Letter 261 (25 April 1862) T. W. Higginson lyrics

Mr Higginson,

Your kindness claimed earlier gratitude - but I was ill - and write today, from my pillow.

Thank you for the surgery - it was not so painful as I supposed. I bring you others - as you ask - though they might not differ -

While my thought is undressed - I can make the distinction, but when I put them in the Gown - they look alike, and numb.

You asked how old I was? I made no verse - but one or two - until this winter - Sir -

I had a terror - since September - I could tell to none - and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground - because I am afraid - You inquire my Books - For Poets - I have Keats - and Mr and Mrs Browning. For Prose - Mr Ruskin - Sir Thomas Browne - and the Revelations. I went to school - but in your manner of the phrase - had no education. When a little Girl, I had a friend, who taught me Immortality - but venturing too near, himself - he never returned - Soon after, my Tutor, died - and for several years, my Lexicon - was my only companion - Then I found one more - but he was not contented I be his scholar - so he left the Land.

You ask of my Companions Hills - Sir - and the Sundown - and a 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. I have a Brother and Sister - My Mother does not care for thought - and Father, too busy with his 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." But I fear my story fatigues you - I would like to learn - Could you tell me how to grow - or is it unconveyed - like Melody - or Witchcraft?

You speak of Mr Whitman - I never read his Book - but was told that he was disgraceful -

I read Miss Prescott's "Circ*mstance," (3) but it followed me, in the Dark - so I avoided her -

Two Editors of Journals came to my Father's House, this winter- and asked me for my Mind - and when I asked them "Why," they said I was penurious - and they, would use it for the World -

I could not weigh myself - Myself-

My size felt small - to me - I read your Chapters in the Atlantic - and experienced honor for you - I was sure you would not reject a confiding question -

Is this - Sir - what you asked me to tell you?
                                                                                                   Your friend,

                                                                                                E - di*kinson.