Emerson wrote:—

Concord, Mass., 30 Dec., 1853.

Dear Mrs. Howe,—

I am just leaving home with much ado of happy preparation for an absence of five weeks, but must take a few moments to thank you for the happiness your gift brings me. It was very kind in you to send it to me, who have forfeited all apparent claims to such favor, by breaking all the laws of good neighborhood in these years. But you were entirely right in sending it, because, I fancy, that among all your friends, few had so earnest a desire to know your thoughts, and, I may say, so much regret at never seeing you, as I. And the book, as I read in it, meets this curiosity of mine, by its poems of character and confidence, private lyrics, whose air and words [are] all your own. I have not gone so far in them as to have any criticism to offer you, and like better the pure pleasure I find in a new book of poetry so warm with life. Perhaps, when I have finished the book, I shall ask the privilege of saying something further. At present I content myself with thanking you.

With great regard,

R. W. Emerson.

Oliver Wendell Holmes, always generous in his welcome to younger writers, sent the following poem, never before printed:—

If I were one, O Minstrel wild.
That held "the golden cup"
Not unto thee, Art's stolen child,
My hand should yield it up;
Why should I waste its gold on one
That holds a guerdon bright—
A chalice, flashing in the sun
Of perfect chrysolite.
And shaped on such a swelling sphere
As if some God had pressed
Its flowing crystal, soft and clear
On Hebe's virgin breast?
What though the bitter grapes of earth
Have mingled in its wine?
The stolen fruits of heavenly birth
Have made its hue divine.
Oh, Lady, there are charms that win
Their way to magic bowers,
And they that weave them enter in
In spite of mortal powers;
And hearts that seek the chapel's floor
Will throb the long aisle through,
Though none are waiting at the door
To sprinkle holy dew!
I, sitting in the portal gray
Of Art's cathedral dim,
Can see thee, passing in to pray
And sing thy first-born hymn;—
Hold out thy hand! these scanty drops
Come from a hallowed stream,
Its sands, a poet's crumbling hopes,
Its mists, his fading dream.
Pass on. Around the inmost shrine
A few faint tapers burn;
This altar, Priestess, shall be thine
To light and watch in turn;
Above it smiles the Mother Maid,
It leans on Love and Art,
And in its glowing depth is laid
The first true woman's heart!

O. W. H.
Boston, Jan. 1, 1854.

This tribute from the beloved Autocrat touched her deeply, the more so that in the "Commonwealth"[35] she had recently reviewed some of his own work rather severely. She made her acknowledgment in a poem entitled "A Vision of Montgomery Place,"[36] in which she pictures herself as a sheeted penitent knocking at Dr. Holmes's door.

I was the saucy Commonwealth:
Oh! help me to repent.
* * * * * *
Behind my embrasure well-braced,
With every chance to hit,
I made your banner, waving wide,
A mark for wayward wit.
'Twas now my turn to walk the street,
In dangerous singleness,
And run, as bravely as I might,
The gauntlet of the press.
And when I passed your balcony
Expecting only blows,
From height or vantage-ground, you stooped
To whelm me with a rose.
A rose, intense with crimson life
And hidden perfume sweet—
Call out your friends, and see me do
My penance in the street.
* * * * * *

She writes her sister Annie:—

"My book came out, darling, on Friday last. You have it, I hope, ere this time. The simple title, 'Passion Flowers,' was invented by Scherb[37] and approved by Longfellow. Its success became certain at once. Hundreds of copies have already been sold, and every one likes it. Fields foretells a second edition—it is sure to pay for itself. It has done more for me, in point of consideration here, than a fortune of a hundred thousand dollars. Parker quoted some of my verses in his Christmas sermon, and this I considered as the greatest of honors. I sat there and heard them, glowing all over. The authorship is, of course, no secret now...."

Speaking of the volume long after, she says, "It was a timid performance upon a slender reed."