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Updated: June 29, 2025
This is especially true of Celia Thaxter, whose life was divorced from worldliness, while it was instinct with the keenest enjoyment of life and of God's world. She liked to read her poems aloud when people asked for them; and if there was ever a genuine reputation from doing a thing well, such a reputation was hers.
She loved Celia Thaxter, who in her turn was deeply and reverently attached to Mrs. Hemenway. The early affection of both Mr. Thaxter and his wife for William Morris Hunt grew to be the love of a lifetime.
I hope she will be with me when I die." And there indeed, at the last, was Mine, to receive the latest word and to perform the few sad offices. To tell of the services Mrs. Thaxter rendered to some of the more helpless people about her, in the dark season, when no assistance from the mainland could be hoped for, would make a long and noble story in itself.
When I saw Celia Thaxter she was just beginning to make her effect with those poems and sketches which the sea sings and flashes through as it sings and flashes around the Isles of Shoals, her summer home, where her girlhood had been passed in a freedom as wild as the curlew's.
I saw one old witch-looking woman creeping about with a cane, and stooping down, seemingly to gather herbs. On mentioning her to Mr. Thaxter, after my return, he said that it was probably "the bearded woman." I did not observe her beard; but very likely she may have had one. The larger part of the company at the hotel returned to the mainland to-day. There remained behind, however, a Mr.
The management of the property was wholly in the hands of his sons. Mrs. Thaxter had grown to a bright, self-possessed woman with three small boys to look after, and with her reputation as a poet now well assured to her both by critics and the general public. Her face, figure and manner all gave evidence of a concentrated personality.
H., a New York lady, placed her right hand, while the rest of us formed a circle around the table. In five or ten minutes, planchette began to move, and wrote out "John Laighton," in plain, bold letters. "He was my great-uncle," said Mrs. Thaxter; "and there used to be a proverb in Portsmouth, 'As honest as John Laighton." Then she wrote on the paper: "Where is my father?"
He is at all times peculiarly joyous, but at this season his little body seems hardly able to contain him; so great is his rapture, indeed, that it infects and inspires the most matter-of-fact student. Our bird-loving poet Celia Thaxter must have seen him in loverly mood when she thus addressed him:
Thaxter says, large quantities of soil are annually washed into the sea; so that the islands may have been better clad with earth and its productions than now. Mrs. Thaxter tells me that there are several burial-places on this island; but nobody has been buried here since the Revolution.
Sing, and we ask no greater joy than this, Only to listen, thrilling to the song, Borne skyward where the winged hosts rejoice." Mrs. Thaxter found herself, as the years went on, the centre of a company who rather selected themselves than were selected from the vast number of persons who frequented her brothers' "house of entertainment" at the islands.
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