“I saw the sun drop last evening—its magnified reflection, rather—into the larger Lake Asquam, like a ball of crimson flame. The sun itself went down, hot and red, into a band of warm mist that hung over the hills. The ‘Wood Giant’ stood above me audibly musing. His twilight thoughts were untranslatable, but perhaps the wood-thrushes understood, for they sent up their mystical chant from the thickets below, in deep harmony with the music of his boughs.
“The higher summits have not unveiled themselves yet, not even Cardigan or Mount Israel. Steaming across the lake from Wolfboro’ three sunsets since, it seemed to me that there was a compensation in this invisibility of the loftier hills. Only Red Hill and the Ossipee Range were to be seen; and they loomed up in huge grandeur, asserting themselves to be, as they are, the dominant guardians of Winnipiseogee. It is seldom that the Beautiful Lake loses them from sight.”
TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.
Centre Harbor, N. H., October 7, 1855.
... I have had my “outing” at Bethlehem; I went there hardly able to sit up during the journey, but gained strength at once, and am well now.
I stayed there more than four weeks, and enjoyed it much. Mr. Howells and family were at the next house, and I saw them several times. Bethlehem is a very public place. I found a good deal of calling and visiting going on. But the house life was delightful.
I spent last week at Ossipee Park, the loveliest spot in New England, I think.
I am here for a week or more, at the place where Mr. Whittier was in the summer. Mrs. Sturtevant is an old friend of mine, and her housekeeping leaves nothing to be desired. You would like the place and it is easily accessible,—only a mile back of Centre Harbor. Mr. Whittier’s poem, “The Wood Giant,” was written here. You can see the tree above others, ten miles across the lake, at Ossipee Park—it is down in the pasture, a little way from this house, looking towards sunset over the lake....
TO J. G. WHITTIER.
Hotel Byron,
Boston, April 23, 1886.My dear Friend,—I have been in and about Boston for the past three weeks, and of late have been interested in this new study of Theosophy, which so many are looking into. I have wondered how you regard it.
What I most enjoy about it is the larger horizons it opens upon our true spiritual sight,—glimpses only, it is true,—but we could not bear more than that, doubtless. And the moral and spiritual truth it unfolds and inculcates is of the loftiest. It harmonizes so entirely with the highest Christianity, no believer in that can find cause for cavil. And yet, it is far behind the spirit of Christianity, as we have it from the Divine Teacher’s lips and life; in that the common mind is shut out from a clear comprehension of its meaning. “The simplicity that is in Christ” is the true gospel, whatever wisdom beside this may be given to sages and seekers. The gospel for the poor and the ignorant is the gospel for us all.
And I suppose those that go farthest into these other deep secrets are the humblest. Spiritual pride is indeed pronounced the greatest of all sins by these, and by Christian souls.
But how beautiful it is to know that truth is one, and that life is one, and that all over the world, and through all the ages, men are entering into and sharing the great inheritance!
I may find much that I cannot accept, but what of that, if I am brought nearer to the heart of humanity, in its fraternal aspirations towards the Father of our spirits!
Faithfully thy friend,Lucy Larcom.
233 Clarendon Street,
Boston, December 28, 1886.Dear Miss Larcom,—I cannot let your kind note pass without at least a word of gratitude and welcome. It is good to know that you are in Boston again, and that I may sometimes speak to you on Sundays. I should be sorry indeed to think that the winter would pass without letting me, somewhere, sometime, come to more familiar friendly talk with you. You will find me the chance, I hope, either by coming here, or letting me know where I may come to you.
At any rate, I am glad that you are here, and I send you my best New Year’s wishes.
I do not want you to think that I am aspiring to poetry. “The Little Town of Bethlehem” was written more than twenty years ago, for a Christmas service of my Sunday school in Philadelphia. It has been printed in hymn-books since, and sung at a good many Christmases, and where the newspapers find it, all of a sudden, I do not know!
Ever faithfully your friend,
Phillips Brooks.
It has been stated that Miss Larcom was barely able to support herself by her writings. She realized, like many another author, that Mr. Whittier’s words were true when he wrote her that “the hardest way of earning bread and butter in this world is to coin one’s brains, as an author, into cash, or spin them into greenbacks.” She could, however, do very well, so long as her health was good. In addition to the copyright on her books, she received payment from the magazines for her work,—“St. Nicholas” sometimes gave her fifty dollars for an article. “Harper’s” and the “Independent” paid her the same rates as they did to “H. H.” She also contributed to “Wide Awake,” the “Christian Union,” the “Congregationalist,” and to many minor papers, like the “Cottage Hearth.” But she was subject to severe attacks of illness, which rendered her, for the time, incapable of writing. Then it was that her friends came forward to aid her; any assistance, however, she was loth to accept. This unwillingness to receive help gave rise to an interesting scene between herself and Mr. Whittier. At one time, her strength and resources had been reduced by illness. She was lying upon her couch when Mr. Whittier came, and, seating himself beside her, said, “Now, Lucy, this is altogether too bad.”
“What is too bad?”
“Why, that thee should work for the world all thy days, and then lie here, worrying about expenses.”
“I don’t worry. The Lord has always taken care of me.”
“But, Lucy, thee ought to worry. The Lord has made thee capable of caring for thyself. Why not be more practicable? I have done something about this.”
“I knew you had, as soon as this talk began. Now, I thank you, but I will not touch one cent of the money you collect.”