Swept Away-By Yanni dated April 16, 1862...I took form the post-office the following letter MR HIGGINSON,--ARE YOU TOO DEEPLY OCCUPIED TO SAY IF MY VERSE IS ALIVE?THE MIND IS SO NEAR ITSELF IT CANNOT SEE DISTINCTLY, AND I HAVE NONE TO ASK.SHOULD YOU THINK IT BREATHED, AND HAD YOU THE LEISURE TO TELL ME, I SHOULD FEEL QUICK GRATITIDE.IF I MAKE THE MISTAKE, THAT YOU DARED TO TELL ME WOULD YOU GIVE ME SINCERER HONOR TOWARD YOUI INCLOSE MY NAME, ASKING YOU PLEASE SIR, TO TELL ME WHAT IS TRUE?THAT YOU WILL NOT BETRAY ME IT IS NEEDLASS TO ASK, SINCE HONOR IS ITS OWN PAWN. The letter was postmarked "amherst", and it was in a handwritiing so peculiar that it seemed as if the writer might have taken her first lessons by studyinging the famous fossil bird-tracks in the museum of that college town. There was little puncuation; she used mostly dashes.It has been thought better in printing these letters, as with her poems, to give them the benefit in ordinary usages. Her habit as to capitalization, as the printers would call it, in which she used the Old English and present German method of distinguishing every noun. The most curious thing about the letter was the total absence of signature. It was proved later, however, that she had written her name on a card, and put it in under the shelter of a smaller envelope inclosed in the larger: and even this name was written in pencil and not in ink. As if she wished to recede far from view as possible. Inclosed with the letter were four poems, two of which have been seperately published,--"Safe in the Alabaster Chambers" and "I'll Tell you How the Sun Rose.". . . . Circumstances brought me in contact with an uncle of Emily Dickinson. A gentleman now not living. He was a prominant man of Worchester, Massachushussetts, a man of ininsiveness who shared her abruptness and impulsiveness, but not her poetic temperment, from which he was indeed remote. He could tell me little of her, she being part stanger to him also, as to me, at this time. It is probable that the adviser sought some time to find out what strange crature he was dealing with. her second letter arrived and was received (April 26, 1862) Thomas Wentworth Higginson MR. HIGGINSON,--YOUR KINDNESS CLAIMED EARLIER GRATITUDE, BUT I WAS ILL, AND WRITE TO-DAY FROM MY PILLOW.THANK YOU FOR THE SURGERY; IT WAS NOT SO PAINFUL AS I SUPPOSED. I BRING YOU OTHERS, AS YOU ASK, THOUGH THEY MIGHT NOT DIIFFER. WHILE MY THOUGHT IS UNDRESSED, I CAN MAKE THE DISTINCTION; BUT WHEN I PUT THEM IN GOWN, THEY LOOK ALIKE AND NUMB.YOU ASKED ME HOW OLD I WAS? I MADE NO VERSE, BUT ONE OOOR TWO UNTIL THIS WINTER, SIR.I HAD A TERROR SINCE SEMPTEMBER, I COULD TELL TO NONE; 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 RETURNRED. SOON AFTER MY TUTOR DIED, AND FOR SEVERAL YEARS MY LEXICON (DICTIONARY) 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 COMPANIONNS. HILLS, SIR, AND THE SUNDOWN, AND A DOG LARGE AS MYSELF, THAT MY FATHER BOUGHT ME. THEY ARE BETTER BEINGS BECAUSE THEY KNOW, BUT DO NOT TELL; AND THE NOISE IN THE POOL AT NOON EXCELS MY PIANO.I HAVE A BROTHER AND A SISTER; MY MOTHER DOES NOT CARE FOR THOUGHT,AND FATHER, TOO BUSY WITH HIS BRIEFS TO NOTICE WHAT WE DO. HE BUYS ME MANY BOOKS, BUT BEGS ME NOT TO READ THEM, BECAUSE HE FEARS THEY JOGGLE THE MIND. THEY ARE RELIOGIOUS, EXCEPT ME, AND ADDRESS AN ECLIPSE, EVERY MORNIING, WHOM THEY CALL THEIR "FATHER".BUT I FEAR MY STORIES FATIGUES YOU. I WOULD LIKE TO LEARN. COULD YOU TELL ME HOW TO GROW, OR IS IT UNCONVEYED, LIKE MELODY OR WITHCRAFT?YOU SPEAK OF MR. WHITMAN. I NEVER READ HIS BOOK, BUT WAS TOLD THAT IT WAS DISGRACEFRULL.I READ MISS PRESCOTT'S "CIIRCUMSTANCE," BUT IT FOLLOWED ME IN THE DARK, SO I AVOIDED HER.TWO EDITORS OF JOURNALS CAME TO MY FATHER'S HOUSE THIS WINTER, AND ASKED FOR MY MIND, AND WHEN I ASKED THEM "WHY" THEY SAID I WAS PENURIOUS (MISERBLY STINGLY,CLOSE, TIGHTFISTED, EXTREME POVERTY,)AND THEY WOULD USE IT FOR THE WORLD.I COULD NOT WEIGH MYSELF, MYSELF. MY SIZE FELT SMALL TO ME. I READ YOUR CHAPTERS IN THE "ATLANTIC" AND EXPERIEINCED HONOR FOR YOU. I 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 noticed that I had sounded her certain about american authors, then much read; and that she knew how to put her own criticisms in a very trenchant way. With this letter came some more verses, still in the same birdlike script... It is possible that in a second letter I gave more of distinct praise or encouragment, as her third letter is in a different mood. This was received June 8th, 1862. There is something startling in it's opening image;and in yet the stranger phrase that follows, where she apparently uses "mob" in the sense of chaos or bewilderment: DEAR FRIEND,--YOUR LETTER GAVE ME NO DRUNKENNESS, BECAUSE I TASTED RUM BEFORE. DOMINGO COMES BUT ONCE; YET I HAVE HAD FEW PLEASURES SO DEEP AS YOUR OPINION, AND IF I TRIED TO THANK YOU, MY TEARS WOULD BLOCK MY TOUNGUE. MY DYING TUTOR TOLD ME THAT HE WOULD LIKE TO LIVE TILL I HAD BEEN A POET, BUT DEATH WAS MUCH A MOB AS I COULD MASTER, THEN. AND WHEN FAR AFTERWARD, A SUDDEN LIGHT ON ORCHARDS, OR A NEW FASHION IN THE WIND TROUBLED MY ATTENTION, I FELT PALSY HERE, THE VERSES JUST RELIEVE. YOUR SECOND LETTER SURPRISED ME, AND FOR A MOMENT, SWUNG. I HAD NOT SUPPOSED IT. YOUR FIRST GAVE NO DISHONOR, BECAUSE THE TRUE ARE NOT ASHAMED. I THANKED YOU FOR YOUR JUSTICE, BUT COULD NOT DROP THE BELLS WHOSE JINGLING COOLED MY TRAMP. PERHAPS THE BALM SEEMED BETTER, BECAUSE YOU BLED ME FIRST. I SMILE WHEN YOU SUGGEST THAT I DELAY "TO PUBLISH,"THAT BEING FOREIGN TO MY THOUGHTS AS FIRMAMENT TOO FIN. IF FAME BELONGED TO ME, I COULD NOT ESCAPE HER; IF SHE DID NOT, THE LONGEST DAY WOULD PASS ME ON THE CHASE, AND THEAPPOBATION OF MY DOG WOULD FORSAKE ME THEN. MY BAREFOOT RANK IS BETTER.YOU THINK MY GAIT "SPASMODIC." I AM IN DANGER, SIR. YOU THINK ME "UNCONTROLLED." I HAVE NO TRIBUNAL.WOULS YOU HAVE TIME TO BE THE "FRIEND" YOU SHOULD THINK I NEED? I HAVE A LITTLE SHAPE: IT WOULD NOT CROWD YOUR DESK, NOR MAKE MUCH RACKET AS THE MOUSE THAT DENS YOUR GALLERIES.IF I MIGHT BRING YOU WHAT I DO-NOT SO FREQUENT TO TROUBLE YOU- AND ASK YOU IF I TOLD IT CLEAR,'T WOULD BE CONTROL TO ME. THE SAILOR CANNOT SEE THE NORTH, BUT KNOWS THE NEEDLE CAN. THE "HAND YOU STRETCH ME IN THE DARK" I PUT MINE IN, AND TURN AWAY. I HAVE NO SAXON NOW; AS IF I ASKED A COMMON ALMS, AND IN MY WANDERING HAND A STRANGER PRESSED A KINGDOM, AND I, BEWILDERED, STRAND; AS IF I ASKED THE ORIENT HAD IT FOR ME A MORN, AND IT SHOULD LIFT ITS PURPLE DIKES AND SHATTER ME WITH DAWN! BUT, WILL YOU BE MY PERSEPTOR, MR. HIGGINSON? With this came a poem since published in one of her volumes and entitles "Renunciation";and also that beginning "Of all sounds dispatched abroad," thus fixing appoximately the date of these two. I must soon have written to ask for her picture, that I might form some impression of my enigmarical correspondent. To this came the following reply, in July, 1862:- Continue...Emilys Letters Back To Emilys History Back to Emilys Poetry Back To Yellow Brick Road
dated April 16, 1862...I took form the post-office the following letter MR HIGGINSON,--ARE YOU TOO DEEPLY OCCUPIED TO SAY IF MY VERSE IS ALIVE?THE MIND IS SO NEAR ITSELF IT CANNOT SEE DISTINCTLY, AND I HAVE NONE TO ASK.SHOULD YOU THINK IT BREATHED, AND HAD YOU THE LEISURE TO TELL ME, I SHOULD FEEL QUICK GRATITIDE.IF I MAKE THE MISTAKE, THAT YOU DARED TO TELL ME WOULD YOU GIVE ME SINCERER HONOR TOWARD YOUI INCLOSE MY NAME, ASKING YOU PLEASE SIR, TO TELL ME WHAT IS TRUE?THAT YOU WILL NOT BETRAY ME IT IS NEEDLASS TO ASK, SINCE HONOR IS ITS OWN PAWN.
MR HIGGINSON,--ARE YOU TOO DEEPLY OCCUPIED TO SAY IF MY VERSE IS ALIVE?THE MIND IS SO NEAR ITSELF IT CANNOT SEE DISTINCTLY, AND I HAVE NONE TO ASK.SHOULD YOU THINK IT BREATHED, AND HAD YOU THE LEISURE TO TELL ME, I SHOULD FEEL QUICK GRATITIDE.IF I MAKE THE MISTAKE, THAT YOU DARED TO TELL ME WOULD YOU GIVE ME SINCERER HONOR TOWARD YOUI INCLOSE MY NAME, ASKING YOU PLEASE SIR, TO TELL ME WHAT IS TRUE?THAT YOU WILL NOT BETRAY ME IT IS NEEDLASS TO ASK, SINCE HONOR IS ITS OWN PAWN.
The letter was postmarked "amherst", and it was in a handwritiing so peculiar that it seemed as if the writer might have taken her first lessons by studyinging the famous fossil bird-tracks in the museum of that college town.
There was little puncuation; she used mostly dashes.It has been thought better in printing these letters, as with her poems, to give them the benefit in ordinary usages. Her habit as to capitalization, as the printers would call it, in which she used the Old English and present German method of distinguishing every noun.
The most curious thing about the letter was the total absence of signature. It was proved later, however, that she had written her name on a card, and put it in under the shelter of a smaller envelope inclosed in the larger: and even this name was written in pencil and not in ink. As if she wished to recede far from view as possible. Inclosed with the letter were four poems, two of which have been seperately published,--"Safe in the Alabaster Chambers" and "I'll Tell you How the Sun Rose.". . . .
Circumstances brought me in contact with an uncle of Emily Dickinson. A gentleman now not living. He was a prominant man of Worchester, Massachushussetts, a man of ininsiveness who shared her abruptness and impulsiveness, but not her poetic temperment, from which he was indeed remote. He could tell me little of her, she being part stanger to him also, as to me, at this time. It is probable that the adviser sought some time to find out what strange crature he was dealing with. her second letter arrived and was received (April 26, 1862) Thomas Wentworth Higginson
MR. HIGGINSON,--YOUR KINDNESS CLAIMED EARLIER GRATITUDE, BUT I WAS ILL, AND WRITE TO-DAY FROM MY PILLOW.THANK YOU FOR THE SURGERY; IT WAS NOT SO PAINFUL AS I SUPPOSED. I BRING YOU OTHERS, AS YOU ASK, THOUGH THEY MIGHT NOT DIIFFER. WHILE MY THOUGHT IS UNDRESSED, I CAN MAKE THE DISTINCTION; BUT WHEN I PUT THEM IN GOWN, THEY LOOK ALIKE AND NUMB.YOU ASKED ME HOW OLD I WAS? I MADE NO VERSE, BUT ONE OOOR TWO UNTIL THIS WINTER, SIR.I HAD A TERROR SINCE SEMPTEMBER, I COULD TELL TO NONE; 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 RETURNRED. SOON AFTER MY TUTOR DIED, AND FOR SEVERAL YEARS MY LEXICON (DICTIONARY) 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 COMPANIONNS. HILLS, SIR, AND THE SUNDOWN, AND A DOG LARGE AS MYSELF, THAT MY FATHER BOUGHT ME. THEY ARE BETTER BEINGS BECAUSE THEY KNOW, BUT DO NOT TELL; AND THE NOISE IN THE POOL AT NOON EXCELS MY PIANO.I HAVE A BROTHER AND A SISTER; MY MOTHER DOES NOT CARE FOR THOUGHT,AND FATHER, TOO BUSY WITH HIS BRIEFS TO NOTICE WHAT WE DO. HE BUYS ME MANY BOOKS, BUT BEGS ME NOT TO READ THEM, BECAUSE HE FEARS THEY JOGGLE THE MIND. THEY ARE RELIOGIOUS, EXCEPT ME, AND ADDRESS AN ECLIPSE, EVERY MORNIING, WHOM THEY CALL THEIR "FATHER".BUT I FEAR MY STORIES FATIGUES YOU. I WOULD LIKE TO LEARN. COULD YOU TELL ME HOW TO GROW, OR IS IT UNCONVEYED, LIKE MELODY OR WITHCRAFT?YOU SPEAK OF MR. WHITMAN. I NEVER READ HIS BOOK, BUT WAS TOLD THAT IT WAS DISGRACEFRULL.I READ MISS PRESCOTT'S "CIIRCUMSTANCE," BUT IT FOLLOWED ME IN THE DARK, SO I AVOIDED HER.TWO EDITORS OF JOURNALS CAME TO MY FATHER'S HOUSE THIS WINTER, AND ASKED FOR MY MIND, AND WHEN I ASKED THEM "WHY" THEY SAID I WAS PENURIOUS (MISERBLY STINGLY,CLOSE, TIGHTFISTED, EXTREME POVERTY,)AND THEY WOULD USE IT FOR THE WORLD.I COULD NOT WEIGH MYSELF, MYSELF. MY SIZE FELT SMALL TO ME. I READ YOUR CHAPTERS IN THE "ATLANTIC" AND EXPERIEINCED HONOR FOR YOU. I 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 noticed that I had sounded her certain about american authors, then much read; and that she knew how to put her own criticisms in a very trenchant way. With this letter came some more verses, still in the same birdlike script...
It is possible that in a second letter I gave more of distinct praise or encouragment, as her third letter is in a different mood. This was received June 8th, 1862. There is something startling in it's opening image;and in yet the stranger phrase that follows, where she apparently uses "mob" in the sense of chaos or bewilderment:
DEAR FRIEND,--YOUR LETTER GAVE ME NO DRUNKENNESS, BECAUSE I TASTED RUM BEFORE. DOMINGO COMES BUT ONCE; YET I HAVE HAD FEW PLEASURES SO DEEP AS YOUR OPINION, AND IF I TRIED TO THANK YOU, MY TEARS WOULD BLOCK MY TOUNGUE. MY DYING TUTOR TOLD ME THAT HE WOULD LIKE TO LIVE TILL I HAD BEEN A POET, BUT DEATH WAS MUCH A MOB AS I COULD MASTER, THEN. AND WHEN FAR AFTERWARD, A SUDDEN LIGHT ON ORCHARDS, OR A NEW FASHION IN THE WIND TROUBLED MY ATTENTION, I FELT PALSY HERE, THE VERSES JUST RELIEVE. YOUR SECOND LETTER SURPRISED ME, AND FOR A MOMENT, SWUNG. I HAD NOT SUPPOSED IT. YOUR FIRST GAVE NO DISHONOR, BECAUSE THE TRUE ARE NOT ASHAMED. I THANKED YOU FOR YOUR JUSTICE, BUT COULD NOT DROP THE BELLS WHOSE JINGLING COOLED MY TRAMP. PERHAPS THE BALM SEEMED BETTER, BECAUSE YOU BLED ME FIRST. I SMILE WHEN YOU SUGGEST THAT I DELAY "TO PUBLISH,"THAT BEING FOREIGN TO MY THOUGHTS AS FIRMAMENT TOO FIN. IF FAME BELONGED TO ME, I COULD NOT ESCAPE HER; IF SHE DID NOT, THE LONGEST DAY WOULD PASS ME ON THE CHASE, AND THEAPPOBATION OF MY DOG WOULD FORSAKE ME THEN. MY BAREFOOT RANK IS BETTER.YOU THINK MY GAIT "SPASMODIC." I AM IN DANGER, SIR. YOU THINK ME "UNCONTROLLED." I HAVE NO TRIBUNAL.WOULS YOU HAVE TIME TO BE THE "FRIEND" YOU SHOULD THINK I NEED? I HAVE A LITTLE SHAPE: IT WOULD NOT CROWD YOUR DESK, NOR MAKE MUCH RACKET AS THE MOUSE THAT DENS YOUR GALLERIES.IF I MIGHT BRING YOU WHAT I DO-NOT SO FREQUENT TO TROUBLE YOU- AND ASK YOU IF I TOLD IT CLEAR,'T WOULD BE CONTROL TO ME. THE SAILOR CANNOT SEE THE NORTH, BUT KNOWS THE NEEDLE CAN. THE "HAND YOU STRETCH ME IN THE DARK" I PUT MINE IN, AND TURN AWAY. I HAVE NO SAXON NOW;
AS IF I ASKED A COMMON ALMS, AND IN MY WANDERING HAND A STRANGER PRESSED A KINGDOM, AND I, BEWILDERED, STRAND; AS IF I ASKED THE ORIENT HAD IT FOR ME A MORN, AND IT SHOULD LIFT ITS PURPLE DIKES AND SHATTER ME WITH DAWN!
BUT, WILL YOU BE MY PERSEPTOR, MR. HIGGINSON?
With this came a poem since published in one of her volumes and entitles "Renunciation";and also that beginning "Of all sounds dispatched abroad," thus fixing appoximately the date of these two. I must soon have written to ask for her picture, that I might form some impression of my enigmarical correspondent. To this came the following reply, in July, 1862:-
Continue...Emilys Letters Back To Emilys History Back to Emilys Poetry Back To Yellow Brick Road