Lucy Larcom: Life, Letters, and Diary. Daniel Dulany Addison
received so much good. Life here seems to me not much more than “a getting ready to do.” But in the consciousness of what it is to be a human being, created in the image of the divine—in the gradual developing of new inner powers like unfolding wings—in the joy of entering into the secrets of beauty in God’s universe—in the hopefulness of constant struggling and aspiring, I am rich.
I have been in this place only a few weeks and suppose the length of my stay will depend upon the satisfaction I give and receive. It is a pleasant school.
Yours truly,Lucy Larcom.
The length of her stay in Norton extended over eight important years of her life, from 1854 to 1862. These years were full of intellectual and religious struggles, of hard student life, of sweet companionships, of the beginnings of literary success, and of deep friendships. Earnestness and sincerity here became her characteristic traits; while her gentleness and patience, though sorely tried at times by the misconduct or failure of her scholars, became habitual with her.
One cannot think of the quiet life she led under the Norton elms, without picturing the tall graceful woman with her sweet face, low broad forehead, and soft blue eyes, moving about among the girls as a continual inspiration, always leading them by her presence and words into some region of sentiment, or beauty, or religion. In the schoolroom, ever dignified, she spoke in a low voice with the emphasis of real interest. In her own room, with its green carpet and white curtains, where she liked to retire for thought and work, surrounded by her books, a few pictures, and shells and pressed sea-weed, she would prepare her lectures, and write her letters to her friends. There were sure to be flowers on her table, sent either by some loving scholar, or plucked by her own hand—“I have some pretty things in my room; and flowers, so alive! As I look into their deep cups, I am filled with the harmonies of color and form. How warm a bright rose-pink carnation makes the room on a wintry day!” A scholar tells how, venturing into this retreat, she saw Miss Larcom quietly sitting in a rocking-chair, knitting stockings for the soldiers, during the War.
She was a conscientious student in preparing her lessons; she read the best books she could find in the school library, or could borrow from her friends. The notes of her lectures show great labor by their exhaustiveness. As a teacher, some of her power was derived from the clearness with which she presented the theme, and her picturesque style of expression. She invested the most lifeless topics with interest by the use of original and appropriate illustrations—as will be seen in the following passage from a lecture on Anglo-Saxon poetry, in which she describes the minstrels:—
“The minstrels would sing, and the people would listen; and if the monks had listened too, they would sometimes have heard the irregularities of their lives chanted for the derision of the populace. For the bards assumed perfect independence in their choice of themes; liberty of the lyre seems to have been what liberty of the press is in these days. We can imagine the excitement in some quaint village, when the harp of one of these strollers was heard; how men and women would leave their work, and listen to these ballads. Those who have seen the magnetic effect of a hand-organ on village children, may have some idea of it; if the organ-grinder were also a famous story-teller, the effect would be greater. And this is something like what these ballad singers were to our elder brethren of Angle-land, in the childhood of civilization.”
What excellent advice this is to girls, on the subject of their compositions—“Get rid, if you can, of that formal idea of a composition to write, that stalks like a ghost through your holiday hours. Interest yourself in something, and just say your simple say about it. One mistake with beginners in writing is, that they think it important to spin out something long. It is a great deal better not to write more than a page or two, unless you have something to say, and can write it correctly.”
The recitations in her class-room were of an unconventional character. Dealing with topics in the largest and most interesting way, she often used up the time in discussion, so that the girls who did not know their lessons sometimes took advantage of this peculiarity by asking questions, for the sole purpose of needlessly prolonging her explanation. It was often a joke among the scholars that she did not know where the lesson was; but so soon as she found the place, she made clear the portion assigned, and brought all her knowledge to bear so fully on the subject, that the scholars caught glimpses of unexplored fields of thought, which were made to contribute something to illustrate the theme in hand.
She did more for the girls than by simply teaching them in the class-room. She enlarged their intellectual life by founding a paper, called “The Rushlight,” by which they not only gained confidence, but centralized the literary ability of the school. She explained the origin of the paper thus: “I said to myself, as I glanced over the bright things from the pile of compositions that rose before me semi-weekly, ‘Why cannot we have a paper?’ I said it to the girls, and to the teachers also, and everybody was pleased with the idea.” She also founded the Psyche Literary Society, to stimulate the girls’ studies in literature and art.
Another element in her power as a teacher was her personal interest in the girls. It was not solely an intellectual or literary interest, but she thought of their characters and religious training. To one of the girls she wrote, “I never felt it an interruption for you to come into my room; how we used to talk about everything!” When they were in trouble, they came naturally to her with their confidences. She was sometimes called “Mother Larcom,” and she earned the title, for she acted like a mother to the homesick girl, and quieted by her gentle persuasiveness the tears of repentance, or bitter weeping of sorrow, of some of the more unfortunate of her pupils. Writing about one of the girls whose religious development she had watched, she said, “She is unfolding from the heart to God most openly, now. I am sure there is a deep life opening in her. I have rejoiced over her.”
She discovered, through their moods—as in the case of one who was crying a great deal—or by the frequency of a permitted correspondence, their real or fancied love-affairs. After winning their confidence she could wisely advise them. Thus in one instance she wrote: “If such intimacy is true friendship, it will be a benefit to both; yet it is not without danger. I have seen the severest sufferings from the struggle between duty and feeling in such relations. I have seen life embittered by reason of the liberty allowed to a cousinly love, left unwatched. It is hard to keep the affections right in quantity and quality. But I need not say that a true love needs no limits; it is only falsehood that embitters every sweet and pure cup.”
When the girls left school, they carried her love with them; and by correspondence and visits to their homes, where she was always a welcome guest, she followed them through the deepest experiences of their lives. One of her scholars said, “If I were to sum up the strong impression she made upon me, I should say it all in ‘I loved her.’ ” Another wrote, “Miss Larcom was to me a peerless star, unattainable in the excellence and purity of her character. She stood as the ideal woman, whom I wished to be like.”
When death invaded a home, she knew how to write:—
Norton, October 7, 1855.
… Why is it we dread the brief parting of death so much? Do we really doubt meeting them again? Will they have lost themselves in the great crowd of immortals, so that when our time comes to follow them we cannot find them? I am just reading for the first time, “In Memoriam,” and it fills my mind with these questions. I think I should be homesick in a mansion filled with angels, if my own precious friends whom I loved were not within call. …
The following letter shows her intimacy with the girls:—
TO MISS SUSAN HAYES WARD.
Norton, April 2, 1855.
My Dear Susie—I find it almost impossible to feel at home in a boarding-school; and then I know I never was made for a teacher—a schoolmistress I mean. Still, among so many, one feels an inspiration in trying to do what is to be done, though the feeling that others would do it better is a drawback. And then, at such a place, I always find somebody to remember forever. For that I am thankful for my winter’s experience. There are buds opening in the great human garden, which are not to be found at our own hearthstone: and it is a blessed task to watch them unfolding, and shield them from blight. And yet what can one mortal do for another? There is no such thing as helping,