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144 pages, Hardcover
Published October 7, 2025
So when the long baby was held over the font god-mothers and god-fathers muttered, as people do on these occasions, “Mary” and when the clergyman said “Is that all?” and smiled, as though he could tolerate a little vanity now, they added “Violet” in the bolder tones of people who are come out of church though the hush is still on them. But as the child grew and became capable of inspecting her two names, of comparing them with others, she decided that though it was good to wear Mary next to your skin, it was better to show Violet outside. “Miss Violet Dickinson” then, and if it hurts you to think that Lycidas was once a matter of conjecture it hurts me still more to consider how nearly Violet was Mary, how easily Dickinson might have been Jones. Here again I would digress. But this is one of Violet’s earliest sayings.
Her mother. “I wish you would learn to write Violet.”
Violet. “I won’t write; I’d rather talk.”
Miss Violet Dickinson grew to be as tall as the tallest hollyhock in the garden before she was eight, but after all our concern is with her spiritual progress. True her size alarmed her family; her position in the ball room, they thought, might be seriously prejudiced, and before she drove to her first dance, in the Bath Corn Exchange, she had to submit to a solemn exhortation from her Aunt, who was also her godmother.
“Mary Dickinson,” began the aunt, using as Aunts do, the least palatable expression, “remember that you are neither beautiful nor wealthy, nor, for anything I can see, in any way attractive; God in his infinite goodness has caused you to grow at least six inches higher than you should grow, and if you are not to be a Maypole of Derision you must see to it that you shine forth as a Beacon of Godliness.”