The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913, 1896-09-20

of such letter. 1t might have been written
by an Emerson or poet of the Concord school
and reminds US that the author was reared in
the same mental atmosphere Mr.. Higginson's
answers have, unfortunately, not been pre-
served. 1t would have been interesting to
read the response he made to this singular
and powerfully worded appeal for his criti-
cism. We can surmise the glst of his answer
by the second letter from Miss Dickinson. She
thanks him for his kindness and for his ''sur-
gerry" He had evidently pointed out that her
poems were very irregular in form.
''You asked how old I was? 1 made no
verse but one or two until this winter, sir.
You inquire my books. For poets I
have Keats and Mr.. and Mrs Browning. For
prose Mr.. RuskiD, Sir Thomas Browne and the
Revelations. ~
A small company of friends was that, but an
excellent one. No wonder Ruskin was her in
innate. She was a true disciple of the man
who wrote:
No weight, nor mass, beauty Of execution
can outweigh one grain or fragment of thought.
Yet do not believe that Emily Dickinson
was ever consciously defiant of rules. She
rather never considered them at all, and
sought only to express the thought which
grappled her. Sometimes this was done in
strikingly homely phraseology, as in the poem:
Death is a dialogue between
The spirit and the dust
"Dissolve," says Death, the spirit. "sir,
have another trust"
Death doubts it, argues from the ground
The Spirit turns away,
Just laying off, for evidence
An overcoat of clay.
The "overcoat of clay" is stronger and comes
more freshly home to the mind than any OF
the usual phrases, such as the body being gar
ment to be laid aside" or the like, which have
been said so often that we have mostly lost the
feeling out of them. If Emily Dickinson had
written to-day, she would have found herself
in the full sweep Of the art movement, which
contends for originality and fires hness of ex-
preston. at the sacrifice of every art form
instead of the hackneyed, which is powerless
to really express.
Her letter goes on:
81 went to school, but, in your manner of the
Lhrase, had no education. When little girl
had friend who taught me immortality; but
venturing too near himself he never returned.
''You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and
the shutdown and dog large as myself that
my father bought me. They are better than
beings, because they know but do not tell. and
the noise in the pool at noon excels my piano.
81 have a brother ana sister. My mother
does not care for thought, and father-too
busy with mis- 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 religious, except me, and address an
eclipse every morning, whom they call their
father. =
~ have had few pleasures so deep as your
opinion, and if 1 tried to thank you my tears
would block my tongue.
"My dying tutor told me that he would like to
live till had been a poet, but death was as
much of a mob I could master then. And
when, far afterward, a sudden light on
orchards or new fashion in the wind troubled
my attention felt palsy here, the verses just
relieve"
Emily Dickinson had never written any
verse these letters would have stamped
her poet. Nj. Howells has said that ssif moth
ing else had come out of our life but this
strange poetry we should feel that in the work
OF Emily Dickinson America, or New England
rather, mad made distinctive addition to the
literature of the world, and could not be left
out of any record of it.'
In this same letter she asks Mr.. Higginson if
he "has time to be her friend" This was the
beginning OF q correspondence and of
friendship which lasted over thirty years,
until the day of her death, and during all that
time Mr. Higginson only saw her face twice.
AT first he tried to point out her imperfections
OF rhyme and meters, but he soon ceased,
recognizing here quality beyond all mere
form. In one letter he must have told her
that her vision was beyond his knowledge"
or she answers, "You say Beyond your
knowledge You would not Jest with me;
but, preceptor, you cannot mean it?" Mr..
Higginson's interest in the strange genius of
his correspondent led him to visit Amherst.
He has described his call upon Miss Dickinson
in the pages OF the Atlantic. Her shyness and
aoofness were so great that he felt nearer to her
in letters than in conversation. He says that
or.years she never passed beyond her fathers
garden, and there were literally years when
her foot never crossed her own doorstep. In
spite of this fact she is said to have been
gracious and dignifed hostess on those occa-
sions, once year, when her father in his Off
cial capacity gave a reception to the faculty
and seniors of Amherst College. Mr. Howells,
however, records that later in her life she
could not even once year endure this strain
and would often sit in a back room, her face
turned from her guests.
Early in life she revolted from the orthodox
creed but she was none the less dominated by
her austere Puritan ideals. Strongest among
these was an intense craving for sincerity, to-
gether with loathing for cant and social
hypocrisy. In her poem called "Real" she has
expressed this with daring force:
like look of agony
Because 1 know it's true;
Men 90 not sham CONFUSION
Nor simulate throe.
The eyes glaze over, and that is Death
Impossible to feign;
The beads upon the forehead.
BY homely anguish strung.
Hamilton Aide reviewed her poems at length
in the Nineteenth Century Magazine. He
lamented their technical imperfections say
ing they were too often '1ike pearls in pack
thread" but he did full justice to her power
OF imagination-her ''gift of seeing" That is,
after all, the fundamental quality of the poet.
Manner is-or should be-accessory to that.
She resembles Emily Brant in work and in
Character more nearly than any other woman
writer. 1t seemed fitting that Colonel Higgin-
son should read over her grave the "Last
Lines" OF her sister poet. GRACE S. MUssER.
I'M UNNAMED POEM.