What else could she do, with her fair Northern name?”
Her satire was ready for those able-bodied men who, when the drafting was talked of, were suddenly seized with many varieties of disease, or those who went a-fishing for the season—because mariners were exempt—or, like one man, who cut off three fingers, hoping that the loss of these members would be sufficient to keep him at home. She wanted to do something herself: “I am almost ashamed of these high sentiments in print, because I really have done nothing for our dear country as yet. These things sound conceited and arrogant to me, under the circumstances, but I only write from an ideal of patriotic womanhood, and for my country-women.” She came near offering herself as a teacher for the “Contrabands,” but some of her friends thought it unwise in the state of her health at the time, and she concluded that she was not fitted for the work, with the rather sad confession, “I have an unconquerable distrust of my own fitness for these angel ministries; I fear I am not worthy to suffer. I can think, write, and teach, but can I live?”
In August, 1863, she was called to the West by the serious illness of her sister Louisa, which terminated fatally.
TO MRS. JAMES T. FIELDS.
Hammond, Wis., September 11, 1863.
... and with her, my pleasant dreams of home dissolve; it was she who said she would make a home for me, wherever I would choose. The earthly outlook is lonelier than before; but I must not yield to selfish regrets. She has gone home, in a sense more real than we often say of the dead. Her whole family had gone before her,—husband and four children had left her one after another. Her heart seemed broken when her youngest son died in the army, last year; she never recovered her strength after that blow. I cannot mourn when I think of that glad reunion of a household in heaven, but I cannot help the great blank that her death and my brother’s have left in my life. These family ties, I find, grow stronger as I grow older.
This prairie life does not now attract me at all. A broad, grand world opens out on every side, but there is no choice in it. You might as well take one level road as another....
With the death of this sister, in reality, did dissolve the “pleasant dreams of a home,” for Miss Larcom never had a home of her own, though she longed for one, and used to delight in speaking of the possibility of having one. “I will build my long-planned home among the mountains,” she used to say, “and my friends shall bivouac with me all summer.” But her life was spent principally in boarding-houses, or in the homes of others. Her resources never permitted her to own the bed on which she slept; however, she did own an old wooden lounge, which was her only bed for years. But she made the best of it, in her usual way; “I like this old couch. I like to be independent of things; there is a charm in Bohemian life.”
On her return to Beverly in 1864, she took a few pupils again, and spent a good deal of time in painting,—even weeds, for she “loved the very driest old stick that had a bit of lichen or moss on it.” She exhausted her friend’s libraries in reading, and received from Mrs. Fields a large valise filled with precious volumes, which she returned only after having read them all. “I like to be here in Beverly with my sister and the children. I think I am more human here than at school.”
The following records were made with feeling in her diary.
April 10, 1865. Waked at five o’clock this morning, to hear bells ringing for the surrender of Lee’s army; robins screaming, and guns booming from the fort. The war’s “Finis;” Glory Hallelujah!
April 15. Starting for Boston, the bells began to toll. The President’s assassination is the report. The morning papers confirm the truth. Sadness and indignation everywhere. The Rebellion has struck its most desperate blow, but the Nation moves calmly on.
April 19. The President’s funeral. Every place of business closed. Services in all the churches. I went to the Old South, and heard a brief and indignant speech, which received the people’s earnest response.
May 14, Sunday. Bells ringing for the capture of Jeff Davis.
In 1865, Miss Larcom became one of the editors of the new magazine for young people, “Our Young Folks,” and retained this position until 1872, when “St. Nicholas” inherited the good-will and patronage of the earlier magazine. The orange-colored periodical bore her name, and those of Gail Hamilton and Trowbridge, and usually contained a ballad or prose sketch by her, or else she contributed some of the answers in the “Letter Box.” Her work was performed with conscientiousness and good taste; her sympathy with child-life made her a valuable assistant in making the magazine popular. She was interested in its success: “‘Our Young Folks’ greatly delights grown people everywhere. I am very glad of an occasional criticism that offers a hint of an improvement. It must be made to distance all competitors in value, as it does in patronage.”
To be in a position where she had the power to reject or accept hundreds of manuscripts sent for approval, interested her, but she had so much sympathy for the struggling author, that, contrary to the usual custom of the “Editorial Department,” she often sent a personal note of explanation. She could not help laughing over the strange letters she received, though she usually answered them politely. One woman wrote, asking her advice as to the sale of three hundred barrels of apples. Musicians sent her music, requesting her to write words to suit. A young girl wrote that she was “young, poor, and orphaned,” thus appealing to the editorial sympathies, and requested her to arbitrate concerning the merit of two poems, “The Angel Whisper” and “One of the Chosen,” for some one had promised to give her five dollars and a new hat, if her own poem should be successful. Modesty was not always a virtue with these applicants. One wrote: “Editors, Sir and Madam,—I send you a palindrome, which you know is a curiosity. I saw a list, the other day, said to be the best in the language, but this excels them all, as it represents a complete idea of spiritual philosophy. I should like to open a school of ideas for children. I believe this would add to your subscription list.” Another announced the strange theory, that “languages were originated with references to correspondence between the visible and invisible world.” Another facetiously remarked, making application for a position, “Anything but to count money, for I have not had experience in this form of labor.”