1861-1868. The regular routine of school-life was varied for Miss Larcom by charming invitations to Boston where she met many literary friends, and by her pleasant summer vacations, which she always spent among the mountains. The two following letters, one to Mr. James T. Fields and one to Mr. Whittier, are interesting:-- NORTON, April 4, 1861. DEAR MR. FIELDS,--My thoughts ran into a kind of rhapsody, all to themselves, after that evening of pleasant surprises at your house. I did not know it was fairy-land at 37 Charles Street, nor did I dream of meeting so many of the Genii,--if I had foredreamed or foreknown, I suppose I should have thought it even more of an impossibility for me to go than I did. I wasn’t going to be so foolish as to send you this rhapsody, but I have just got back to my own room after the wanderings of vacation, and have hung up my ruined arch. It is Dolabella’s, on the Coelian Hill, and it brings back so many pleasant reminiscences of those few hours among the treasures of your home-grotto that I am just in the mood for inflicting this out-of-date expression of my enjoyment upon Mrs. Fields and you. I don’t pretend that it is poetry, and if you are ashamed of me, for running on so, please remember that you shouldn’t have shown me so many curious and beautiful things;--I am not used to them. I have heard that Miss Cushman is to play next week. Is it true? If it is, and if you know before-hand what evenings she will appear as Lady Macbeth or Meg Merrilies, will you be so kind as to tell Mr. Robinson, who will let me know, and who has promised to accompany me to the theatre? I have always wanted to see her in some of her great _rôles_, and now more than ever, since I have seen her as a noble woman. What a wonderful statue that “Lotus Eater” is! I was never so “carried away” with anything in marble! With remembrances to Mrs. Fields, Gratefully yours, LUCY LARCOM. This poem was enclosed in the above letter:-- Was it a dream Or waking vision of the gracious night? Did I on that enchanted isle alight, Aye blossoming in Shakespeare’s line, With forms and melodies divine,-- Where all things seem Ancient yet ever new beneath the hand Of Prospero and his aërial band? At every turn a change To something rich and strange,-- Embodied shapes of poets’ fantasies: Glimpses of ruins old Slow fading from the blue Italian skies; And runes of wizards bold; Or beautiful or quaint Memorials of bard, and sage, and saint, In many an antique tome.