Page:The Life and Letters of Emily Dickinson (1924).pdf/102

72 leave home, even to visit her relatives in Boston. His letters to her, and there were many of them, she labelled to be burned upon her death; her chivalry outrunning his publication of her little impulsive notes to him, published with his own comment. One of his somehow did escape into Sister Sue's papers, and in this, dated May, 1868, he says eagerly:

Sometimes I take out your letters and verses, dear friend, and when I feel their strange power, it is not strange that I find it hard to write and that long months pass. I have the greatest desire to see you, always feeling that perhaps if I could once take you by the hand I might be something to you; but till then you only enshroud yourself in this fiery mist and I cannot reach you, but only rejoice in the rare sparkles of light. Every year I think I will go to Amherst and contrive to see you somehow, but that is hard, for I am obliged to go away for lecturing, etc., often and rarely can go for pleasure. I would gladly go to Boston at any practicable time to meet you. I am always the same toward you, and never relax my interest in what you send to me. I should like to hear from you very often, but feel always timid lest what I write should be badly aimed and miss that fine edge of thought which you bear. It would be so easy to miss you. Still you see I try. I think if I could once see you and know that you are real I might fare better. It brought you nearer to know you had an actual uncle—though I can hardly fancy two beings less alike. I have not seen him for several years, though I have seen a lady who once knew you, but could not tell me much. It is hard for me to understand how you can live so alone—with thoughts of such a rarity coming up in you and even the companionship of your dog withdrawn. Yet it isolates one anywhere to think beyond a certain point, or have such flashes as come to you—so perhaps the place does not make much difference. You must come down to Boston sometimes? All ladies do. I wonder if it would be possible to lure you to the meetings on the thirtieth of every month at Mrs. Sargent's, 13 Chestnut Street, at ten, where somebody reads a paper and others talk or listen. Next Monday Mrs. Emerson reads and then at three and a half there