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Vaughan (search for this): chapter 20
h the birds, she leaned on clover walls and they fell, and dropped her. With jargon sweeter than a bell, she grappled buttercups, and they sank together, the buttercups the heaviest. What sweetest use of days! 'T was noting some such scene made Vaughan humbly say,-- My days that are at best but dim and hoary. I think it was Vaughan. ... And these few fragmentary memorials — closing, like every human biography, with funerals, yet with such as were to Emily Dickinson only the stately intrVaughan. ... And these few fragmentary memorials — closing, like every human biography, with funerals, yet with such as were to Emily Dickinson only the stately introduction to a higher life — may well end with her description of the death of the very summer she so loved. As imperceptibly as grief The summer lapsed away, Too imperceptible at last To feel like perfidy. A quietness distilled, As twilight long begun, Or Nature spending with herself Sequestered afternoon. The dusk drew earlier in, The morning foreign shone, A courteous yet harrowing grace As guest that would be gone. And thus without a wing Or service of a keel Our summer made her light e<
Shakespeare (search for this): chapter 20
read, and he brought Letters from New York, and hid it in the great bush of old-fashioned tree-box beside the front door. After the first book, she thought in ecstasy, This, then, is a book, and there are more of them. But she did not find so many as she expected, for she afterwards said to me, When I lost the use of my eyes, it was a comfort to think that there were so few real books that I could easily find one to read me all of them. Afterwards, when she regained her eyes, she read Shakespeare, and thought to herself, Why is any other book needed? She went on talking constantly and saying, in the midst of narrative, things quaint and aphoristic. Is it oblivion or absorption when things pass from our minds? Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it. I find ecstasy in living; the mere sense of living is joy enough. When I asked her if she never felt any want of employment, not going off the grounds and rarely seeing a visitor, she answered, I never thought of
Amherst (search for this): chapter 20
e so glad to see you, but think it an apparitional pleasure, not to be fulfilled. I am uncertain of Boston. I had promised to visit my physician for a few days in May, but father objects because he is in the habit of me. Is it more far to Amherst? You will find a minute host, but a spacious welcome .. If I still entreat you to teach me, are you much displeased? I will be patient, constant, never reject your knife, and should my slowness goad you, you knew before myself that Exg 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. . .. Y
MacBETHeth (search for this): chapter 20
hat the slightest attempt at direct cross-examination would make her withdraw into her shell; I could only sit still and watch, as one does in the woods; I must name my bird without a gun, as recommended by Emerson. After my visit came this letter: 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 MacBETHeth and turned to Birnam Wood. Came twice 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 chil
Emily Dickinson (search for this): chapter 20
XIX. Emily Dickinson Few events in American literary history have been more curious than the sudden rise of Emily Dickinson many years since into a posthumousEmily Dickinson many years since into a posthumous fame only more accentuated by the utterly recluse character of her life. The lines which formed a prelude to the first volume of her poems are the only ones that h recede as far as possible from view --in pencil, not in ink. The name was Emily Dickinson. Inclosed with the letter were four poems, two of which have since been soy. Circumstances, however, soon brought me in contact with an uncle of Emily Dickinson, a gentleman not now living: a prominent citizen of Worcester, Massachusetrembling emblems. Your scholar. These were my earliest letters from Emily Dickinson, in their order. From this time and up to her death (May 15, 1886) we corosing, like every human biography, with funerals, yet with such as were to Emily Dickinson only the stately introduction to a higher life — may well end with her de
Jackson (search for this): chapter 20
d 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. Your scholar. Again came this, on a similar theme: Dear friend,--Are you willing to tell me what is right? Mrs. Jackson, of Colorado [ H. H., her early schoolmate], was with me a few moments this week, and wished me to write for this. [A circular of the No name series was inclosed.] I told her I was unwilling, and she asked me why? I said I was incapable, and she seemed not to believe me and asked me not to decide for a few days. Meantime, she would write me. She was so sweetly noble, I would regret to estrange her, and if you would be willing to give me a note saying you disapproved it, and thought me
Hawthorne (search for this): chapter 20
he robin is the one That overflows the noon With her cherubic quantity, An April but begun. The robin is the one That, speechless from her nest, Submits that home and certainty And sanctity are best. In the summer of 1863 I was wounded, and in hospital for a time, during which came this letter in pencil, written from what was practically a hospital for her, though only for weak eyes:-- Dear friend,--Are you in danger? I did not know that you were hurt. Will you tell me more? Mr. Hawthorne died. I was ill since September, and since April in Boston for a physician's care. He does not let me go, yet I work in my prison, and make guests for myself. Carlo did not come, because that he would die in jail; and the mountains I could not hold now, so I brought but the Gods. I wish to see you more than before I failed. Will you tell me your health? I am surprised and anxious since receiving your note. The only news I know Is bulletins all day From Immortality. Can
Edward Dickinson (search for this): chapter 20
was sure you would not reject a confiding question. Is this, sir, what you asked me to tell you? Your friend, E. Dickinson. It will be seen that she had now drawn a step nearer, signing her name, and as my friend. It will also be noticn. I inclose the address from a letter, lest my figures fail. Knowledge of your recovery would excel my own. E. Dickinson. Later this arrived:-- Dear friend,--I think of you so wholly that I cannot resist to write again, to ask if youl me how? Or perhaps the announcement of some event, vast in her small sphere, as this:-- Amherst. Carlo died. E. Dickinson. Would you instruct me now? Or sometimes there would arrive an exquisite little detached strain, every word a picted to her so much of the vigor of his own nature, and who bought her many books, but begged her not to read them. Mr. Edward Dickinson, after service in the national House--of Representatives and other public positions, had become a member of the lo
Swedenborg (search for this): chapter 20
d eyes. But I fear I detain you. Should you, before this reaches you, experience immortality, who will inform me of the exchange? Could you, with honor, avoid death, I entreat you, sir. It would bereave Your gnome. I trust the Procession of flowers was not a premonition. I cannot explain this extraordinary signature, substituted for the now customary Your scholar, unless she imagined her friend to be in some incredible and remote condition, imparting its strangeness to her. Swedenborg somewhere has an image akin to her oblique place, where he symbolizes evil as simply an oblique angle. With this letter came verses, most refreshing in that clime of jasmines and mockingbirds, on the familiar robin:-- The robin The robin is the one That interrupts the morn With hurried, few, express reports When March is scarcely on. The robin is the one That overflows the noon With her cherubic quantity, An April but begun. The robin is the one That, speechless from her nest, Submits
George Keats (search for this): chapter 20
or the surgery; it was not so painful as I supposed. I bring you others, as you ask, though they might not differ. While my thought is undressed, I can make the distinction; but when I put them in the gown, they look alike and numb. You asked how old I was? I made no verse, but one or two, until this winter, sir. I had a terror since September, I could tell to none; and so I sing, as the boy does of the burying ground, because I am afraid. You inquire my books. For poets, I have Keats, and Mr. and Mrs. Browning. For prose, Mr. Ruskin, Sir Thomas Browne, and the Revelations. I went to school, but in your manner of the phrase had no education. When a little girl, I had a friend who taught me Immortality; but venturing too near, himself, he never returned. Soon after my tutor died, and for several years my lexicon was my only companion. Then I found one more, but he was not contented I be his scholar, so he left the land. You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and t
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