advocated woman’s rights so ably that “even in this conservative town many became converts.” However, she longed for a larger work, and was ready to accept the call to be a teacher in Wheaton Seminary, Norton, Massachusetts.

In the early winter of 1854, she began her work at Wheaton Seminary, the large school for girls, founded through the generosity of Judge Wheaton, in memory of his daughter. The subjects given her to teach were history, moral philosophy, literature, and rhetoric, including the duty of overlooking the greater part of the compositions.

Her spirit on entering upon this new work, is indicated by this letter:—

TO MISS P. FOBES.

Wheaton Seminary, Norton, Mass.,

January 10, 1855.

Dear Miss Fobes:—When I look back upon my life I think I see it divided into epochs similar to geological ages, when, by slow or sudden upheavings, I have found myself the wondering possessor of a new life in a new world. My years at Monticello formed such an epoch, and it is no flattery to say that to you I owe much of the richness and beauty of the landscape over which I now exult. For your teaching gave me intellectually a broader scope and firmer footing than I ever had ventured upon.

I know that I have done almost nothing as yet to show that I have received so much good. Life here seems to me not much more than “a getting ready to do.” But in the consciousness of what it is to be a human being, created in the image of the divine—in the gradual developing of new inner powers like unfolding wings—in the joy of entering into the secrets of beauty in God’s universe—in the hopefulness of constant struggling and aspiring, I am rich.

I have been in this place only a few weeks and suppose the length of my stay will depend upon the satisfaction I give and receive. It is a pleasant school.

Yours truly,Lucy Larcom.

The length of her stay in Norton extended over eight important years of her life, from 1854 to 1862. These years were full of intellectual and religious struggles, of hard student life, of sweet companionships, of the beginnings of literary success, and of deep friendships. Earnestness and sincerity here became her characteristic traits; while her gentleness and patience, though sorely tried at times by the misconduct or failure of her scholars, became habitual with her.

One cannot think of the quiet life she led under the Norton elms, without picturing the tall graceful woman with her sweet face, low broad forehead, and soft blue eyes, moving about among the girls as a continual inspiration, always leading them by her presence and words into some region of sentiment, or beauty, or religion. In the schoolroom, ever dignified, she spoke in a low voice with the emphasis of real interest. In her own room, with its green carpet and white curtains, where she liked to retire for thought and work, surrounded by her books, a few pictures, and shells and pressed sea-weed, she would prepare her lectures, and write her letters to her friends. There were sure to be flowers on her table, sent either by some loving scholar, or plucked by her own hand—“I have some pretty things in my room; and flowers, so alive! As I look into their deep cups, I am filled with the harmonies of color and form. How warm a bright rose-pink carnation makes the room on a wintry day!” A scholar tells how, venturing into this retreat, she saw Miss Larcom quietly sitting in a rocking-chair, knitting stockings for the soldiers, during the War.

She was a conscientious student in preparing her lessons; she read the best books she could find in the school library, or could borrow from her friends. The notes of her lectures show great labor by their exhaustiveness. As a teacher, some of her power was derived from the clearness with which she presented the theme, and her picturesque style of expression. She invested the most lifeless topics with interest by the use of original and appropriate illustrations—as will be seen in the following passage from a lecture on Anglo-Saxon poetry, in which she describes the minstrels:—

“The minstrels would sing, and the people would listen; and if the monks had listened too, they would sometimes have heard the irregularities of their lives chanted for the derision of the populace. For the bards assumed perfect independence in their choice of themes; liberty of the lyre seems to have been what liberty of the press is in these days. We can imagine the excitement in some quaint village, when the harp of one of these strollers was heard; how men and women would leave their work, and listen to these ballads. Those who have seen the magnetic effect of a hand-organ on village children, may have some idea of it; if the organ-grinder were also a famous story-teller, the effect would be greater. And this is something like what these ballad singers were to our elder brethren of Angle-land, in the childhood of civilization.”

What excellent advice this is to girls, on the subject of their compositions—“Get rid, if you can, of that formal idea of a composition to write, that stalks like a ghost through your holiday hours. Interest yourself in something, and just say your simple say about it. One mistake with beginners in writing is, that they think it important to spin out something long. It is a great deal better not to write more than a page or two, unless you have something to say, and can write it correctly.”

The recitations in her class-room were of an unconventional character. Dealing with topics in the largest and most interesting way, she often used up the time in discussion, so that the girls who did not know their lessons sometimes took advantage of this peculiarity by asking questions, for the sole purpose of needlessly prolonging her explanation. It was often a joke among the scholars that she did not know where the lesson was; but so soon as she found the place, she made clear the portion assigned, and brought all her knowledge to bear so fully on the subject, that the scholars caught glimpses of unexplored fields of thought, which were made to contribute something to illustrate the theme in hand.

She did more for the girls than by simply teaching them in the class-room. She enlarged their intellectual life by founding a paper, called “The Rushlight,” by which they not only gained confidence, but centralized the literary ability of the school. She explained the origin of the paper thus: “I said to myself, as I glanced over the bright things from the pile of compositions that rose before me semi-weekly, ‘Why cannot we have a paper?’ I said it to the girls, and to the teachers also, and everybody was pleased with the idea.” She also founded the Psyche Literary Society, to stimulate the girls’ studies in literature and art.

Another element in her power as a teacher was her personal interest in the girls. It was not solely an intellectual or literary interest, but she thought of their characters and religious training. To one of the girls she wrote, “I never felt it an interruption for you to come into my room; how we used to talk about everything!” When they were in trouble, they came naturally to her with their confidences. She was sometimes called “Mother Larcom,” and she earned the title, for she acted like a mother to the homesick girl, and quieted by her gentle persuasiveness the tears of repentance, or bitter weeping of sorrow, of some of the more unfortunate of her pupils. Writing about one of the girls whose religious development she had watched, she said, “She is unfolding from the heart to God most openly, now. I am sure there is a deep life opening in her. I have rejoiced over her.”

She discovered, through their moods—as in the case of one who was crying a great deal—or by the frequency of a permitted correspondence, their real or fancied love-affairs. After winning their confidence she could wisely advise them. Thus in one instance she wrote: “If such intimacy is true friendship, it will be a benefit to both; yet it is not without danger. I have seen the severest sufferings from the struggle between duty and feeling in such relations. I have seen life embittered by reason of the liberty allowed to a cousinly love, left unwatched. It is hard to keep the affections right in quantity and quality. But I need not say that a true love needs no limits; it is only falsehood that embitters every sweet and pure cup.”

When the girls left school, they carried her love with them; and by correspondence and visits to their homes, where she was always a welcome guest, she followed them through the deepest experiences of their lives. One of her scholars said, “If I were to sum up the strong impression she made upon me, I should say it all in ‘I loved her.’ ” Another wrote, “Miss Larcom was to me a peerless star, unattainable in the excellence and purity of her character. She stood as the ideal woman, whom I wished to be like.”

When death invaded a home, she knew how to write:—

Norton, October 7, 1855.

… Why is it we dread the brief parting of death so much? Do we really doubt meeting them again? Will they have lost themselves in the great crowd of immortals, so that when our time comes to follow them we cannot find them? I am just reading for the first time, “In Memoriam,” and it fills my mind with these questions. I think I should be homesick in a mansion filled with angels, if my own precious friends whom I loved were not within call. …

The following letter shows her intimacy with the girls:—

TO MISS SUSAN HAYES WARD.

Norton, April 2, 1855.

My Dear Susie—I find it almost impossible to feel at home in a boarding-school; and then I know I never was made for a teacher—a schoolmistress I mean. Still, among so many, one feels an inspiration in trying to do what is to be done, though the feeling that others would do it better is a drawback. And then, at such a place, I always find somebody to remember forever. For that I am thankful for my winter’s experience. There are buds opening in the great human garden, which are not to be found at our own hearthstone: and it is a blessed task to watch them unfolding, and shield them from blight. And yet what can one mortal do for another? There is no such thing as helping, or blessing, except by becoming a medium for the divine light, and that is blessedness in itself.

It seems to me that to be a Christian is just to look up to God, and be blessed by his love, and then move through the world quietly, radiating as we go. …

The development of her own religious life was marked by many radical changes. She was no longer satisfied by the theology in which she had been reared. She sought new foundations for her belief. Her classes in philosophy led her into the world of controversy. Plato was constantly by her side, and she refreshed herself by reading Coleridge’s “Aids to Reflection,” from which she gained more nutriment than from any other religious book, except the Bible. Swedenborg taught her that “to grow old in heaven is to grow young.” Sears’s “Foregleams and Foreshadows” made her feel the joy of living, as presented in the chapter on “Home.” She also read “Tauler’s Sermons,” and Hare’s “Mission of the Comforter.”

Interwoven with her religious thought were the life and influence of one of the dearest friends she ever knew, Miss Esther S. Humiston of Waterbury, Connecticut, a woman of rare powers, and wonderful sweetness of character. The two women were not unlike. They had the same spiritual longings, similar views of life, and equal intellectual attainments. Miss Larcom looked up to Esther for guidance, and such was the perfect accord between them, that she wrote to her fully about her deepest thoughts, and most sacred experiences.

In the spring of 1858, she wrote thus to Esther:—“You do not realize how very unorthodox I am. I do not think a bond of church-membership ought to be based upon intellectual belief at all, but that it should simply be a union in the divine love and life. Now I do not formally belong to any particular church—that is, I have a letter from a little Congregational church on the prairies, which I have never used, and I know not how, honestly I can. For should I not be required virtually to say I believe certain things? I believe the Bible, but not just as any church I know explains it, and so I think I must keep aloof until I can find some band, united simply as Christian, without any ‘ism’ attached. We all do belong to Christ’s Church who love Him, so I do not feel lost or a wanderer, even though I cannot externally satisfy others.”

TO ESTHER S. HUMISTON.

Beverly, Mass., August 2d, 1858.

… I regard Christianity as having to do with the heart and life, and not with the opinions; and my own opinions are not definite on many points. The disputed doctrines of total depravity, predestination, etc., with some of those distinctly called “evangelical,” such as the atonement, and the duration of suffering after death, I find more and more difficulty in thinking about; so that I cannot yet say what “views” I “hold.” There—will you be my “sister confessor”? As I see things now, the “atonement” is to me, literally, the “at-one-ment,”—our fallen natures lifted from the earthly by redeeming love, and brought into harmony with God; Jesus, the Mediator, is doing it now, in every heart that receives Him, and I think our faith should look up to Him as He is, the living Redeemer, and not merely back to the dead Christ—for “He is not dead.” Then, as to the future state of those who die unrepentant: after probing my heart, I find that it utterly refuses to believe that there is any corner in God’s universe where “hope never comes.” There must be suffering, anguish, for those who choose sin, so long as they choose it; but can a soul, made in the image of God, who is Light, choose darkness forever? There is but one God, whose is the “kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever;” is there any depth of darkness, which this sovereign radiance shall not at last pierce? I know the Bible testimony, and it seems to me that the inmost meaning, even of those fearfully denunciatory passages, would confirm this truth. Now, you can imagine how these sentiments would be received by an Orthodox Church. …

TO THE SAME.

Norton, September 2, 1860.

… I enjoyed being with my friends. I told you that they were Universalists, but theirs is a better-toned piety than that of some Orthodox friends. Still, there was a want in it, a something that left me longing; it was as if they were looking at the sunlit side of a mountain, and never thought of the shadows which must be beyond. The mystery of life is in its shadows, and its beauty, in great part, too. There isn’t shadow enough in Universalism to make a comprehensible belief for me. And yet I believe there is no corner of God’s universe where His love is not brooding, and seeking to penetrate the darkest abyss. …

The question about her marriage was definitely settled while she was at Norton. She decided, in the first place, on general grounds, that it would be best for her not to marry. There were various reasons for this. She had many premonitions of the breaking down of her health, which finally came in 1862, when she had to give up teaching; and owing to some exaggeration of her symptoms—for at times she felt that her mind might give way—she thought it unwise for her to take up the responsibilities of matrimony. In addition to this, she grew fond of her independence, and as her ability asserted itself, she seemed to see before her a career as an authoress, which she felt it her duty to pursue. Special reasons, of course, one cannot go into fully, though there are some features of them that may be mentioned; to Esther she stated an abundantly sufficient one—“I am almost sure there are chambers in my heart that he could not unlock.” She also differed radically from her lover on the subject of slavery. Her feelings as an abolitionist were so strong that she knew where there was such a division of sentiments a household could not be at peace within itself. This difference of opinion concerning all the questions that culminated in the Civil War resulted in a final refusal, which afterwards found public expression in her noted poem, “A Loyal Woman’s No,” an energetic refusal of a loyal woman to a lover who upheld slavery:—

“Not yours—because you are not man enough

To grasp your country’s measure of a man,

If such as you, when Freedom’s ways are rough,

Cannot walk in them—learn that women can!”

The poem was not written entirely out of her own experience. In making a confession about it to a friend, she says, “I have had a thousand tremblings about its going into print, because I feel that some others might feel hurt by the part that is not from my own experience. If it is better for the cause, let me and those old associations be sacrificed.” The publication of the poem was justified by the way it was received everywhere. It was quoted in the newspapers all over the North. An answer was printed in “The Courier,” called “A Young Man’s Reply.” This interested Miss Larcom, and she referred to it as “quite satisfactory, inasmuch as it shows that somebody whom the coat fitted put it on! If it does make unmanly and disloyal men wince, I am glad I wrote it.”

TO ESTHER S. HUMISTON.

Norton, June 1, 1858.

… I shall probably never marry. I can see reasons why it would be unwise for me; and yet I will freely tell you that I believe I should have been very happy, “if it might have been.” A true marriage (the is the word I should have used) is the highest state of earthly happiness—the flowing of the deepest life of the soul into a kindred soul, two spirits made one—to be a double light and blessing to other souls has, I doubt not, been sometimes, though seldom, realized on earth. …

This touch of real romance in her life shows that she had a woman’s true nature, and that she did not escape the gentle grasping of the divine passion, though she shook herself free from it, deciding that it was better for her to walk alone. Some lines of her poem, “Unwedded,” suggest the reasons for her decision:—

“And here is a woman who understood

Herself, her work, and God’s will with her,

To gather and scatter His sheaves of good,

And was meekly thankful, though men demur.

“Would she have walked more nobly, think,

With a man beside her, to point the way,

Hand joining hand in the marriage link?

Possibly, Yes: it is likelier, Nay.”

TO MISS ESTHER S. HUMISTON.

Norton, January 15, 1859.

… The books came through the post-office, with the note separate; they were brought to me while I was having a class recite logic in my room—the dryest and most distasteful of all subjects to me, but it is a select class, and that makes up for the study. The young ladies who compose it are on quite familiar terms with me, and when the messenger said, “Three books and two letters for Miss Larcom,” their curiosity was greatly excited, and there was so much sly peeping at corners and picking at strings that they were not, on the whole, very logical. They asked to hold them for me till I was ready to open them, and I believe in letting “young ladies” act like children while they can. … I was thinking how much I should enjoy a quiet forenoon writing to you, when the words, “Study hour out”—accompanied the clang of the bell, and a Babel of voices broke into the hall outside my door.

I am trying not to hear—to get back into the quiet places of thought where your letters, open before me, were leading me, but I cannot; there is a jar, a discord—and I suppose it is selfish in me not to be willing to be thus disturbed. How I long for a quiet place to live in! I never found a place still enough yet. But all kinds of natural sounds, as winds, waters, and even the crying of a baby, if not too loud and protracted, are not noises to me. Is it right to feel the sound of human voices a great annoyance? One who loved everybody would always enjoy the “music of speech,” I suppose, and would find music where I hear only discord.

TO THE SAME.

Sabbath evening.

… I read in school yesterday morning, something from the “Sympathy of Christ.” We have had some very naughty girls here, and have had to think of expulsion; but one of them ran away, and so saved us the trouble. How hard it is to judge the erring rightly—Christianly. I am always inclined to be too severe, for the sake of the rest; one corrupt heart that loves to roll its corruption about does so much evil. I do not think that a school like this is the place for evil natures—the family is the place, it seems to me, or even something more solitary. And yet there have been such reforms here, that sometimes I am in doubt. When there is a Christian, sympathizing heart to take the erring home, and care for her as a mother would, that is well. But we are all so busy here, with the everythings. I am convinced that I have too much head-employment altogether; I get hardly breathing time for heart and home life. …

In 1854, Miss Larcom published her first book—“Similitudes from the Ocean and the Prairie.” It was a little volume of not more than one hundred pages, containing brief prose parables drawn from nature, with the purpose of illustrating some moral truth. The titles of the Similitudes suggest their meaning: “The Song before the Storm;” “The Veiled Star;” “The Wasted Flower;” and “The Lost Gem.” Though the conception was somewhat crude, yet her desire to find in all things a message of a higher life and a greater beauty, showed the serious beginnings of the poet’s insight, which in after years was to reveal to her so many hidden truths. She characterized the book as “a very immature affair, often entirely childish.”

Her first distinct literary success was the writing of the Kansas Prize Song, in 1855. When Kansas was being settled, the New England Emigrant Aid Company offered a prize of fifty dollars for the best song, written with the object of inspiring in the emigrants the sentiments of freedom. The power of a popular melody was to be used in maintaining a free soil. She gained this prize; and her stirring words were sung all through the West. They were printed, with the appropriate music of Mr. E. Norman, on cotton handkerchiefs, which were given away by the thousand.

“Yeomen strong, hither throng,

Nature’s honest men;

We will make the wilderness

Bud and bloom again;

Bring the sickle, speed the plough,

Turn the ready soil;

Freedom is the noblest pay

For a true man’s toil.

“Ho, brothers! come, brothers!

Hasten all with me;

We’ll sing upon the Kansas plains

A song of liberty.”

Her next little book, “Lottie’s Thought-book,” was published by the American Sunday School Union, Philadelphia, in 1858. Not unlike the Similitudes in its method of teaching by parables, it gave the thoughts of a clever child, as they would be suggested by such scenes as a beautiful spring morning in the country, “when glad thoughts praise God;” the first snow, typifying the purity of the earth; or the thought of the joy of living, in the chapter “Glad to be alive” that recalls an exclamation she uses in one of her letters, “Oh! how happy I am, that I did not die in childhood!” These little books are like the inner biography of her youth, a pure crystal stream of love, reflecting the sunlight in every ripple and eddy.

She also wrote for various magazines, notably “The Crayon,” in which appeared some criticisms of poetry, especially Miss Muloch’s, and some of her poems, like “Chriemhild,” a legend of Norse romance. The only payment she received was the subscription to the magazine. Her famous poem, “Hannah Binding Shoes,” was first printed in the “Knickerbocker,” without her knowledge—then a few months later, in “The Crayon.” This fact gave rise to the accusation of plagiarism which, though it greatly annoyed her, brought her poem into general notice. Having sent the poem to the “Knickerbocker,” but not receiving any answer about its acceptance, she concluded that it had been rejected. She then sent it to “The Crayon,” where it appeared, but in the mean time it had been printed in the “Knickerbocker.” The editor of the last-named paper wrote a letter to the “New York Tribune,” in which he accused Lucy Larcom of being “a literary thiefess,” and claimed the “stolen goods.” In answer to this, Miss Larcom wrote immediately a reply to the “Tribune.”

Norton. Mass., February 13, 1858.

To the Editor of the New York Tribune:

Sir—Will you please say to “Old Nick” that he does not tell the truth. His statements regarding me, in your paper, February 10, are not correct. Lucy Larcom is not a “literary thiefess;” “Hannah Binding Shoes” was not written “five or six years,” but about four years since. I have only to blush that I wrote it, and that I sent it to the editor of the “Knickerbocker.”

The latter was done at a time when it seemed desirable for me to attempt writing for pecuniary profit—a very ridiculous idea, of course—and I enclosed the poem in a letter, intimating such a desire to that gentleman, and supposing that courtesy would suggest that the letter should be answered, or the poem returned. As neither of these things was done, I innocently considered it my own property, and sent it to “The Crayon,” as an original composition.

I hereby reclaim from “Old Nick,” my “stolen goods,” which he has inadvertently advertised.

Yours truly,Lucy Larcom.

She wrote rather a severe letter to the “most honorable Old Nick” himself, in which she says, “In my ignorance, I supposed that editors were as polite as other people, in such matters as answering letters, and acknowledging even small favors. I am sure I never would have sent you a poem, if I had supposed you would one day have accused me of stealing it, and I hereby promise with sincere penitence, never to do so again. I suppose I can hardly look for the courtesy of an explanation as public as your accusation has been.”

She also wrote an explanation to Mr. John Durand, the editor of “The Crayon.”

TO JOHN DURAND.

Norton, February 12, 1858.

Dear Mr. Durand—“Hannah Binding Shoes” I may truly say is “a poor thing, sir, but mine own.” I should hardly have supposed that the identity of so humble an individual would be thought worth calling in question. The poem was written four years since, and was sent to the editor of the “Knickerbocker” in my own name, but as I received no acknowledgment from him, and have never seen a copy of the paper since, I supposed it either failed to reach him, or was not accepted. Was I not justifiable in sending it to you? I had no idea that it had been published before.

Yours truly,Lucy Larcom.

“Hannah Binding Shoes” was set to music, and became very popular. Rev. Samuel Longfellow wrote her, “I wish you could have heard, as I did the other evening, ‘Hannah’ sung by Adelaide Phillips.” Together with its sequel, “Skipper Ben,” it recalled an incident very common in a New England sea-town, where ships were lost and lovers never returned, where every home had in it hearts that beat for those out at sea, and where women stood on the shore and strained their eyes looking for a sail. In these verses, as in all her poetry of the sea, she has caught the dirge in the wind, and the lonesome sound of beating waves when the skipper “faced his fate in a furious night.”

In 1859 Miss Larcom tried, at the suggestion of many friends, to find a publisher for a volume of verses, but she was unsuccessful. A letter from Mr. Whittier accompanying the manuscript did not win Ticknor and Fields to her side. She took a very sensible view of her discomfiture.

TO JOHN DURAND.

Norton, October 29, 1860.

… I should have regarded the thought of publishing as premature; but most of my friends are not artistic, and do not look upon my unripe fruits as I do. What I have written is at least genuine, sincere. I believe it is in me to do better things than I have done, and I shall work on in the faith of leaving something that will find its true place in the right time, because of the life there is in it. To live out, to express in some way the best there is in us, seems to me to be about all of life. …

After Miss Larcom’s return from the West, the friendship with the Whittiers ripened and became a factor in her life. The gentle sweetness of the poet’s sister Elizabeth soon won its way to her heart, and the strength of the man greatly impressed her. They grew very fond of her, and took an interest in her literary work. The attachment that Elizabeth formed for her was based on a most genuine love. In one of her letters she wrote, “Dear, dear Lucy—Let me thank thee for all thy love. I can never tell thee how sweet it has been to me. I could have cried to think of thy loving care for me.” Again:—“I wish I could see thee oftener. I need thee. I feel a little more rest with thee than with most. Thou hast done me good since I first knew thee.” The two lives mingled and blended in the contact of companionship, for refinement of feeling, delicacy of thought, and strength of moral purpose, were characteristic of both. Mr. Whittier found her companionable, and admired her sincerity and poetical ability, which he recognized very early. It was one of Miss Larcom’s greatest pleasures, while at Norton, to run off and spend a few days at Amesbury in the household that she loved. What Mr. Whittier said, she knew to be true—“Thee will always find the latchstring out;” and when away, she knew she was remembered, for Elizabeth sent her word that “Greenleaf has just filled thy blue and gold vase with the yellowest of flowers.”

Here is a letter to her, from Mr. Whittier, as early as 1853.

September 3, 1853.

My Dear Friend—I thank thee for thy note. The personal allusion would be flattering enough, did I not know that it originated in a sad misconception and overestimate of one who knows himself to be “no better than he should be.” It is a way we have. We are continually investing somebody or other with whatever is best in ourselves. It does not follow that the objects themselves are worth much. The vines of our fancy often drape the ugliest stumps in the whole forest.

I am anxious to see thy little book in print.[5] Whatever may be its fate with the public at large, I feel quite sure it will give thee a place in the best minds and hearts. The best kind of fame, after all.

Thy friend,J. G. Whittier.

At Mr. Whittier’s suggestion, she used to submit her work to him for criticism; and he always indicated what he considered faulty, in rhyme or metre. This practical training in the art of verse-making was valuable to her. She continued it for many years until she felt that she ought to be more self-reliant. Then she printed without consulting him, and, at first, he reproved her for it. “But,” she said, “you have taught me all that I ought to ask: why should I remain a burden on you? Why should I always write with you holding my hand? My conscience and my pride rebel. I will be myself, faults and all.”

In 1855, he wrote, “I have said in my heart, I wonder if Lucy Larcom will write to me, as she proposed? I should love to have her.” Their correspondence continued until the time of his death.