Before the myth. Sue Dickinson to the Springfield DAILY REPUBLICAN, for publication 18 May 1886.

The death of Miss Emily
E. Dickinson, daughter of the
late Edward Dickinson,
at Amherst on Saturday last
makes another sad inroad
upon the small circle so long
occupying the old family mansion.
It was for a long generation over-
looked by death, and one in
passing in and out there, could
but think of old fashioned times,
when parents and children
grew up to and passed maturity
together, in lives of singular
uneventfulness, unmarked by
sad or joyous crises. Very few in the
village knew Miss Emily per-
sonally, except among the older
inhabitants, although the fact
of her seclusion and intellectual
brilliancy was one of the familiar
Amherst traditions. There are many homes
among the classes into which
her treasures of fruit and
flowers and almost ambrosial
dishes for the sick and well
were constantly sent, that will
forever miss those dainty traces
of her unselfish devotion and be
moved afresh that she screened
herself from closer acquaintance.
As she passed on in life, her
sensitive nature shrank from much
personal contact with the world,
and more and more she turned
to her own large wealth of
individual resources, for companion-
ship – sitting henceforth, as some
one said of her, "In the light of
her own fire". Not disappointed
with the world, not an invalid
till within the past two years – not from
any lack of all embracing love,
and sympathy – not because she
was insufficient for any mental
work, or social career, her en-
dowments being so exceptional,
but the "mesh of her soul" as
Browning calls the body, was too
rare, and the sacred quiet of her
own home proved the native at-
mosphere for her worth and
work. All that must be inviolate.
One can only speak of
"Duties beautifully done" – of her
gentle tillage of the rare flowers
filling her conservatory, into
which, like the heavenly Paradise,
entered nothing that could
defile, and which was ever
abloom in frost or sunshine, so
well she knew her chemistries –
of her gentle tenderness to all
in the home circle – her gentle-
woman's grace, and courtesy to
all who served in house, and
grounds – of her quick rich re-
sponse to all who rejoiced, or
suffered at home, or among her
wide circle of friends the world
over. This side of her nature was
to her, the real side – this, the
entity in which she rested, so
simple and strong was her instinct
that a woman's hearth-stone is
her shrine. Her talk and her
writings, were like no one else,
and although she never published
a line, now and then some en-
thusiastic literary friend, would
turn love to larceny, and cause
a few verses surreptitiously obtained,
to be printed. Thus, and through
other natural ways, many saw
and admired her verses, and
in consequence frequently
notable persons paid her visits,
hoping to overcome the protest
of her own nature and gain a
promise of occasional contri-
butions at least to various
magazines. She withstood
the fascinations of Helen Jackson
who earnestly sought her
co-operation in a novel in
the "No Name Series", although
one little poem strayed in
some way into the volume
of verses in that edition.
Her pages would illy have
fitted even so attractive a
story as "Mercy Philbrick's
Choice", unwilling as the
public are to believe she
had no part in it: "Her
wagon was hitched to a star"
and who could ride or write
with such a voyager.
A Damascus blade
gleaming, and glancing
in the sun was her wit.
Her swift poetic rapture
like the long glistening
note of a bird one hears
in the woods in June at high noon,
but never can see. Like
a magician she caught
the shadowy apparitions of
her brain and tossed them
in startling picturesqeness
to her friends, who charmed
with their simplicity and
homeliness, as well as pro-
fundity, fretted that she
had so easily made palpable,
the tantalizing fancies forever
eluding their bungling
fettered grasp. So intimate
and passionate, her love of
Nature, she seemed herself a part
of the high March sky – the
Summer day and bird call.
Keen and eclectic in her
literary tastes, she sifted
Libraries to Shakespeare and
Browning – quick as lightning
in her intuitions, and analyses,
she seized the kernel in-
stantly, almost impatient
of the fewest words by which
She must make her revelation.
So her life was rich, and
all aglow with God and
immortality – with no creed –
no formulated faith, hardly
knowing the names of dogmas
she walked this life, with
the gentleness and reverence
of old saints, with the firm
step of martyrs who sing
while they suffer. How better
note the flight of this "Soul
of fire in a shell of pearl"
than by her own breathings
Morns like these, we parted
Noons like these, she rose.
Fluttering first, then firmer
To her fair repose.

May I trouble you dear
Sam to pardon untidyness of
this, for I am weary and sick.
Also to return this.
As ever yours – S.H.D

Will you have "gentlewoman"
printed as one word? not
with a hyphen –