Emily Dickinson kept her writing in a drawer in her dresser. Amongst the unbound fragments found after her death was a note that read simply "But, ought not the amanuensis to receive a Commission also --" (Dickinson & Werner, 1995, p 21).
So it was with most of her writing; quickly jotted notes, thoughts written in the moment of their birth. Unbegun. Unfinished. As if the muse had demanded the scribe to write this now and left the understanding of why for a later time.
The year was 1862 when Emily Dickinson first wrote to Thomas Wentworth Higginson. In that mail parcel she included four of her poems. The question she asked Higginson — to tell her if her verse is alive. Upon that first instance of cyphering through the idiosyncrasies of Dickinson's writing with a pedant's intellect, Higginson had no way of knowing that he would eventually find himself the sole inheritor of one of the most gifted writers in American history. Awed by the genius of her writing, Higginson wrote later that he could make only the most mundane recommendations for her. He was already aware of her genius. As was she — however, she preferred the role of coquette, and reeled him in just so.
Thomas Wentworth Higginson was himself a man of singular achievements. A respected minister and writer, when the Civil War began he used his words to push the cause that he was passionate about, abolition. Until words were not enough — he then joined the Union forces and commanded the first black regiment, he supplied guns to John Brown as one of the Secret Six.
The fact that Emily Dickinson would choose such a man to judge and protect her poetry is not as odd as it at first might appear. Higginson was a journalist and editor for the Atlantic Monthly. He was a writer whom Emily Dickinson admired greatly. She was initially seduced by his bravado, his passion and his concern over issues usually exclusive to women. A feeling of admiration shared by her entire family; his articles were often the topic of discussion within the Dickinson household.
Article comments
1 - Miss Bob Etier
"Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality."
These words are as dear to my heart now as when I read them as an Emily-Dickinson-adoring seventeen-year-old. Thanks, AGG, for this insightful piece on one of my early idols. --The real bob