Lives of Celebrated Women
by Samuel G. Goodrich · English · Gutenberg #33273 · 566,455 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Lives of Celebrated Women
Author: Samuel G. Goodrich
Release date: July 27, 2010 [eBook #33273]
Language: English
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[Illustration: FERDINAND AND ISABELLA.]
LIVES
OF
CELEBRATED WOMEN:
BY THE AUTHOR OF
PETER PARLEY'S TALES.
BOSTON:
BRADBURY, SODEN & CO.
MDCCCXLIV.
Entered according to Act of Congress,
in the year 1844,
By S. G. GOODRICH,
In the Clerk's Office of the District
Court of Massachusetts.
STEREOTYPED AT THE
BOSTON TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY.
WM. A. HALL & CO., PRINTERS,
12 Water Street.
PREFACE.
It is an oft-quoted proposition of Rousseau, that "the glory of
woman lies in being unknown." If this be true, we shall deserve
little credit for placing before the world these brief sketches of a
few of the sex who have acquired celebrity among mankind. We are
disposed to think, however, that the oracular words of the Genevan
philosopher--though they may coincide with the despotism of the lords
of creation, who would arrogate, not merely the sceptre of power, but
the trump of fame, entirely to themselves--like most other oracles,
are liable to many exceptions.
It may indeed be true that the _happiness_ of women is generally to be
found in the quiet of the domestic circle; but that all, without
distinction, should be confined to it, and that whenever one of the
sex departs from it, she departs from her allotted sphere, is no more
true than a similar proposition would be of men. Elizabeth of England,
though little to be esteemed as a woman, did as much credit to her sex
as her father did to his; and while he enjoys the renown of having
achieved the reformation in England, she is entitled to the credit of
having been not only his superior as a sovereign, but one of the
greatest sovereigns that ever occupied a throne. Joan of Arc performed
achievements for her country scarcely less than miraculous; and Hannah
More afforded, by her pen, more efficient protection to the three
kingdoms against the volcanic shock of the French revolution than the
entire army and navy of Great Britain.
Will any one pretend that these persons would have better fulfilled
their destiny, if confined to the quiet precincts of the fireside? If
woman is only to be a housewife, why are gifts bestowed upon her, that
make her often the rival, and sometimes the _master_, of the other
sex, even in the higher walks of ambition? Was Sappho's harp, the
mere echo of which has thrilled upon the ear of nearly thirty
centuries, given only to be touched in the secluded harem of some
Lesbian lord? Why had Sevigne such a magic pen, Roland so noble and
dauntless a soul, the maid of Saragossa a patriotism so inspired and
inspiring, if they were designed by their Creator only to preside over
the nursery, the dairy, and the kitchen? If women are created but to
attend to the comforts of the other sex at home, why are such spirits
as those of the lovely and lamented Davidsons ever formed--spirits
bursting with music and poetry, like the Eolian string, that gives
forth its unbidden melody, only because God made it so? Was Mrs.
Hemans designed but to serve her surly and unappreciating lord? Are
Lady Montagu, Mrs. Barbauld, Madame de Stael, Miss Edgeworth, Miss
Sedgwick, Hannah More, Mrs. Sigourney,--who must be regarded as among
the most efficient civilizers of modern times,--to be set down as
violators of a great law which should govern woman's destiny? In
short, shall we, in Christian countries, who make it our boast that we
have elevated woman to free companionship with man, still look
backward, return to the selfish philosophy of the Turk, shut woman up
in the harem, and gloss over our despotism by quotations from the
Swiss Diogenes?
While we repeat that, in general, women consult their true dignity and
happiness by seeking a quiet domestic career, we still maintain that
such among them as have endowments suited to exert a happy influence
upon mankind at large, are as truly fulfilling their duty and their
destiny, by giving them scope, as are the other sex in doing the same
under the like circumstances. It is believed that the following pages,
although they notice only a few of those women who have acquired a
deserved celebrity, will furnish ample argument to sustain the ground
we assume.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Lucretia and Margaret Davidson 9
Mrs. Adams 49
Mrs. Washington 79
Madame de Stael 90
Lady Hester Stanhope 121
Hannah More 131
Mrs. Barbauld 167
Madame de Genlis 182
Josephine 219
Marie Antoinette 261
Madame Roland 267
Madame de Sevigne 286
Mary, Queen of Scots 307
Elizabeth, Queen of England 335
Isabella of Spain 339
Joan of Arc 349
LUCRETIA AND MARGARET DAVIDSON.
"There stood on the banks of the Saranac a small, neat cottage, which
peeped forth from the surrounding foliage--the image of rural quiet
and contentment. An old-fashioned piazza extended along the front,
shaded with vines and honeysuckles; the turf on the bank of the river
was of the richest and brightest emerald; and the wild rose and
sweetbrier, which twined over the neat enclosure, seemed to bloom with
more delicate freshness and perfume within the bounds of this earthly
paradise. The scenery around was wildly yet beautifully romantic; the
clear blue river, glancing and sparkling at its feet, seemed only as a
preparation for another and more magnificent view, when the stream,
gliding on to the west, was buried in the broad, white bosom of
Champlain, which stretched back, wave after wave, in the distance,
until lost in faint blue mists that veiled the sides of its guardian
mountains, seeming more lovely from their indistinctness."
Such is the description which the younger subject of these memoirs
gives us of the home of her parents, Dr. Oliver and Margaret Davidson,
in the village of Plattsburg, Vermont. Amidst scenery so well
calculated to call forth and foster poetical talent, Lucretia Maria
Davidson was born on the 27th September, 1808. Of her earliest
childhood there is nothing recorded, except that she was physically
feeble, and manifested extreme sensibility of disposition. She was
sent to school when she was four years old, and there was taught to
read and to imitate, in sand, the printed characters. Books now
possessed for her a greater charm than childish sports. The writing
paper began to disappear mysteriously from the table, and Lucretia was
often observed with pen and ink, to the surprise of her parents, who
knew that she had never been taught to write. The mystery remained
unexplained until she was six years old, when her mother, in searching
a closet rarely visited, found, behind piles of linen, a parcel of
little books filled with hieroglyphics. These were at length
deciphered by her parents, and proved to be metrical explanations of
rudely-sketched pictures on the opposite page; the explanations being
made in Roman letters, most unartistically formed and disposed. Not
long after, Lucretia came running to her mother in great agitation,
the tears trickling down her cheeks, and said, "O mamma! mamma! how
could you treat me so? My little books--you have shown them to
papa,--Anne,--Eliza! I know you have. O, what shall I do?" Her mother
tried to soothe the child, and promised never to do so again. "O
mamma," replied she, a gleam of sunshine illumining the drops, "I am
not afraid of that, for I have burned them all." "This reserve," says
one whose kindred spirit could sympathize with that of Lucretia,
"proceeded from nothing cold or exclusive in her character; never was
there a more loving or sympathetic creature. It would be difficult to
say which was most rare, her modesty, or the genius it sanctified."
It does not surprise us to learn that, under the guidance of pious
parents, religion took a deep and enduring hold, at a very early
period, upon so susceptible a child. From her earliest years, she
evinced a fear of doing any thing displeasing in the sight of God; and
if, in her gayest sallies, she caught a look of disapprobation from
her mother, she would ask, with the most artless simplicity, "O
mother, was that wicked?" Her extreme conscientiousness exhibited
itself in a manner quite remarkable in a child. Some of the friends of
the family thought their mode of education not the most judicious, and
that her devoting so much time to study was not consistent with the
pecuniary circumstances and the physical condition of the mother, who,
being a confirmed invalid, was able to take little part in the
ordinary family labors. Lucretia's parents, however, did not concur in
this opinion, and carefully concealed it from her; but she in some
manner became aware of its existence, and voluntarily acted in
accordance with it. The real feeling which prompted this conduct was
artlessly made apparent by the incident which led her to return to her
favorite occupation. When she was about twelve, she attended her
father to a "birth-night" ball. The next day, an elder sister found
her absorbed in composition. "She had sketched an urn, and written two
stanzas under it. She was persuaded to show them to her mother. She
brought them blushing and trembling. Her mother was ill, in bed; but
she expressed her delight with such unequivocal animation, that the
child's face changed from doubt to rapture, and she seized the paper,
ran away, and immediately added the concluding stanzas. When they were
finished, her mother pressed her to her bosom, wept with delight, and
promised her all the aid and encouragement she could give her. The
sensitive child burst into tears. 'And do you wish me to write, mamma?
and will papa approve? and will it be right that I should do so?'" The
following are the verses:--
"And does a hero's dust lie here?
Columbia, gaze, and drop a tear:
His country's and the orphan's friend,
See thousands o'er his ashes bend.
Among the heroes of the age,
He was the warrior and the sage;
He left a train of glory bright,
Which never will be hid in night.
The toils of war and danger past,
He reaps a rich reward at last;
His pure soul mounts on cherub's wings,
And now with saints and angels sings.
The brightest on the list of Fame,
In golden letters shines his name;
Her trump shall sound it through the world,
And the striped banner ne'er be furled.
And every sex, and every age,
From lisping boy to learned sage,
The widow, and her orphan son,
Revere the name of Washington!"
A literary friend, to whom these verses were shown, felt some doubts
as to Lucretia's being the real author of the stanzas, and suffered
them to appear. The feeling that her rectitude was impeached made the
sensitive girl actually ill; but a poetic remonstrance, which she
prepared on the occasion, removed every doubt.
From what has been before said, it must not be supposed that Lucretia
was suffered to abandon herself to literary avocations. She had her
prescribed tasks in sewing, and other customary employments, which she
generally performed with fidelity and with wonderful celerity;
sometimes, however, the voice of her muse struck her in the midst, and
"enchanted she dropped each earthly care." One day, she had promised
to do a certain piece of sewing, and had eagerly run for her basket;
she was absent long, and on her return found that the work was done.
"Where have you been, Lucretia?" said her mother, justly displeased.
"O mamma," she replied, "I did forget; I am grieved. As I passed the
window, I saw a solitary sweet pea. I thought they were all gone. This
was alone. I ran to smell it, but, before I could reach it, a gust of
wind broke the stem. I turned away disappointed, and was coming back
to you; but as I passed the table, there stood the inkstand, and I
forgot you." The following beautiful verses insured the forgiveness of
her mother:--
"The last flower of the garden was blooming alone,
The last rays of the sun on its blushing leaves shone;
Still a glittering drop on its bosom reclined,
And a few half-blown buds 'midst its leaves were entwined.
Say, lovely one, say, why lingerest thou here?
And why on thy bosom reclines the bright tear?
'Tis the tear of the zephyr--for summer 'twas shed,
And for all thy companions now withered and dead.
Why lingerest thou here, when around thee are strown
The flowers once so lovely, by autumn blasts blown?
Say, why, sweetest floweret, the last of thy race,
Why lingerest thou here the lone garden to grace?
As I spoke, a rough blast, sent by winter's own hand,
Whistled by me, and bent its sweet head to the sand;
I hastened to raise it--the dew-drop had fled,
And the once lovely flower was withered and dead."
All her short pieces were composed with equal rapidity; and sometimes
she wished that she had two pair of hands to record as fast as her
muse dictated. These she composed wherever she chanced to be when the
spirit of poesy came over her. In the midst of her family, blind and
deaf to all around her, she held sweet communion with her muse. But
when composing her longer poems, as "Amie Khan," or "Chicomicos," she
required complete seclusion. She retired to her own room, closed the
blinds, and placed her AEolian harp in the window. Her mother gives
this graphic description: "I entered her room,--she was sitting with
scarcely light enough to discern the characters she was tracing; her
harp was in the window, touched by a breeze just sufficient to rouse
the spirit of harmony; her comb had fallen on the floor, and her long,
dark ringlets hung in rich profusion over her neck and shoulders; her
cheek glowed with animation; her lips were half unclosed; her full,
dark eye was radiant with the light of genius, and beaming with
sensibility; her head rested on her left hand, while she held her pen
in her right. She looked like the inhabitant of another sphere. She
was so wholly absorbed that she did not observe my entrance. I looked
over her shoulder, and read the following lines:--
'What heavenly music strikes my ravished ear,
So soft, so melancholy, and so clear?
And do the tuneful nine then touch the lyre,
To fill each bosom with poetic fire?
Or does some angel strike the sounding strings,
Who caught from echo the wild note he sings?
But, ah! another strain! how sweet! how wild!
Now, rushing low, 'tis soothing, soft, and mild.'"
The noise made by her mother roused Lucretia, who soon afterwards
brought her the preceding verses, with the following added to them,
being an address to her AEolian harp:--
"And tell me now, ye spirits of the wind,
O, tell me where those artless notes to find--
So lofty now, so loud, so sweet, so clear,
That even angels might delighted hear.
But hark! those notes again majestic rise,
As though some spirit, banished from the skies,
Had hither fled to charm AEolus wild,
And teach him other music, sweet and mild.
Then hither fly, sweet mourner of the air,
Then hither fly, and to my harp repair;
At twilight chant the melancholy lay,
And charm the sorrows of thy soul away."
Her parents indulged her in the utmost latitude in her reading.
History, profane and sacred, novels, poetry, and other works of
imagination, by turns occupied her. Before she was twelve, she had
read the English poets. Dramatic works possessed a great charm for
her, and her devotion to Shakspeare is expressed in the following
verses, written in her fifteenth year:--
"Shakspeare, with all thy faults, (and few have more,)
I love thee still, and still will con thee o'er.
Heaven, in compassion to man's erring heart,
Gave thee of virtue, then of vice, a part,
Lest we, in wonder here, should bow before thee,
Break God's commandment, worship, and adore thee;
But admiration, now, and sorrow join;
His works we reverence, while we pity thine."
But above all other books she valued the Bible. The more poetical
parts of the Old Testament she almost committed to memory; and the New
Testament, especially those parts which relate the life of our Savior,
was studied by her, and excited in her the deepest emotions. As an
evidence of this we give the following verses, written in her
thirteenth year:--
"THE GOOD SHEPHERD.
"The shepherd feeds his fleecy flock with care,
And mourns to find one little lamb has strayed;
He, unfatigued, roams through the midnight air,
O'er hills, o'er rocks, and through the mossy glade.
But when that lamb is found, what joy is seen
Depicted on the careful shepherd's face,
When, sporting o'er the smooth and level green,
He sees his favorite charge is in its place!
Thus the great Shepherd of his flock doth mourn,
When from his fold a wayward lamb has strayed,
And thus with mercy he receives him home,
When the poor soul his Lord has disobeyed.
There is great joy among the saints in heaven,
When one repentant soul has found its God;
For Christ, his Shepherd, hath his ransom given,
And sealed it with his own redeeming blood."
We have now arrived at a period which most girls look forward to
as an epoch in their life--the first ball! Lucretia had been to
dancing-school, and took great delight in that exercise. In the hope
of overcoming her painful timidity, her mother had consented to her
attending the public assemblies of Plattsburg. She was fourteen.
The day arrived, and the important subject of dress was the matter
of consultation between Mrs. Davidson and her eldest daughter,
Lucretia sitting by, absorbed in one of the Waverley novels. "What
shall Lucy wear?" asked the sister. "Come, Lucretia; what color
will you wear to-night?" "Where?" "Where? why, to the assembly, to
be sure." "Is it to-night? so it is!" and she tossed aside her
book, and danced delighted about the room. The question of dress was
now settled, and Lucretia was soon again absorbed in her book. At
the hour for dressing, the delights of the ball again filled her
imagination, and she set about the offices of the toilet with
interest. Her sister was to dress her hair; but, when the time came,
she was missing. She was called in vain, and was at length found in
the parlor, in the dusky twilight, writing poetry. "She returned from
the assembly," says her mother, "wild with delight." "O mamma," said
she, "I wish you had been there. When I first entered, the glare of
light dazzled my eyes; my head whirled, and I felt as if I were
treading on air; all was so gay, so brilliant! But I grew tired at
last, and was glad to hear sister say it was time to go home."
About the same period, life received for her a new object of interest.
Her little sister Margaret, the frequent subject of her verses, was
born. The following are among the earliest stanzas addressed to
her:--
"Sweet babe, I cannot hope that thou'lt be freed
From woes, to all since earliest time decreed;
But may'st thou be with resignation blessed,
To bear each evil, howsoe'er distressed.
May Hope her anchor lend amid the storm,
And o'er the tempest rear her angel form;
May sweet Benevolence, whose words are peace,
To the rude whirlwind softly whisper, Cease!
And may Religion, Heaven's own darling child,
Teach thee at human cares and griefs to smile;
Teach thee to look beyond that world of woe,
To heaven's high font, whence mercies ever flow.
And when this vale of years is safely passed,
When death's dark curtain shuts the scene at last,
May thy freed spirit leave this earthly sod,
And fly to seek the bosom of thy God."
Lucretia was now placed in trying circumstances. Her mother, after the
birth of Margaret, was very ill; the infant, too, was ill; and, to add
to their misfortunes, the nurse was taken sick. Lucretia's eldest
sister had recently been married, and had removed to Canada; so that
upon her devolved great and manifold duties.
The manner in which she discharged these shall be related in her
mother's own words. "Lucretia astonished us all. She took her station
in my sick-room, and devoted herself wholly to the mother and the
child; and when my recovery became doubtful, instead of resigning
herself to grief, her exertions were redoubled, not only for the
comfort of the sick, but she was an angel of consolation to her
afflicted father. We were amazed at the exertions she made, and the
fatigue she endured; for with nerves so weak, a constitution so
delicate, and a sensibility so exquisite, we trembled lest she should
sink with anxiety and fatigue. Until it ceased to be necessary, she
performed not only the duties of a nurse, but acted as superintendent
of the household." Neither did she relinquish her domestic avocations
when her mother became better; "she did not so much yield to her
ruling passion as to look into a book, or take up a pen, lest she
should again become so absorbed in them as to neglect to perform those
little offices which a feeble, affectionate mother had a right to
claim at her hands." As was to be expected, her mental and physical
health suffered; her cheek became pale, and her spirits dejected. Her
mother became alarmed, and expressed her apprehensions. "I am not ill,
mamma," said she, "only out of spirits." An explanation ensued, and
the mother convinced the child that her duty did not require a total
abandonment of the pursuits she longed for, but a judicious
intermingling of literary with domestic labors. The good consequences
of the change were soon manifest in the restored health and
cheerfulness of Lucretia.
It was about this period (1823-4) that she composed the longest of
her published poems, "Amie Khan," an Oriental tale, which would do
credit to much older and more practised writers.
In 1824, an old friend of her mother's, Moss Kent, Esq., visited
Plattsburg. He had never seen Lucretia, but had formed a high opinion
of her genius from some of her productions, which had been shown to
him by his sister. Her appearance at this time was well calculated to
confirm his prepossessions in her favor. She is thus described by her
biographer: "Miss Davidson was just sixteen. Her complexion was the
most beautiful brunette, clear and brilliant, of that warm tint that
seems to belong to lands of the sun, rather than to our chilled
regions; indeed, her whole organization, mental as well as physical,
her deep and quick sensibility, her early development, were
characteristics of a warmer clime than ours: her stature was of the
middle height; her form slight and symmetrical; her hair profuse,
dark, and curling; her mouth and nose regular, and as beautiful as if
they had been chiselled by an inspired artist; and through this
fitting medium beamed her angelic spirit."
Charmed by all he saw and read, Mr. Kent at once made the proposal to
her parents to adopt Lucretia as his own child. The proposal was in
part accepted, and, in accordance with his wishes, it was determined
to send her to the Troy Seminary. Her feelings on this occasion are
thus made known by letter to her sister: "What think you? Ere another
moon shall fill, 'round as my shield,' I shall be at Mrs. Willard's
Seminary. In a fortnight I shall probably have left Plattsburg, not to
return at least until the expiration of six months. O, I am so
delighted, so happy! I shall scarcely eat, drink, or sleep, for a
month to come. You must write to me often, and you must not laugh when
you think of poor Lucy in the far-famed city of Troy, dropping
handkerchiefs, keys, gloves, &c.; in short, something of every thing I
have. It is well if you can read what I have written, for papa and
mamma are talking, and my head whirls like a top. O, how my poor head
aches! Such a surprise as I have had!"
She left home November 24, 1824, to appearance full of health and of
delight at the opportunities of acquiring knowledge which were to be
open to her. At parting she left the following verses:--
"TO MY MOTHER.
"O Thou whose care sustained my infant years,
And taught my prattling lip each note of love,
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove,--
To thee my lay is due, the simple song,
Which nature gave me at life's opening day;
To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong,
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.
O, say, amid this wilderness of life,
What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me?
Who would have smiled responsive? Who, in grief,
Would e'er have felt and, feeling, grieved like thee?
Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye,
Each trembling footstep, or each sport of fear?
Who would have marked my bosom bounding high,
And clasped me to her heart with love's bright tear?
Who would have hung around my sleepless couch,
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow?
Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip,
In all the agony of love and woe?
None but a mother--none but one like thee,
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch,
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery,
Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch.
Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life,
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom;
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief,
That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.
O, then, to thee this rude and simple song,
Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee,
To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong,
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me."
The following extracts from a letter to her mother tell us of the
state of her feelings when established at the Seminary.
"December 24, 1824. Here I am at last; and what a naughty girl I was,
when I was at aunt Schuyler's, that I did not write you every thing!
But to tell the truth, I was topsy-turvy, and so I am now. But in
despite of calls from the young ladies, and of a hundred new faces,
and new names which are constantly ringing in my ears, I have set
myself down, and will not rise until I have written an account of
every thing to my dear mother. I am contented; yet, notwithstanding, I
have once or twice turned a wistful glance towards my dear-loved home.
Amidst all the parade of wealth, in the splendid apartments of
luxury, I can assure you, my dearest mother, that I had rather be
with you, in our own lowly home, than in the midst of all this
ceremony." "O mamma, I like Mrs. W. 'And so this is my little girl,'
said she, and took me affectionately by the hand. O, I want to see you
so much! But I must not think of it now; I must learn as fast as I
can, and think only of my studies. Dear, dear little Margaret! Kiss
her and the little boys for me. How is dear father getting on in this
rattling world?"
The transplanting a flower of so delicate a constitution from the
clear air of Lake Champlain to the close atmosphere of a city
boarding-school, was followed by consequences which might have been
expected. Almost from her arrival, Lucretia's letters speak of
ill-health and unhappiness, aggravated by the fear that her progress
in studies, thus frequently interrupted, would disappoint the
expectations of her kind benefactor, for whom she seems to have
cherished the most affectionate and grateful feelings. Neither do the
excitements of a large public seminary seem well adapted to one of so
sensitive a nature. In the course of time, the public examination
approached, and for the two months preceding it, she was kept in a
state of constant agitation and dread, which is thus spoken of in a
half-serious, half-jesting letter to her mother: "We are all engaged,
heart and hand, preparing for this awful examination. O, how I dread
it! But there is no retreat. I must stand firm to my post, or
experience the anger, vengeance, and punishments, which will, in case
of delinquency or flight, be exercised with the most unforgiving
acrimony. We are in such cases excommunicated, henceforth and
forever, under the awful ban of holy Seminary; and the evil eye of
false report is upon us. O mamma, I do, though, jesting apart, dread
this examination; but nothing short of real and absolute sickness can
excuse a scholar in the eyes of Mrs. W. Even that will not do in the
Trojan world around us; for if a young lady is ill at examination,
they say with a sneer, 'O, she is ill of an examination fever!' Thus
you see, mamma, we have no mercy either from friends or foes. We must
'do or die.' Tell Morris he must write to me. Kiss dear, dear little
Margaret for me, and don't let her forget poor sister Luly; and tell
all who inquire for me that I am well, but in awful dread of a great
examination."
She was interrupted, in her course of preparation for the examination,
by an illness so serious as to require the attendance of a physician.
But no sooner was she convalescent than she was suffered to renew her
suicidal course. "I shall rise between two and four now every morning,
till the dreaded day is past. I rose the other night at twelve, but
was ordered back to bed again. You see, mamma, I shall have a chance
to become an early riser here." "Had I not written you that I was
coming home, I think I should not have seen you this winter. All my
friends think I had better remain here, as the journey will be long
and cold; but O, there is at that journey's end, which would tempt me
through the wilds of Siberia--father, mother, brothers, sisters,
_home_. Yes, I shall come." "The dreaded examination is now going on,
my dear mother. To-morrow evening, which will be the last, is always
the most crowded, and is the time fixed upon for my _entree_ upon the
field of action. O, I hope I shall not disgrace myself. It is the rule
here to reserve the best classes till the last; so I suppose I may
take it as a compliment that we are delayed." "The examination is
over. E. did herself and her native village honor; but as for your
poor Luly, she acquitted herself, I trust, decently. O mamma, I was so
frightened! But although my face glowed and my voice trembled, I did
make out to get through, for I knew my lessons. The room was crowded
to suffocation. All was still; the fall of a pin could have been
heard; and I tremble when I think of it even now."
The expected visit to her home was relinquished, and she passed the
vacation with her friends in the vicinity of Troy. An incident which
occurred as she was crossing the Hudson on her return to Troy, is thus
described: "Uncle went to the ferry with me, where we met Mr. P. Uncle
placed me under his care, and, snugly seated by his side, I expected a
very pleasant ride, with a very pleasant gentleman. All was pleasant,
except that we expected every instant that all the ice in the Hudson
would come drifting against us, and shut in scow, stage and all, or
sink us to the bottom, which, in either case, you know, mother, would
not have been quite so agreeable. We had just pushed off from the
shore, I watching the ice with anxious eyes, when, lo! the two leaders
made a tremendous plunge, and tumbled headlong into the river. I felt
the carriage following fast after; the other two horses pulled back
with all their power, but the leaders were dragging them down,
dashing, and plunging, and flouncing, in the water. 'Mr. P., in mercy
let us get out!' said I. But as he did not see the horses, he felt no
alarm. The moment I informed him they were overboard, he opened the
door, and cried, 'Get out and save yourself, if possible; I am old and
stiff, but I will follow you in an instant.' 'Out with the lady! let
the lady out!' shouted several voices at once; 'the other horses are
about to plunge, and then all will be over.' I made a lighter spring
than many a lady does in a cotillon, and jumped upon a cake of ice.
Mr. P. followed, and we stood (I trembling like a leaf) expecting
every moment that the next plunge of the drowning horses would detach
the piece of ice upon which we were standing, and send us adrift; but,
thank Heaven, after working for ten or fifteen minutes, by dint of
ropes, and cutting them away from the other horses, they dragged the
poor creatures out more dead than alive. Mother, don't you think I
displayed some courage? I jumped into the stage again, and shut the
door, while Mr. P. remained outside, watching the movement of affairs.
We at length reached here, and I am alive, as you see, to tell the
story of my woes."
At the spring vacation, Lucretia returned to her loved home; but the
joy of her parents at once more embracing their darling daughter, was
damped by observing that the fell destroyer had set its well-known
mark upon her cheek. Her father called in another physician to consult
with him, and, strange to say, it was decided that she should return
to school in Albany, where she arrived May, 1825, and where her
reception, her accommodations and prospects, seem to have given her
much delight, and where she entered upon her career of study with her
wonted ardor. But her physical strength could not sustain the demands
upon it. She thus writes to her mother: "I am very wretched: am I
never to hear from you again? I am homesick. I know I am foolish, but
I cannot help it. To tell the truth, I am half sick, I am so weak, so
languid. I cannot eat. I am nervous; I know I am. I weep most of the
time. I have blotted the paper so that I cannot write. I cannot study
much longer if I do not hear from you." Her disease appears now to
have assumed a fixed character, and in her next letter, she expresses
a fear that it is beyond the reach of human art. Her mother, herself
ill, set off at once for Albany, and was received by her child with
rapture. "O mamma, I thought I should never have seen you again! But,
now I have you here, I can lay my aching head upon your bosom. I shall
soon be better."
The journey homeward, though made in the heats of July, was attended
with less suffering than was anticipated. "Her joy," says her mother,
"upon finding herself at home, operated for a time like magic." The
progress of disease seemed to be suspended. Those around her received
new hope; but she herself was not deceived, and she calmly waited for
that great change which for her possessed no terrors, for her hopes as
to the future rested upon a sure foundation.
But one fear disturbed her, to which she refers in the following, the
last piece she ever composed, and which is left unfinished:--
"There is a something which I dread;
It is a dark and fearful thing;
It steals along with withering tread,
Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing.
That thought comes o'er me in the hour
Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness;
'Tis not the dread of death; 'tis more,--
It is the dread of madness.
O, may these throbbing pulses pause,
Forgetful of their feverish course;
May this hot brain, which, burning, glows
With all a fiery whirlpool's force,--
Be cold, and motionless, and still,
A tenant of its lowly bed;
But let not dark delirium steal----"
She died on the 27th August, 1825. Her literary labors will surprise
all who remember that she had not yet reached her seventeenth
birthday. They consist of two hundred and seventy-eight poetical
pieces, of which there are five regular poems, of several cantos each;
three unfinished romances; a complete tragedy, written at thirteen
years of age; and twenty-four school exercises; besides letters, of
which forty are preserved, written in the course of a few months, to
her mother alone. Indeed, we cannot but look upon Lucretia Davidson as
one of the wonders of humanity. Her early productions excited even the
admiration of Byron; and the delicacy, dutifulness, and exaltation, of
her character seemed almost to have realized angelic purity and beauty
of soul, in a tenement of clay.
The little Margaret, as we have seen, was the object of Lucretia's
fondest affection. She used to gaze upon her little sister with
delight, and, remarking the brightness and beauty of her eyes, would
exclaim, "She must, she will be a poet!" She did not live to see her
prediction verified, but to use her mother's fond expressions, "On
ascending to the skies, it seemed as if her poetic mantle fell, like a
robe of light, on her infant sister."
Though Margaret was but two years and a half old, the death of her
sister made a strong impression on her, and an incident which occurred
a few months afterwards showed that she appreciated her character. As
Mrs. Davidson was seated, at twilight, conversing with a female
friend, Margaret entered the room with a light, elastic step, for
which she was remarked. "That child never walks," said the lady; then
turning to her, she said, "Margaret, where are you flying now?" "To
heaven!" replied Margaret, pointing up with her fingers, "to meet my
sister Lucretia, when I get my new wings." "Your new wings! When will
you get them?" "O, soon, very soon; and then I shall fly!" "She
loved," says her mother, "to sit, hour after hour, on a cushion at my
feet, her little arms resting upon my lap, and her full, dark eyes
fixed upon mine, listening to anecdotes of her sister's life, and
details of the events which preceded her death, often exclaiming,
while her face beamed with mingled emotions, 'O mamma, I will try to
fill her place! Teach me to be like her!'"
Warned by their dreadful experience in the former instance, the
parents endeavored to repress the intellectual activity of Margaret.
She was not taught to read till she was four years old; but so rapid
was her progress after that period, under her mother's instructions,
that at six she read not only well, but elegantly, and was wont to
solace her mother's hours of protracted illness, by reading to her the
works of Thomson, Campbell, Cowper, Milton, Byron, Scott, &c., in
which she took enthusiastic delight, and in discriminating their
beauties and defects, she showed wonderful taste and intelligence. The
Scriptures were her daily study; not hurried over as a task, but she
would spend an hour or two in commenting with her mother upon the
chapter she had read.
"Her religious impressions," says her mother, "seemed to be interwoven
with her existence. From the very first exercise of reason, she
evinced strong devotional feelings, and, although she loved play, she
would at any time prefer seating herself beside me, and, with every
faculty absorbed in the subject, listen while I attempted to recount
the wonders of Providence, and point out the wisdom and benevolence of
God, as manifested in the works of creation."
About the age of six years, she began to exhibit a talent for
rhyming. One of her earliest pieces, if not remarkable for poetical
merit, is worthy of transcription, from the incident which gave
occasion to its composition; it also exhibits in a striking manner
that conscientiousness for which her sister was so distinguished,
and a power of self-examination of rare existence in one so young.
Her mother reproved her for some trifling act of disobedience upon
which she attempted to justify herself, and for this aggravation of
the fault was banished to her chamber until she should become sensible
of her error. Two hours elapsed, and she continued obstinate;
vindicating herself, and accusing her mother of injustice. Mrs. D.
reasoned with her, exhorting her to pray to God to assist her in
gaining that meekness and humility which had characterized our Savior,
and reminding her of the example he had set of obedience to parents.
An hour or two afterwards, Margaret came running in, threw her arms
around her mother's neck, and, sobbing, put into her hands these
verses:--
"Forgiven by my Savior dear
For all the wrongs I've done,
What other wish could I have here?
Alas! there yet is one.
I know my God has pardoned me;
I know he loves me still;
I wish I may forgiven be
By her I've used so ill.
Good resolutions I have made,
And thought I loved my Lord;
But, ah! I trusted in myself,
And broke my foolish word.
But give me strength, O Lord, to trust
For help alone in thee;
Thou know'st my inmost feelings best;
O, teach me to obey."
She took little pleasure in the common sports of children; her
amusements were almost entirely intellectual. If she played with a
doll, or a kitten, she invested it with some historical or dramatic
character, and whether Mary, queen of Scots, or Elizabeth, the
character was always well sustained.
In her seventh year, her health became visibly delicate, and she was
taken to Saratoga springs and to New York, from which excursions she
derived much physical advantage, and great intellectual pleasure; but
she returned to her native village with feelings of admiration and
enthusiasm for its natural beauties, heightened by contrast. As her
health began again to fail in the autumn, and the vicinity to the lake
seemed unfavorable to the health of Mrs. Davidson, the family went to
Canada to pass the winter with the eldest daughter.
Margaret grew stronger, but her mother derived no benefit from the
change, and for eighteen months remained a helpless invalid, during
which time her little daughter was her constant companion and
attendant. "Her tender solicitude," says Mrs. D., "endeared her to
me beyond any other earthly thing. Although under the roof of a
beloved and affectionate daughter, and having constantly with me
an experienced and judicious nurse, yet the soft and gentle voice
of my little darling was more than medicine to my worn-out frame.
If her delicate hand smoothed my pillow, it was soft to my aching
temples, and her sweet smile would cheer me in the lowest depths of
despondency. She would draw for me--read to me--and often, when
writing at her little table, would surprise me by some tribute of
love, which never failed to operate as a cordial to my heart. At a
time when my life was despaired of, she wrote the following verses
while sitting at my bed:--
'I'll to thy arms in rapture fly,
And wipe the tear that dims thine eye;
Thy pleasure will be my delight,
Till thy pure spirit takes its flight.
When left alone, when thou art gone,
Yet still I will not feel alone;
Thy spirit still will hover near,
And guard thy orphan daughter here.'"
Margaret continued to increase in strength until January, 1833, when
she was attacked by scarlet fever, under which she lingered many
weeks. In the month of May, she had, however, so far recovered as to
accompany her mother, now convalescent, on a visit to New York. Here
she was the delight of the relatives with whom she resided, and the
suggester of many new sources of amusement to her youthful companions.
One of her projects was to get up a dramatic entertainment, for
which she was to write the play. Indeed, she directed the whole
arrangements, although she had never but once been to a theatre, and
that on her former visit to New York. The preparations occupied
several days, and, being nearly completed, Margaret was called upon to
produce the play. "O," she replied, "I have not written it yet." "How
is this? Do you make the dresses first, and then write the play to
suit them?" "O," replied she, "the writing of the play is the easiest
part of the preparation; it will be ready before the dresses." In
two days she produced her drama; "which," says Mr. Irving, "is a
curious specimen of the prompt talent of this most ingenious child,
and by no means more incongruous in its incidents than many current
dramas by veteran and experienced playwrights."
Though it was the study of her relatives to make her residence in New
York as agreeable to her as possible, the heart of Margaret yearned
for her home: her feelings are expressed in the following lines:--
"I would fly from the city, would fly from its care,
To my own native plants and my flowerets so fair;
To the cool grassy shade and the rivulet bright,
Which reflects the pale moon on its bosom of light.
Again would I view the old mansion so dear,
Where I sported a babe, without sorrow or fear;
I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay,
For a peep at my home on this fine summer day.
I have friends whom I love, and would leave with regret,
But the love of my home, O, 'tis tenderer yet!
There a sister reposes unconscious in death;
'Twas there she first drew, and there yielded, her breath:
A father I love is away from me now--
O, could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow,
Or smooth the gray locks, to my fond heart so dear,
How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear!
Attentive I listen to pleasure's gay call,
But my own darling home, it is dearer than all."
In the autumn the travellers turned their faces homewards, but it was
not to the home of Margaret's tender longings. The wintry winds of
Lake Champlain were deemed too severe for the invalids, and the family
took up its residence at Ballston. Margaret's feelings upon this
disappointment are thus recorded:--
"MY NATIVE LAKE.
"Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream,
Lit by the sun's resplendent beam,
Reflect each bending tree so light
Upon thy bounding bosom bright!
Could I but see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain!
The little isles that deck thy breast,
And calmly on thy bottom rest,
How often, in my childish glee,
I've sported round them, bright and free!
Could I but see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain!
How oft I've watched the freshening shower
Bending the summer tree and flower,
And felt my little heart beat high
As the bright rainbow graced the sky!
Could I but see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain!
And shall I never see thee more,
My native lake, my much-loved shore?
And must I bid a long adieu,
My dear, my infant home, to you?
Shall I not see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain?"
But Margaret was happy; the family were reunited, and she had health
sufficient to allow her to pursue her studies, still under her
mother's direction. She was fond, too, of devising little plans for
intellectual improvement and amusement: among others, a weekly
newspaper was issued in manuscript, called the "Juvenile Aspirant."
But this happiness was soon clouded. Her own severe illness excited
alarming fears; and hardly was she convalescent, when, in the spring
of 1834, intelligence was received from Canada of the death of her
eldest sister. This was a severe shock, for she had always looked up
to this only surviving sister as to one who would supply the place of
her seemingly dying mother. But she forgot her own grief in trying to
solace that of her mother. Her feelings, as usual, were expressed in
verses, which are as remarkable for their strain of sober piety as for
poetical merit. The following are portions of an address--
"TO MY MOTHER, OPPRESSED WITH SORROW.
"Weep, O my mother! I will bid thee weep,
For grief like thine requires the aid of tears;
But O, I would not see thy bosom thus
Bowed down to earth, with anguish so severe;
I would not see thine ardent feelings crushed,
Deadened to all save sorrow's thrilling tone,
Like the pale flower, which hangs its drooping head
Beneath the chilling blasts of Eolus!
. . . . . . . . . .
When love would seek to lead thy heart from grief,
And fondly pleads one cheering look to view,
A sad, a faint, sad smile one instant gleams
Athwart the brow where sorrow sits enshrined,
Brooding o'er ruins of what once was fair;
But like departing sunset, as it throws
One farewell shadow o'er the sleeping earth,
Thus, thus it fades! and sorrow more profound
Dwells on each feature where a smile, so cold,
It scarcely might be called the mockery
Of cheerful peace, but just before had been.
. . . . . . . . . .
But, O my mother, weep not thus for _her_,
The rose, just blown, transported to its home;
Nor weep that her angelic soul has found
A resting-place with God.
O, let the eye of heaven-born Faith disperse
The darkening mists of earthly grief, and pierce
The clouds which shadow dull mortality!
Gaze on the heaven of glory crowned with light,
Where rests thine own sweet child with radiant brow,
In the same voice which charmed her father's halls,
Chanting sweet anthems to her Maker's praise,
And watching with delight the gentle buds
Which she had lived to mourn; watching thine own,
My mother! the soft, unfolding blossoms,
Which, ere the breath of earthly sin could taint,
Departed to their Savior, there to wait
For thy fond spirit in the home of bliss!
The angel babes have found a sister mother;
But when thy soul shall pass from earth away,
The little cherubs then shall cling to thee,
And then, sweet guardian, welcome thee with joy,
Protector of their helpless infancy,
Who taught them how to reach that happy home."
. . . . . . . . . .
So strong and healthful did she seem during the ensuing summer,
that her mother began to indulge hopes of raising the tender plant
to maturity. But winter brought with it a new attack of sickness,
and from December to March the little sufferer languished on her
bed. During this period, her mind remained inactive; but with
returning health it broke forth in a manner that excited alarm.
"In conversation," says her mother, "her sallies of wit were
dazzling; she composed and wrote incessantly, or rather would
have done so, had I not interposed my authority to prevent this
unceasing tax upon both her mental and physical strength. She
seemed to exist only in the regions of poetry."
There was a faint return of health, followed by a new attack of
disease; indeed, the remainder of her brief sojourn in this world
presents the usual vicissitudes attendant upon her disease--short
intervals of health, which she devoted to study, amid long and dreary
periods of illness, which she bore with exemplary patience. It would
be painful to follow her through these vicissitudes. We need only note
those events and changes which produced a marked effect upon her
feelings, and which she has recorded in verse.
In the autumn of 1835, the family removed to "Ruremont," an
old-fashioned country house near New York, on the banks of Long Island
Sound. The character and situation of this place seized powerfully on
Margaret's imagination. "The curious structure of this old-fashioned
house," says her mother, "its picturesque appearance, the varied and
beautiful grounds around it, called up a thousand poetic images and
romantic ideas. A long gallery, a winding staircase, a dark, narrow
passage, a trap-door, large apartments with massive doors and heavy
iron bolts and bars,--all set her mind teeming with recollections of
what she had read, and imagination of old castles, &c." Perhaps it was
under the influence of feelings thus suggested that she composed the
following
"STANZAS.
"O for the pinions of a bird,
To bear me far away,
Where songs of other lands are heard,
And other waters play!--
For some aerial car, to fly
On, through the realms of light,
To regions rife with poesy,
And teeming with delight.
O'er many a wild and classic stream
In ecstasy I'd bend,
And hail each ivy-covered tower
As though it were a friend;
Through many a shadowy grove, and round
Full many a cloistered hall,
And corridors, where every step
With echoing peal doth fall.
. . . . . . . . . .
O, what unmingled pleasure then
My youthful heart would feel,
And o'er its thrilling chords each thought
Of former days would steal!
. . . . . . . . . .
Amid the scenes of past delight,
Or misery, I'd roam,
Where ruthless tyrants swayed in might,
Where princes found a home.
. . . . . . . . . .
I'd stand where proudest kings have stood,
Or kneel where slaves have knelt,
Till, rapt in magic solitude,
I feel what they have felt."
Margaret now felt comparatively well, and was eager to resume her
studies. She was indulged so far as to be permitted to accompany her
father three times to the city, where she took lessons in French,
music, and dancing. To the Christmas holidays she looked forward as a
season of delight; she had prepared a drama of six acts for the
domestic entertainment, and the back parlor was to be fitted up for a
theatre, her little brothers being her fellow-laborers. But her
anticipations were disappointed. Two of her brothers were taken ill;
and one of them, a beautiful boy of nine, never recovered. "This,"
says her mother, "was Margaret's first acquaintance with death. She
saw her sweet little play-fellow reclining upon my bosom during his
last agonies; she witnessed the bright glow which flashed upon his
long-faded cheek; she beheld the unearthly light of his beautiful eye,
as he pressed his dying lips to mine, and exclaimed, 'Mother, dear
mother, the last hour has come!' It was indeed an hour of anguish. Its
effect upon her youthful mind was as lasting as her life. The sudden
change from life and animation to the still unconsciousness of death,
for a time almost paralyzed her. The first thing that aroused her to a
sense of what was going on about her, was the thought of my
bereavement, and a conviction that it was her province to console me."
But Mrs. Davidson soon presents a sadder picture: "My own weak frame
was unable longer to sustain the effects of long watching and deep
grief. I had not only lost my lovely boy, but I felt a strong
conviction that I must soon resign my Margaret. Although she still
persisted in the belief that she was well, the irritating cough, the
hectic flush, the hurried beating of the heart, and the drenching
night perspirations, confirmed me in this belief, and I sank under
this accumulated weight of affliction. For three weeks I hovered on
the borders of the grave, and, when I arose from this bed of pain, it
was to witness the rupture of a blood-vessel in her lungs, caused by
exertions to suppress a cough. I was compelled to conceal every
appearance of alarm, lest agitation of her mind should produce fatal
consequences. As I seated myself by her, she raised her speaking eyes
to mine with a mournful, inquiring gaze, and, as she read the anguish
which I could not conceal, she turned away with a look of despair."
There no longer remained room for hope, and all that remained to be
done was to smooth the pathway to the grave.
Although Margaret endeavored to persuade herself that she was well,
yet, from the change that took place in her habits in the autumn of
1836, it is evident that she knew her real situation. In compliance
with her mother's oft-repeated advice, she gave up her studies, and
sought by light reading and trivial employments to "kill time." Of the
struggles which it cost her thus to pass six months, the following
incident, as related by her mother, will inform us: "She was seated
one day by my side, weary and restless, scarcely knowing what to do
with herself, when, marking, the traces of grief upon my face, she
threw her arms about my neck, and, kissing me, exclaimed, 'My dear,
dear mother!' 'What is it affects you now, my child?' 'O, I know you
are longing for something from my pen.' I saw the secret craving of
the spirit that gave rise to the suggestion. 'I do indeed, my dear,
delight in the effusions of your pen, but the exertion will injure
you.' 'Mamma, I _must_ write! I can hold out no longer! I will return
to my pen, my pencil, and my books, and shall again be happy.'" The
following verses, written soon after, show the state of her
feelings:--
"Earth, thou hast but nought to satisfy
The cravings of immortal mind;
Earth, thou hast nothing pure and high,
The soaring, struggling soul to bind.
Impatient of its long delay,
The pinioned spirit fain would roam,
And leave this crumbling house of clay,
To seek, above, its own bright home!
. . . . . . . . . .
O, how mysterious is the bond
Which blends the earthly with the pure,
And mingles that which death may blight
With that which ever must endure!
Arise, my soul, from all below,
And gaze upon thy destined home--
The heaven of heavens, the throne of God,
Where sin and care can never come.
. . . . . . . . . .
Compound of weakness and of strength;
Mighty, yet ignorant of thy power;
Loftier than earth, or air, or sea,
Yet meaner than the lowliest flower!--
Soaring towards heaven, yet clinging still
To earth, by many a purer tie!
Longing to breathe a tender air,
Yet fearing, trembling thus to die!"
Some verses written about the same period show the feelings she held
towards her sister Lucretia.
"My sister! with that thrilling word
What thoughts unnumbered wildly spring!
What echoes in my heart are stirred,
While thus I touch the trembling string!
My sister! ere this youthful mind
Could feel the value of thine own;
Ere this infantine heart could bind,
In its deep cell, one look, one tone,
To glide along on memory's stream,
And bring back thrilling thoughts of thee;
Ere I knew aught but childhood's dream,
Thy soul had struggled, and was free.
. . . . . . . . . .
I cannot weep that thou art fled;
Forever blends my soul with thine;
Each thought, by purer impulse led,
Is soaring on to realms divine.
. . . . . . . . . .
I hear thee in the summer breeze,
See thee in all that's pure or fair,
Thy whisper in the murmuring trees,
Thy breath, thy spirit, every where.
Thine eyes, which watch when mortals sleep,
Cast o'er my dreams a radiant hue;
Thy tears, "such tears as angels weep,"
Fall nightly with the glistening dew.
Thy fingers wake my youthful lyre,
And teach its softer strains to flow;
Thy spirit checks each vain desire,
And gilds the lowering brow of woe.
. . . . . . . . . .
Thou gem of light! my leading star!
What thou hast been I strive to be;
When from the path I wander far,
O, turn thy guiding beam on me.
Teach me to fill thy place below,
That I may dwell with thee above;
To soothe, like thee, a mother's woe,
And prove, like thine, a sister's love.
. . . . . . . . . .
When all is still, and fancy's realm
Is opening to the eager view,
Mine eye full oft, in search of thee,
Roams o'er that vast expanse of blue.
I know that here thy harp is mute,
And quenched the bright, poetic fire;
Yet still I bend my ear, to catch
The hymnings of thy seraph lyre.
O, if this partial converse now
So joyous to my heart can be,
How must the streams of rapture flow,
When both are chainless, both are free!--
When, borne from earth for evermore,
Our souls in sacred joy unite,
At God's almighty throne adore,
And bathe in beams of endless light!"
Although the extracts from the works of this gifted being have been so
extensive, we cannot forbear giving some portions of a piece written
about the same period, and entitled--
"AN APPEAL FOR THE BLIND.
. . . . . . . . . .
"Launched forth on life's uncertain path,
Its best and brightest gift denied,
No power to pluck its fragrant flowers,
Or turn its poisonous thorns aside;--
No ray to pierce the gloom within,
And chase the darkness with its light;
No radiant morning dawn to win
His spirit from the shades of night;--
Nature, whose smile, so pure and fair,
Casts a bright glow on life's dark stream,--
Nature, sweet soother of our care,
Has not a single smile for him.
When pale disease, with blighting hand,
Crushes each budding hope awhile,
Our eyes can rest in sweet delight
On love's fond gaze, or friendship's smile.
Not so with _him_; his soul chained down
By doubt, and loneliness, and care,
Feels but misfortune's chilling frown,
And broods in darkness and despair.
Favored by Heaven, O, haste thee on;
Thy blest Redeemer points the way;
Haste o'er the spirit's gloom to pour
The light of intellectual day.
Thou canst not raise their drooping lids,
And wake them to the noonday sun;
Thou canst not ope, what God hath closed,
Or cancel aught his hands have done.
But, O, there is a world within,
More bright, more beautiful than ours;
A world which, nursed by culturing hands,
Will blush with fairest, sweetest flowers.
And thou canst make that desert mind
Bloom sweetly as the blushing rose;
Thou canst illume that rayless void
Till darkness like the day-gleam glows.
. . . . . . . . . .
Thus shalt thou shed a purer ray
O'er each beclouded mind within,
Than pours the glorious orb of day
On this dark world of care and sin.
. . . . . . . . . .
And when the last dread day has come,
Which seals thine endless doom,--
When the freed soul shall seek its home,
And triumph o'er the tomb,--
When lowly bends each reverend knee,
And bows each heart in prayer,--
A band of spirits, saved by thee,
Shall plead thy virtues there."
Hitherto Margaret had sedulously avoided all conversations about her
health, and seemed unwilling to let the feeling that disease had
marked her for its victim take possession of her mind. But in the
summer of 1838, she one day surprised her mother by asking her to tell
her, without reserve, her opinion of her state. "I was," says her
mother, "wholly unprepared for this question; and it was put in so
solemn a manner, that I could not evade it, were I disposed to do so.
I knew with what strong affection she clung to life, and the objects
and friends which endeared it to her; I knew how bright the world upon
which she was just entering appeared to her young fancy--what glowing
pictures she had drawn of future usefulness and happiness. I was now
called upon at one blow to crush these hopes, to destroy the
delightful visions; it would be cruel and wrong to deceive her. In
vain I attempted a reply to her direct and solemn appeal; several
times I essayed to speak, but the words died away on my lips; I could
only fold her to my heart in silence; imprint a kiss upon her
forehead, and leave the room, to avoid agitating her with feelings I
had no power to repress."
But this silence was to Margaret as expressive as words. Religion had
always been present with her, but from this period it engrossed a
large portion of her thoughts. She regretted that so much of her time
had been spent in light reading, and that her writings had not been
of a more decidedly religious character. "Mamma," said she one day,
"should God spare my life, my time and talents shall, for the
future, be devoted to a higher and holier end." "O mother, how
sadly have I trifled with the gifts of Heaven! What have I done
which can benefit one human being?" The New Testament was now her
daily study, and a portion of each day was devoted to private prayer
and self-examination.
The closing scene of her life, which occurred on the 25th November,
1838, would lose much of its interest in the description, if given in
other than the beautiful and touching language of her mother. It was
night, and, at the entreaty of her husband, Mrs. Davidson had laid
herself on the bed in a room adjoining that of her daughter. "Between
three and four o'clock, the friend who watched came again, and said,
'Margaret has asked for her mother.' I flew. She held a bottle of
ether in her hand, and pointed to her breast. I poured it on her head
and chest. She revived. 'I am better now,' said she. 'Mother, you
tremble; you are cold; put on your clothes.' I stepped to the fire,
and put on a wrapper, when she stretched out both her arms, and
exclaimed, 'Mother, take me in your arms.' I raised her, and, seating
myself on the bed, passed both my arms around her waist; her head
dropped on my bosom, and her expressive eyes were raised to mine.
That look I never shall forget; it said, 'Tell me, mother, is this
death?' I answered the appeal as if she had spoken. I laid my hand
upon her white brow; a cold dew had gathered there. I spoke--'Yes, my
beloved, it is almost finished; you will soon be with Jesus.' She gave
one more look, two or three short, fluttering breaths, and all was
over; her spirit was with its God: not a struggle or a groan preceded
her departure."
Thus perished Margaret Davidson, at the early age of fifteen years and
eight months. Her sister Lucretia had found in Miss Sedgwick a fitting
biographer, and the memory of Margaret has been rendered more dear by
the touching manner in which Irving has told her brief but wondrous
story. We cannot better close our imperfect sketch, than to use the
words of her biographer: "We shall not pretend to comment on these
records; they need no comment, and they admit no heightening. Indeed,
the farther we have proceeded with our subject, the more has the
intellectual beauty and the seraphic purity of the little being we
have endeavored to commemorate, broken upon us. To use one of her own
exquisite expressions, she was 'a spirit of heaven fettered by the
strong affections of earth,' and the whole of her brief sojourn here
seems to have been a struggle to regain her native skies."
MRS. ADAMS.
The materials for preparing the memoirs of those American ladies whose
virtues were conspicuous, and whose position in society imposed upon
them great duties, and gave them an extensive influence in their day,
are, in general, exceedingly scanty. Happily, the piety of a
descendant has, in the present case, supplied the deficiency; and in a
mode the most satisfactory. We are here not only made acquainted with
the everyday life and actions as they were exhibited to the world
around, but are admitted to the inmost recesses of the heart, and all
its hopes and feelings are laid open to us. There are few who could
bear such an exposure; but in respect to the subject of our present
sketch, a nearer acquaintance and more rigid scrutiny serve only to
increase our veneration, and to confirm the verdict which her
contemporaries had passed upon her.
Abigail Smith, afterwards Mrs. Adams, was born on the 11th of
November, 1744. She was the daughter of the Rev. William Smith, the
minister of a small Congregational church in Weymouth, Massachusetts,
and was descended on both sides from the genuine stock of the
Pilgrims.
The cultivation of the female mind was neglected in the last century,
not merely as a matter of indifference, but of positive principle;
female learning was a subject of ridicule, and "female education," as
Mrs. Adams tells us, "in the best families, went no further than
writing and arithmetic; in some, and rare instances, music and
dancing." But Mrs. Adams did not have an opportunity of receiving even
the ordinary instruction. She was never sent to school, the delicate
state of her health forbidding it. But this is hardly to be considered
matter of regret, for constant intercourse with her pious and talented
relations had an influence upon her character of even greater value
than the learning of the schools. The lessons which made the deepest
impression upon her mind were imbibed from her maternal grandmother,
the wife of Colonel John Quincy. "I have not forgotten," says Mrs.
Adams, to her daughter, in 1795, "the excellent lessons which I
received from my grandmother, at a very early period of life. I
frequently think they made a more durable impression upon my mind than
those which I received from my own parents. Whether it was owing to
the happy method of mixing instruction and amusement together, or from
an inflexible adherence to certain principles, the utility of which I
could not but see and approve when a child, I know not; but maturer
years have rendered them oracles of wisdom to me. I love and revere
her memory; her lively, cheerful disposition animated all around her,
while she edified all by her unaffected piety. This tribute is due to
the memory of those virtues, the sweet remembrance of which will
flourish, though she has long slept with her ancestors."
But though the list of accomplishments thought essential for a young
lady's education was so scanty, it must not be supposed that the mind
was left wholly uncultivated. On the contrary, few women of the
present day are so well acquainted with the standard English authors,
as those of the period of which we are now speaking. The influence
which they had on the mind of the subject of this memoir, is apparent
throughout her published correspondence, not only in the style, in the
fondness for quotation, but in the love of fictitious signatures, of
which the "Spectator" had set the example. The social disposition of
youth renders an interchange of thoughts and feelings between those of
the same age essential to their happiness. The sparse population, and
comparatively small facilities for locomotion in the last century,
rendered personal intercourse difficult, and a frequent interchange of
letters was adopted as a substitute. This, as an exercise for the
mind, is of great value, as it induces habits of reflection, and leads
to precision and facility in expressing ideas.
A few of Mrs. Adams's letters, written at an early period of her life,
have been preserved, and from one of these--addressed to a married
lady, several years older than herself, which will account for a
gravity which is beyond her years and ordinary disposition--the
following extracts are made. It is dated at Weymouth, October 5th,
1761.
"Your letter I received, and, believe me, it has not been through
forgetfulness that I have not before this time returned you my
sincere thanks for the kind assurance you then gave me of continued
friendship. You have, I hope, pardoned my suspicions; they arose from
love. What persons in their right senses would calmly, and without
repining, or even inquiring into the cause, submit to lose their
greatest temporal good and happiness? for thus the divine, Dr. Young,
looks upon a friend, when he says,--
'A friend is worth all hazards we can run;
Poor is the friendless master of a world;
A world in purchase for a friend is gain.'
* * * You have, like King Ahasuerus, held forth, though not a golden
sceptre, yet one more valuable,--the sceptre of friendship, if I may
so call it. Like Esther, I would draw nigh and touch it. Will you
proceed and say, 'What wilt thou?' and 'What is thy request? it shall
be given thee to the half of my' heart. Why, no, I think I will not
have so dangerous a present, lest your good man should find it out and
challenge me. * * * And now let me ask you, whether you do not think
that many of our disappointments, and much of our unhappiness, arise
from our forming false notions of things and persons. We strangely
impose on ourselves; we create a fairy land of happiness. Fancy is
fruitful, and promises fair, but, like the dog in the fable, we catch
at a shadow, and, when we find the disappointment, we are vexed, not
with ourselves, who are really the impostors, but with the poor,
innocent thing or person of whom we have formed such strange ideas.
* * * You bid me tell _one_ of my sparks--I think that was the
word--to bring me to see you. Why, I believe you think they are as
plenty as herrings, when, alas! there is as great a scarcity of them
as there is of justice, honesty, prudence, and many other virtues.
I've no pretensions to one. Wealth, wealth is the only thing that is
looked after now. 'Tis said Plato thought, if Virtue would appear to
the world, all mankind would be enamored of her; but now interest
governs the world, and men neglect the golden mean."
At the age of twenty, Miss Smith became the wife of John Adams,
afterwards president of the United States. Connected with this event,
an anecdote is related, which, as an indication of the fashion of the
day, and of the disposition of the bride's father, is too good to be
passed over. Mary, the eldest daughter of Mr. Smith, was married to
Richard Cranch, an English emigrant, and, as it would appear, with the
approbation of all parties; for, upon the Sabbath following, he
preached to his people from the text, "And Mary hath chosen that good
part, which shall not be taken from her." But Abigail was not so
fortunate; for her match, it would seem, met the disapprobation of
some of her father's parishioners, either on account of the profession
of Mr. Adams,--that of the law,--which was then an obnoxious one to
many people, who deemed it dishonest; or because they did not consider
Mr. Adams--the son of a small farmer--a sufficiently good match for
the daughter of one of the shining lights of the colony. Mr. Smith,
having become aware of the feeling which existed, took notice of it in
a sermon from the following text: "For John came neither eating bread
nor drinking wine, and ye say, He hath a devil."
The first ten years of Mrs. Adams's married life were passed in a
quiet and happy manner; her enjoyment suffering no interruptions
except those occasioned by the short absences of her husband, when he
attended the courts. In this period she became the mother of a
daughter and three sons, of whom John Quincy Adams was the eldest.
All are familiar with the distinguished part performed by Mr. Adams in
the scenes which immediately preceded our revolution. In all his
feelings and actions he had the sympathy and support of his wife, who
had thus in some measure become prepared for the stormy period which
was at hand.
Mr. Adams, having been appointed one of the delegates to the congress
to be held at Philadelphia, left home in August, 1774; and on the 19th
of that month, we find the following letter addressed to him by his
wife:--
"The great distance between us makes the time appear very long to me.
It seems already a month since you left me. The great anxiety I feel
for my country, for you, and for our family, renders the day tedious,
and the night unpleasant. The rocks and the quicksands appear on every
side. What course you can and will take is all wrapped in the bosom of
futurity. Uncertainty and expectation leave the mind great scope. Did
ever any kingdom or state regain its liberty, when once it was
invaded, without bloodshed? I cannot think of it without horror. Yet
we are told, that all the misfortunes of Sparta were occasioned by
their too great solicitude for present tranquillity; and from an
excessive love of peace, they neglected the means of making it sure
and lasting. * * * I have taken a very great fondness for reading
Rollin's Ancient History. I am determined to go through it, if
possible, in these my days of solitude. I find great pleasure and
entertainment from it, and I have persuaded Johnny to read me a page
or two every day, and hope he will, from his desire to oblige me,
entertain a fondness for it. I want much to hear from you. I long
impatiently to have you upon the stage of action. The 1st of September
may, perhaps, be of as much importance to Great Britain, as the ides
of March to Caesar. I wish you every public and private blessing, and
that wisdom which is profitable for instruction and edification, to
conduct you in this difficult day."
She perceived, at a very early period, that the conflict would not be
speedily settled, and of the personal consequences to herself she
speaks in the following affecting terms: "Far from thinking the scene
closed, it looks as though the curtain was but just drawn, and only
the first scene of the infernal plot disclosed: whether the end will
be tragical, Heaven alone knows. You cannot be, I know, nor do I wish
to see you, an inactive spectator; but, if the sword be drawn, I bid
adieu to all domestic felicity, and look forward to that country where
there are neither wars nor rumors of wars, in a firm belief that,
through the mercy of its King, we shall both rejoice there together."
Indeed, from this period till she joined her husband in Europe, in
1784, she enjoyed very little of his society. Had the state of the
times rendered it safe or agreeable for her to have accompanied her
husband in his journeys and voyages, the circumstances of the family
would not have allowed it. Without hereditary fortune, with no
opportunity of practising in his profession, and now serving the
public for a price which would not defray his actual and necessary
expenses,--Mr. Adams would have been, in his old age, in the
lamentable condition of many of the most active patriots of the
revolution, who, devoting their years of vigorous manhood to the
service of their country, were left, in their declining days, in a
state of penury,--had he not possessed in his wife a helper suited to
the exigency. She husbanded their small property, the savings of years
of professional prosperity; she managed the farm with skill; and in
all matters of business she displayed a degree of judgment and
sagacity not to be exceeded. All the powers of her mind were now
called into activity, and her character displayed itself in the most
favorable colors. The official rank of her husband imposed high duties
upon her; her timid neighbors looked to her for support and comfort,
and she was never found wanting.
The absence of Mr. Adams relieved his wife from one source of
anxiety--that for his personal safety. As the conflict in the early
periods of the revolution was confined to the vicinity of Boston, and
as the feelings of parties were more exasperated here than elsewhere,
he would have been in the greatest danger at home. It was a comfort to
her that her husband should "be absent a little while from the scenes
of perturbation, anxiety, and distress," which surrounded her.
As from her residence she could be an eye-witness of few of the
events, the details of which she relates, her letters are of most
value as furnishing a lively exhibition of her own and of the public
feeling. One event, which passed under her own observation, she thus
describes: "In consequence of the powder being taken from Charlestown,
a general alarm spread through many towns, and was pretty soon caught
here. On Sunday, a soldier was seen lurking about, supposed to be a
spy, but most likely a deserter. However, intelligence of it was
communicated to the other parishes, and about eight o'clock, Sunday
evening, there passed by here about two hundred men, preceded by a
horse-cart, and marched down to the powder-house, from whence they
took the powder, and carried it into the other parish, and there
secreted it. I opened the window upon their return. They passed
without any noise,--not a word among them,--till they came against the
house, when some of them, perceiving me, asked me if I wanted any
powder. I replied, No, since it was in so good hands. The reason they
gave for taking it was, that we had so many tories here, they dared
not trust it; they had taken the sheriff in their train, and upon
their return they stopped between Cleverly's and Eltee's, and called
upon him to deliver two warrants.[1] Upon his producing them, they put
it to vote whether they should burn them, and it passed in the
affirmative. They then made a circle and burnt them. They then called
a vote whether they should huzza, but, it being Sunday evening, it
passed in the negative. * * * This town appears as high as you can
well imagine, and, if necessary, would soon be in arms. Not a tory
but hides his head. The church parson thought they were coming after
him, and ran up garret; they say another jumped out of his window, and
hid among the corn; while a third crept under his board fence, and
told his beads."
In the midst of her public cares and anxieties, she did not neglect
her sacred duties as a mother. The care of the education of her four
children devolved entirely upon her, and "Johnny" was at an age to
require much attention. This subject occupied much of her thoughts;
and, indeed, the greatest value of her published correspondence
consists in the hints which it gives us of the course of culture
pursued in producing those glorious fruits of which other generations
have had the enjoyment. She carefully guarded against the contagion of
vice at that period when the mind and heart are most susceptible to
impressions. "I have always thought it," she says to her husband, "of
very great importance that children should, in the early part of life,
be unaccustomed to such examples as would tend to corrupt the purity
of their words and actions, that they may chill with horror at the
sound of an oath, and blush with indignation at an obscene expression.
These first principles, which grow with their growth and strengthen
with their strength, neither time nor custom can totally eradicate."
By precept, and much more by example, she sought to instil principles,
and to form habits, which should lead to the practice of every virtue.
Can we be surprised at the abhorrence which her "illustrious son of an
illustrious mother" has ever exhibited to oppression, when we find her
thus expressing her sentiments in behalf of the oppressed, at a time
when the subject of which she speaks had not excited any attention
either in Europe or America?--"I wish sincerely there was not a slave
in the province; it always appeared to me a most iniquitous scheme to
fight ourselves for what we are daily robbing and plundering from
those who have as good a right to freedom as we have."
During the recess of Congress, Mr. Adams was at home, but left it
again for Philadelphia on the 14th April, 1775. Four days afterwards
the expedition to Lexington and Concord took place. The news of this
event reached Mr. A. at Hartford; he, did not, however, yield to his
anxieties and return, but contented himself by sending home
encouragement and advice. After saying that he never feels any
personal fear, he adds, "I am often concerned for you and our dear
babes, surrounded as you are by people who are too timorous, and too
much susceptible of alarm. Many fears and imaginary evils will be
suggested to you, but I hope you will not be impressed by them. In
case of real danger, fly to the woods with my children."
Mrs. Adams might be excused for entertaining fears; her residence was
near the sea-coast, and the enemy sent out foraging expeditions: the
point of destination was perhaps some island in the harbor; but of
this there could be no certainty. Of one of the alarms thus
occasioned, Mrs. Adams writes to her husband as follows: "I suppose
you have had a formidable account of the alarm we had last Sunday
morning. When I rose, about six o'clock, I was told that the drums had
been some time beating, and that three alarm guns were fired; that
Weymouth bell had been ringing, and Mr. Weld's was then ringing. I
sent off an express to learn the cause, and found the whole town in
confusion. Three sloops and a cutter had dropped anchor just below
Great Hill. It was difficult to tell their designs: some supposed they
were coming to Germantown, others to Weymouth: people, women,
children, came flocking down this way; every woman and child driven
off below my father's; my father's family flying. The alarm flew like
lightning, and men from all parts came flocking down, till two
thousand were collected. But it seems their expedition was to Grape
Island, for Levett's hay." "They delight," says she, on another
occasion, "in molesting us upon the Sabbath. Two Sabbaths we have been
in such alarm that we have had no meeting; this day we have sat under
our own vine in quietness; have heard Mr. Taft. The good man was
earnest and pathetic. I could forgive his weakness for the sake of his
sincerity; but I long for a Cooper and an Elliot. I want a person who
has feeling and sensibility; who can take one up with him,
And 'in his duty prompt at every call,'
Can 'watch, and weep, and pray, and feel for all.'"
The battle of Bunker's Hill followed soon, and, from the top of the
highest house in Braintree, Mrs. Adams beheld the conflagration of
Charlestown. But she does not lose her courage. In writing to her
husband, she seeks to lessen his anxieties. "I would not," says she,
"have you be distressed about me. I have been distressed, but not
dismayed. I have felt for my country and her sons, and have bled with
them and for them."
The appointment of General Washington to the command of the army, then
stationed at Cambridge, inspired new confidence. Mrs. Adams thus
speaks of the impression made by her first interview with him and
General Lee: "I was struck with General Washington. You had prepared
me to entertain a favorable opinion of him; but I thought the half was
not told me. Dignity with ease and complacency, the gentleman and
soldier, look agreeably blended in him. Modesty marks every line and
feature of his face. Those lines of Dryden instantly occurred to me--
'Mark his majestic fabric! he's a temple
Sacred by birth, and built by hands divine;
His soul's the deity that lodges there;
Nor is the pile unworthy of the god.'
General Lee looks like a careless, hardy veteran, and, by his
appearance, brought to my mind his namesake, Charles XII. of Sweden.
The elegance of his pen far exceeds that of his person."
The horrors of war were now aggravated by those of pestilence. From
the British army in Boston, the dysentery had spread into the
surrounding country. Mrs. Adams and her whole family were attacked.
"Our house," she writes to her husband, September 8, 1775, "is a
hospital in every part, and, what with my own weakness and distress of
mind for my family, I have been unhappy enough. And such is the
distress of the neighborhood, that I can scarcely find a well person
to assist me in looking after the sick." Again on the 25th she writes,
"I sit with a heavy heart to write to you. Woe follows woe, and one
affliction treads upon the heels of another. My distress in my own
family having in some measure abated, it is excited anew upon that of
my dear mother. She has taken the disorder, and lies so bad, that we
have little hope of her recovery." On the 29th, "It is allotted me to
go from the sick and almost dying bed of one of the best of parents,
to my own habitation, where again I behold the same scene, only varied
by a remoter connection--
'A bitter change, severer for severe.'
You can more easily conceive than I can describe what are the
sensations of my heart when absent from either, continually expecting
a messenger with the fatal tidings." "The desolation of war is not so
distressing as the havoc made by pestilence. Some poor parents are
mourning the loss of three, four, and five children; and some families
are wholly stripped of every member."
But the hand of the pestilence was stayed, and her country again
engrosses her thoughts. She very early declares herself for
independence, and wonders how any honest heart can hesitate at
adopting the same sentiment. An attempt to drive the enemy from Boston
is meditated, and she tells us that she has been kept in a state of
anxiety and expectation. "It has been said 'to-morrow' and 'to-morrow'
for this month; but when this dreadful to-morrow will be, I know not.
But hark! The house this instant shakes with the roar of cannon. I
have been to the door, and find it a cannonade from our army." The
militia are all ordered to repair to the lines. The result was thus
related: "I have just returned from Penn's Hill, where I have been
sitting to hear the amazing roar of cannon, and from whence I could
see every shell which was thrown. The sound, I think, is one of the
grandest in nature, and is of the true species of the sublime. * * * I
could no more sleep than if I had been in the engagement: the rattling
of the windows, the jar of the house, the continual roar of
twenty-four pounders, and the bursting of shells, give us such ideas,
and realize a scene to us of which we could form scarcely any
conception. * * * All my distress and anxiety is at present at an end.
I feel disappointed. This day our militia are all returning without
effecting any thing more than taking possession of Dorchester Hill. I
hope it is wise and just, but, from all the muster and stir, I hoped
and expected more important and decisive scenes. I would not have
suffered all I have for two such hills." The British soon afterwards
evacuated Boston, and Massachusetts never again became the theatre of
war.
In 1778, the fortitude of Mrs. Adams received a new trial. Her husband
was appointed one of the commissioners at the court of France. The sea
was covered with the enemy's ships; and, should he escape these and
all the natural dangers of the seas, and arrive at the place of his
destination in safety, rumor said that he would there be exposed to
one of a more terrific character, "to the dark assassin, to the secret
murderer, and the bloody emissary of as cruel a tyrant as God, in his
righteous judgments, ever suffered to disgrace the throne of Britain.
I have," continues Mrs. Adams, writing soon after her husband's
departure, "travelled with you across the Atlantic, and could have
landed you safe, with humble confidence, at your desired haven, and
then have set myself down to enjoy a negative kind of happiness, in
the painful part which it has pleased Heaven to allot me; but the
intelligence with regard to that great philosopher, able statesman,
and unshaken friend of his country,"--alluding to a report of Dr.
Franklin's assassination in Paris,--"has planted a dagger in my
breast, and I feel with a double edge the weapon that pierced his
bosom. * * * To my dear son remember me in the most affectionate
terms. Enjoin it upon him never to disgrace his mother, and to behave
worthily of his father. I console myself with the hopes of his reaping
advantages under the careful eye of a tender parent, which it was not
in my power to bestow." Mr. Adams was accompanied by his eldest son,
John Quincy Adams, and, after incurring various hazards from
lightning, storm, and the enemy, arrived in France. The maternal
solicitude of Mrs. Adams relieved itself in part by writing letters to
her son filled with the warmest affection and the most wise counsel.
She urges it upon him "to adhere to those religious sentiments and
principles which were early instilled into your mind, and remember
that you are accountable to your Maker for all your words and actions.
Great learning and superior abilities, should you ever possess them,
will be of little value and small estimation, unless virtue, honor,
truth, and integrity, are added to them. Dear as you are to me, I
would much rather you should have found a grave in the ocean you have
crossed, than see you an immoral, profligate, or graceless child."
As has already been said, Mrs. Adams managed her husband's money
affairs at home. A short extract from one of her business letters to
him may be interesting, and will show how a matter always troublesome
was in such times doubly so: "The safest way, you tell me, of
supplying my wants, is by drafts; but I cannot get hard money for
bills. You had as good tell me to procure diamonds for them; and when
bills will fetch but five for one, hard money will exchange ten, which
I think is very provoking; and I must give at the rate of ten, and
sometimes twenty, for one, for every article I purchase. I blush
whilst I give you a price current; all meat from a dollar to eight
shillings a pound; corn twenty-five dollars, rye thirty, per bushel;
flour two hundred dollars per hundred pounds; potatoes ten dollars per
bushel, &c. I have studied, and do study, every method of economy;
otherwise a mint of money would not support a family. I could not
board our sons under forty dollars a week at school. * * * We have
been greatly distressed for grain. I scarcely know the looks or taste
of biscuit or flour for this four months; yet thousands have been much
worse off, having no grain of any sort." Nor were things then at the
worst; for in October, 1780, we find "meat eight dollars, and butter
twelve, per pound; corn one hundred and twenty dollars, and rye one
hundred and eight, per bushel; tea ninety dollars, and cotton wool
thirty, per pound." But our readers must not suppose that this was
entirely owing to a scarcity of products; these prices are in
"continental money," seventy dollars of which would hardly command one
of "hard money."
Hitherto Mr. Adams's residence had seemed too unsettled to render it
worth while for his wife to undertake a long and dangerous voyage to
meet him. But after the acknowledgment of our independence by Great
Britain, a commission was sent to Mr. Adams as first minister to that
court; and it was probable that his residence there would be
sufficiently long to justify him in a request to Mrs. Adams to join
him. The feelings of the latter on the subject were thus expressed
before the appointment was actually made: "I have not a wish to join
in a scene of life so different from that in which I have been
educated, and in which my early, and, I must suppose, happier days
have been spent. Well-ordered home is my chief delight, and the
affectionate, domestic wife, with the relative duties which accompany
that character, my highest ambition. It was the disinterested wish of
sacrificing my personal feelings to the public utility, which first
led me to think of unprotectedly hazarding a voyage. This objection
could only be surmounted by the earnest wish I had to soften those
toils which were not to be dispensed with; and if the public welfare
required your labors and exertions abroad, I flattered myself that, if
I could be with you, it might be in my power to contribute to your
happiness and pleasure." "I think, if you were abroad in a private
character, I should not hesitate so much at coming to you; but a mere
American, as I am, unacquainted with the etiquette of courts, taught
to say the thing I mean, and to wear my heart in my countenance,--I
am sure I should make an awkward figure; and then it would mortify my
pride, if I should be thought to disgrace you."
In spite, however, of this reluctance, she embarked on board the
_Active_, a merchant ship, for London. Of this voyage Mrs. Adams
has given a most graphic and not very agreeable picture; and nothing
can present a greater contrast than her dirty, close, narrow
quarters, on board a vessel deeply loaded with oil and potash,--the
oil leaking, and the potash smoking and fermenting,--with the
floating palaces in which the voyage is now made. The culinary
department was in keeping with the rest of the ship. "The cook was a
great, dirty, lazy negro, with no more knowledge of cookery than a
savage; nor any kind of order in the distribution of his dishes; but
on they come, higgledy-piggledy, with a leg of pork all bristly; a
quarter of an hour afterwards, a pudding; or, perhaps, a pair of roast
fowls first of all, and then will follow, one by one, a piece of
beef, and, when dinner is nearly completed, a plate of potatoes. Such
a fellow is a real imposition upon the passengers. But gentlemen
know but little about the matter, and if they can get enough to eat
five times a day, all goes well." Yet the passengers, of whom there
were a number, were agreeable, and, as the wind and weather were
favorable, the voyage did not last more than thirty days.
She hoped to have found Mr. Adams in London, but he was at the Hague;
and "Master John," after waiting a month for her in London, had
returned to the latter place. She received, however, every attention
from the numerous Americans then in London, refugees as well as
others, many of whom had been her personal friends at home. Ten days
were spent in sight-seeing, on the last of which a servant comes
running in, exclaiming, "Young Mr. Adams has come!" "Where, where is
he?" cried out all. "In the other house, madam; he stopped to get his
hair dressed." "Impatient enough I was," continues Mrs. A.; "yet, when
he entered, we had so many strangers, that I drew back, not really
believing my eyes, till he cried out, 'O my mamma, and my dear
sister!' Nothing but the eyes, at first sight, appeared what he once
was. His appearance is that of a man, and on his countenance the most
perfect good-humor; his conversation by no means denies his stature."
Her first year in Europe was spent at Auteuil, near Paris, and she
seems to have enjoyed herself, in spite of her ignorance of the
language; though she sometimes expresses her longing for home and the
enjoyment of social intercourse with her friends in America. Her
letters, during this period, present us with a lively picture of the
state of society and of manners. We have space only for her account of
her first visit to madame de la Fayette. "The marquise met me at the
door, and with the freedom of an old acquaintance, and the rapture
peculiar to the ladies of this nation, caught me by the hand, and gave
me a salute upon each cheek. She presented me to her mother and
sister, who were present with her, all sitting in her bedroom, quite
_en famille_. One of the ladies was knitting. The marquise herself was
in a chintz gown. She is a middle-sized lady, sprightly and
agreeable, and professes herself strongly attached to Americans. She
is fond of her children, and very attentive to them, which is not the
general character of ladies of high rank in Europe. In a few days, she
returned my visit, upon which I sent her a card of invitation to dine.
She came. We had a large company. There is not a lady in our country
who would have gone abroad to dine so little dressed; and one of our
fine American ladies, who sat by me, whispered to me, 'Good heavens!
how awfully she is dressed!' I could not forbear returning the
whisper, which I most sincerely despised, by replying that the lady's
rank sets her above the little formalities of dress. The rouge, 'tis
true, was not so artfully laid on, as upon the faces of the American
ladies who were present. Whilst they were glittering with diamonds,
buckles, watch-chains, girdle-buckles, &c., the marquise was nowise
ruffled by her own different appearance. A really well-bred
Frenchwoman has the most ease in her manners that you can possibly
conceive of."
In June, 1784, Mr. Adams took up his residence in London. His
situation and that of his wife was far from being a pleasant one. The
hostile feelings towards Americans, engendered by so many years of
warfare, and exasperated by the mortification of ill-success, had not
subsided. The loss of his North American colonies was severely felt by
the king, who had too much good sense, however, to suffer his feelings
to appear in his intercourse with the new minister; but the queen,
who, though exemplary in the discharge of domestic duties, was
weak-minded, proud, and petulant, could not conceal her bitterness,
and her conduct towards Mrs. Adams was hardly civil. Perhaps, however,
the account of it given by the latter is colored by her own prejudices
against the royal family, which, throughout her life were expressed in
the strongest language, and which, towards the king, at least, were
entirely unjust. Her presentation at court could not but be somewhat
embarrassing and awkward to all parties. The manner in which it passed
shall be related in her own words. "The ceremony of presentation is
considered as indispensable. One is obliged to attend the circles of
the queen, which are held in summer once a fortnight, but once a week
the rest of the year; and what renders it very expensive, is, that you
cannot go twice the same season in the same dress, and a court dress
cannot be used any where else. I directed my mantua-maker to let my
dress be elegant, but as plain as it could be, with decency;
accordingly it is white lutestring, covered and full trimmed with
white crape, festooned with lilac ribbon and mock point lace, over a
hoop of enormous extent; a narrow train of three yards, which is put
into a ribbon on the left side, the queen only having a train-bearer.
Ruffle cuffs, treble lace ruffles, a very dress cap, with long lace
lappets, two white plumes, and a blond lace handkerchief--this is my
rigging. I should have mentioned two pearl pins in my hair, ear-rings
and necklace of the same kind. * * * 'Well,' methinks I hear you say,
'what is your daughter's dress?' White, my dear girls, like her
mother's, only differently trimmed; her train being wholly of white
crape, and trimmed with white ribbon; the petticoat, which is the
most showy part of the dress, covered and drawn up in what are called
festoons, with light wreaths of beautiful flowers; sleeves white
crape, drawn over the silk, with a row of lace round the sleeve, near
the shoulder, another half way down the arm, and a third upon the top
of the ruffle, a little flower stuck between; a kind of hat cap, with
three large feathers, and a bunch of flowers; a wreath of flowers upon
the hair. * * * We were placed in a circle round the drawing-room,
which was very full, I believe two hundred persons present. The royal
family have to go to every person, and find small talk enough to speak
to all, though they very prudently speak in a whisper. The king
enters, and goes round to the right; the queen and princesses to the
left. The king is a personable man, but with a red face and white
eyebrows. The queen has a similar face, and the numerous royal family
resemble them. When the king came to me, Lord Onslaw said, 'Mrs.
Adams;' upon which I drew off my right hand glove, and his majesty
saluted my left cheek, then asked me if I had taken a walk to-day. I
could have told his majesty that I had been all the morning preparing
to wait upon him; but I replied, 'No, sire.' 'Why, don't you love
walking?' says he. I answered that I was rather indolent in that
respect. He then bowed and passed on. It was more than two hours after
this, before it came my turn to be presented to the queen. She was
evidently embarrassed when I was presented to her. I had disagreeable
feelings too. She, however, said, 'Mrs. Adams, have you got into your
house? Pray, how do you like the situation of it?' whilst the royal
princess looked compassionate, and asked me if I was not much
fatigued. Her sister, Princess Augusta, after having asked your niece
if she was ever in England before, and her answering, 'Yes,' inquired
of me how long ago, and supposed it was when she was very young. And
all this with much affability, and the ease and freedom of old
acquaintance. * * * As to the ladies of the court, rank and title may
compensate for want of personal charms; but they are, in general, very
plain, ill-shaped, and ugly; but don't you tell any body that I say
so; the observation did not hold good, that fine feathers make fine
birds." Referring to this same occasion in a subsequent letter, she
says, "I own that I never felt myself in a more contemptible situation
than when I stood four hours together for a gracious smile from
majesty, a witness to the anxious solicitude of those around me for
the same mighty _boon_. I, however, had a more dignified honor, as his
majesty _deigned to salute me_."
Of other sources of annoyance Mrs. Adams thus speaks: "Some years
hence, it may be a pleasure to reside here in the character of
American minister; but, with the present salary, and the present
temper of the English, no one need envy the embassy. There would soon
be fine work, if any notice was taken of their billingsgate and abuse;
but all their arrows rebound, and fall harmless to the ground. Amidst
all their falsehoods, they have never insinuated a lisp against the
private character of the American minister, nor in his public line
charged him with either want of abilities, honor, or integrity. The
whole venom is levelled against poor America, and every effort to make
her appear ridiculous in the eyes of the nation."
It would have been difficult to find a person better adapted than Mrs.
Adams for the trying situation in which she found herself. In other
times, a woman of more yielding temper, who could adapt herself more
readily to those about her, would, perhaps, answer better. Love of
country was engrained in her; for her "the birds of Europe had not
half the melody of those at home; the fruit was not half so sweet, nor
the flowers half so fragrant, nor the manners half so pure, nor the
people half so virtuous." Three years' residence in England produced
no change of feeling. In anticipation of a return to her home, we find
her writing thus: "I shall quit Europe with more pleasure than I came
to it, uncontaminated, I hope, with its manners and vices. I have
learned to know the world and its value; I have seen high life; I have
witnessed the luxury and pomp of state, the power of riches, and the
influence of titles, and have beheld all ranks bow before them, as the
only shrine worthy of worship. Notwithstanding this, I feel that I can
return to my little cottage, and be happier than here; and, if we have
not wealth, we have what is better--integrity."
Soon after Mr. Adams's return, he was elected vice-president of the
United States, and took up his residence, at least during the sessions
of Congress, first at New York, and afterwards at Philadelphia. The
"court" of General Washington was much more to the taste of Mrs. Adams
than that of George III.; the circle at the first "drawing-room," she
tells us, was very brilliant; that "the dazzling Mrs. Bingham and her
charming sisters were there; in short, a constellation of beauties."
The next eight years of her life, during which her husband held the
office of vice-president, were passed with few incidents to disturb
her happiness. Another generation, the children of her daughter, who
was married to Colonel Smith, were receiving the benefits of her
instruction and experience.
A residence at Philadelphia was not favorable to her health, which,
never having been very firm, about this period began decidedly to
fail. The bracing air of Quincy was found to be more congenial. For
this reason, she was not with her husband at the time when his
official duty required him to announce himself as the successor to
General Washington; and to this circumstance we are indebted for the
following letter,--written on the day on which the votes were counted
by the Senate,--in which, says her biographer, "the exalted feeling of
the moment shines out with all the lustre of ancient patriotism,
chastened by a sentiment of Christian humility of which ancient
history furnishes no example:"--
"QUINCY, _February 8th, 1797_.
"'The sun is dressed in brightest beams,
To give thy honors to the day.'
And may it prove an auspicious prelude to each ensuing season. You
have this day to declare yourself head of a nation. 'And now, O
Lord, thou hast made thy servant ruler over the people. Give unto
him an understanding heart, that he may know how to go out and
come in before this great people; that he may discern between good
and bad. For who is able to judge this thy so great a people?'
were the words of a royal sovereign, and not less applicable to
him who is invested with the chief magistracy of a nation, though
he wear not a crown, nor the robes of royalty. My thoughts and my
meditations are with you, though personally absent; and my
petitions to Heaven are, that the 'things which make for peace may
not be hidden from your eyes.' My feelings are not those of pride
or ostentation. They are solemnized by a sense of the obligations,
the important trusts, and numerous duties, connected with it. That
you may be enabled to discharge them with honor to yourself, with
justice and impartiality to your country, and with satisfaction to
this great people, shall be the daily prayer of your
A. A."
Never has this country witnessed such scenes as characterized the
struggle between the two great political parties which divided the
people during Mr. Adams's administration. As the representative of one
of these, he was assailed with an asperity and malignity to which,
happily, succeeding electioneering furnishes no parallel. Accustomed
to take a warm interest in political events, it could not be expected
that Mrs. Adams should cease to do so when her husband was the chief
actor; nor is it surprising that she should have felt what she deemed
the ingratitude of his countrymen in casting aside so long-tried and
faithful a servant. Retirement to private life was to her a source of
rejoicing rather than of regret. At her age, and with her infirmities,
she was far happier at Quincy, overseeing the operations of her dairy,
whilst her husband, like Cincinnatus, assumed the plough. She has left
a record of one day's life; and from this we suppose other days varied
but little. It is in a letter to her granddaughter, dated November
19th, 1812. "Six o'clock. Rose, and, in imitation of his Britannic
majesty, kindled my own fire. Went to the stairs, as usual, to summon
George and Charles. Returned to my chamber, dressed myself. No one
stirred. Called a second time, with a voice a little raised. Seven
o'clock. Blockheads not out of bed. Girls in motion. Mean, when I hire
another man-servant, that he shall come for one call. Eight o'clock.
Fires made. Breakfast prepared. Mr. A. at the tea-board. Forgot the
sausages. Susan's recollection brought them upon the table. _Enter
Ann._ 'Ma'am, the man is come with coal.' 'Go call George to assist
him.' _Exit Ann._ _Enter Charles._ 'Mr. B. is come with cheese,
turnips, &c. Where are they to be put?' 'I will attend to him myself.'
_Exit Charles._ Just seated at the table again. _Enter George_, with,
'Ma'am, here is a man with a drove of pigs.' A consultation is held
upon this important subject, the result of which is the purchase of
two spotted swine. Nine o'clock. _Enter Nathaniel_ from the upper
house, with a message for sundries; and black Thomas's daughter for
sundries. Attended to all these concerns. A little out of sorts that I
could not finish my breakfast. Note; never to be incommoded with
trifles. _Enter George Adams_ from the post-office--a large packet
from Russia, (to which court her son J. Q. Adams was then minister.)
Avaunt, all cares! I put you all aside, and thus I find good news from
a far country. Children, grandchildren all well. For this blessing I
give thanks. At twelve o'clock, by previous engagement, I was to call
for cousin B. Smith, to accompany me to the bridge at Quincy Port,
being the first day of passing it. Passed both bridges, and entered
Hingham. Returned before three. Dined, and, at five, went to Mr. T. G.
Smith, with your grandfather--the third visit he has made with us in
the week; and let me whisper to you, he played at whist. Returned. At
nine, sat down and wrote a letter. At eleven, retired to bed. By all
this you will learn that grandmother has got rid of her croaking, and
that grandfather is in good health, and that both of us are as
tranquil as that bold old fellow, Time, will let us be. Here I was
interrupted in my narrative. I reassume my pen upon the 22d of
November, being this day sixty-eight years old."[2]
From 1801 until her death, in 1818, Mrs. Adams resided at Quincy.
Cheerful and retaining the possession of her faculties to the last,
she enlivened the social circle about her, and solaced the solitary
hours of her husband. She lived long enough to see the seeds of virtue
and knowledge which she had planted in the minds of her children,
spring up and ripen into maturity; to receive a recompense, in
addition to the consciousness of duty performed, for her anxiety and
labors, in the respect and honors which her eldest son received from
his countrymen.
[1] For summoning juries.
[2] President Adams survived his excellent lady several years, and
died on the 4th of July, 1826, aged ninety-one. On the morning
of the jubilee, he was roused by the ringing of bells and the
firing of cannon. Being asked if he knew what day it was, he
replied, "O yes, it is the glorious 4th of July--God bless it!
God bless you all!" Just before he expired, he said, "Jefferson
survives;" but at one o'clock that very day, Jefferson rendered
up his spirit to his Maker. The family residence of John Adams
at Quincy is the residence of his distinguished son, John Quincy
Adams.
MRS. WASHINGTON.
Martha Dandridge was born in the county of New Kent, Virginia, in May,
1732. Her education was entirely of a domestic character, there being
no schools in the region where she dwelt. As she grew up, she was
distinguished for personal beauty, pleasing manners, and general
amiability of demeanor. She frequently appeared at the court of
Williamsburg, then held by the royal governors of Virginia, and became
a general favorite.
At the age of seventeen, she was married to Daniel Park Custis, of her
native county, and the new-married couple were settled at the White
House, on the banks of the Pamunkey River. Mr. Custis devoted himself
to agricultural pursuits, and became an eminently successful planter.
They had four children, two of whom died at an early period. Martha
arrived at womanhood, and died at Mount Vernon, in 1770, and John
perished at the age of twenty-seven, while in the service of his
country, at the siege of Yorktown, in 1781. Mr. Custis died at about
middle age, leaving his widow, still young, yet possessed of an ample
fortune. Beside extensive landed estates, she had L30,000 sterling in
money.
[Illustration: MRS. WASHINGTON.]
Mrs. Custis was sole executor of her husband's will, and she appears
to have been well qualified to discharge the duties which devolved
upon her. She conducted her affairs with surprising ability, and the
concerns of her extensive fortune seemed to thrive under her
management. In 1758, Colonel Washington, then twenty-six years of age,
became accidentally acquainted with the fair widow, and, after a brief
courtship, they were married. This occurred in 1759. Soon after, they
removed to Mount Vernon, which henceforward became their permanent
residence.
Mrs. Washington had no children by this second marriage. Martha and
John Custis were, however, fully adopted into the affections of her
present husband. In discharging her various domestic duties, and
rearing her children, time flowed smoothly on for almost twenty years.
In 1775, Washington, being appointed commander-in-chief of the
American army, proceeded to Cambridge, and did not return to Mount
Vernon till after the peace of 1783, except in a single instance. In
December, she proceeded to Cambridge, and joined her husband. Here she
remained till spring, having witnessed the siege and evacuation of
Boston. She then returned to Virginia.
During the war, it was the custom for the general to despatch an
aid-de-camp to Mount Vernon, at the close of each campaign, to escort
his wife to head-quarters. The arrival of Lady Washington, as she was
now called, at the camp, was an event always anticipated with
pleasure, and was the signal for the ladies of the general officers to
join their husbands. The appearance of the aid-de-camp, escorting the
plain family chariot, with the neat postilions in their scarlet and
white liveries, was deemed an epoch in the army, and served to diffuse
a cheering influence even amid the gloom which hung over our
destinies, at Valley Forge, Morristown, and West Point. She always
remained at head-quarters till the opening of the campaign, and she
often remarked, in after life, that it had been her fortune to hear
the first cannon at the opening, and the last at the closing, of the
several campaigns of the war.
During the whole period of the revolutionary struggle, she preserved
her equanimity, together with a degree of cheerfulness which
inspired all around her with the brightest hopes of final success.
The glorious results of the campaign of 1781 were, however,
associated with an event most afflictive to her. John Custis, now her
only child, had accompanied Washington to the siege of Boston, and had
witnessed the most important events of the contest. At Yorktown, he
was one of the aids of Washington, and lived to see the surrender of
the British army on the 19th of October; but he died soon after of
camp fever, which was then raging to a frightful extent within the
enemy's intrenchments.
The war being closed, Washington returned to Mount Vernon. His time
was now occupied in the peaceful pursuits of private life. He
cultivated his lands, and improved his residence at Mount Vernon by
additional buildings, and the laying out of his gardens and grounds.
He occasionally diversified his employments by the pleasures of the
chase. Much of his time, however, was occupied in discharging the
grateful duties of hospitality. His fame was spread far and wide, and
his home was crowded with guests, among whom were often seen
illustrious strangers from foreign lands. During this happy period,
Mrs. Washington performed the duties of a Virginia housewife, and
presided at her well-spread board, with an ease and elegance of manner
suited to her character and station.
The period at length arrived when Washington was again to leave his
home, and enter upon public duties. Being elected president of the
United States, he set out, in the spring of 1789, to join Congress at
New York, then the seat of the general government. Accompanied by his
lady, he proceeded to that city, every where received by crowds of
people, showering upon him their most grateful homage. At Trenton, New
Jersey, he was received in a manner which is said to have affected him
even to tears. In addition to the usual military compliments, the
bridge over the creek running through the town was covered with a
triumphal arch, supported by thirteen pillars, entwined and ornamented
with flowers and laurel, and bearing on the front, in large gilt
letters, this inscription:--
"THE DEFENDER OF THE MOTHERS
WILL BE THE
PROTECTOR OF THE DAUGHTERS."
Here were assembled the mothers and daughters dressed in white, each
bearing a basket of flowers, which were strewn before the chief,
while they sang it chorus,
"Welcome, mighty chief, once more,
Welcome to this grateful shore;
Now no mercenary foe
Aims again the fatal blow,
Aims at thee the fatal blow.
Virgins fair and matrons grave,
Those thy conquering arms did save,
Build for thee triumphal bowers;
Strew, ye fair, his way with flowers,
Strew your hero's way with flowers."
Arrived at New York, the president's establishment was formed upon a
scale partaking at once of simplicity and dignity. "The house was
handsomely furnished; the equipages neat, with horses of the first
order; the servants wore the family liveries; and, with the exception
of a steward and housekeeper, the whole establishment differed very
little from that of a private gentleman. On Tuesdays, from three to
four o'clock, the president received the foreign ambassadors and
strangers who wished to be introduced to him. On these occasions, and
when opening the session of Congress, he wore a dress sword. His
personal apparel was always remarkable for being old-fashioned, and
exceedingly plain and neat.
"On Thursdays were the congressional dinners, and on Friday night,
Mrs. Washington's drawing-room. The company usually assembled about
seven, and rarely staid exceeding ten o'clock. The ladies were seated,
and the president passed round the circle, paying his compliments to
each. At the drawing-rooms, Mrs. Morris always sat at the right of the
lady president, and at all dinners, public or private, at which Robert
Morris was a guest, that venerable man was placed at the right of Mrs.
Washington. When ladies called at the president's mansion, the habit
was for the secretaries and gentlemen of the president's household to
hand them to and from their carriages; but when the honored relicts of
Greene and Montgomery came, the president himself performed these
complimentary duties.
"On the great national festivals of the fourth of July and twenty-second
of February, the sages of the revolutionary Congress and the officers
of the revolutionary army renewed their acquaintance with Mrs.
Washington. Many and kindly greetings took place, with many a
recollection of the days of trial. The members of the Society of
Cincinnatus, after paying their respects to the chief, were seen to
file off towards the parlor, where Lady Washington was in waiting to
receive them, and where Wayne, and Mifflin, and Dickenson, and Stewart,
and Moylan, and Hartley, and a host of veterans, were cordially
welcomed as old friends, and where many an interesting reminiscence
was called up, of the head-quarters and the 'times of the revolution.'
"On Sundays, unless the weather was uncommonly severe, the president
and Mrs. Washington attended divine service at Christ Church; and in
the evenings, the president read to Mrs. Washington, in her chamber, a
sermon, or some portion of the sacred writings. No visitors, with the
exception of Mr. Trumbull, of Connecticut,--who was then speaker of
the house, and afterwards governor of Connecticut,--were admitted on
Sunday.
"There was one description of visitors, however, to be found about the
first president's mansion, on all days. The old soldiers repaired, as
they said, to head-quarters, just to inquire after the health of his
excellency and Lady Washington. They knew his excellency was, of
course, much engaged; but they would like to see the good lady. One
had been a soldier of the life-guard; another had been on duty, when
the British threatened to surprise the head-quarters; a third had
witnessed that terrible fellow, Cornwallis, surrender his sword; each
one had some touching appeal, with which to introduce himself at the
peaceful head-quarters of the president. All were 'kindly bid to
stay,' were conducted to the steward's apartments, and refreshments
set before them; and, after receiving some little token from the lady,
with her best wishes for the health and happiness of an old soldier,
they went their ways, while blessings upon their revered commander and
the good Lady Washington were uttered by many a war-worn veteran of
the revolution."[3]
In the autumn of 1789, General Washington made a tour to the Eastern
States. Soon after his return, Mrs. Washington addressed a letter to
Mrs. Warren, of Boston, giving an account of her views and feelings at
that period, which, as it is interesting for the information it
contains, and alike creditable to the head and heart of the writer, we
present to the reader. It is dated December 26th, 1789.
"Your very friendly letter of last month has afforded much more
satisfaction than all the formal compliments and empty ceremonies of
mere etiquette could possibly have done. I am not apt to forget the
feelings which have been inspired by my former society with good
acquaintances, nor to be insensible to their expressions of gratitude
to the president; for you know me well enough to do me the justice to
believe that I am fond only of what comes from the heart. Under a
conviction that the demonstrations of respect and affection to him
originate in that source, I cannot deny that I have taken some
interest and pleasure in them. The difficulties which first presented
themselves to view on his first entering upon the presidency, seem
thus to be in some measure surmounted. It is owing to the kindness of
our numerous friends in all quarters that my new and unwished-for
situation is not indeed a burden to me. When I was much younger, I
should probably have enjoyed the innocent gayeties of life as much as
most persons of my age; but I had long since placed all the prospects
of my future happiness in the still enjoyments of the fireside at
Mount Vernon.
"I little thought, when the war was finished, that any circumstances
could possibly happen, which would call the general into public life
again. I had anticipated that, from that moment, we should be suffered
to grow old together in solitude and tranquillity. That was the first
and dearest wish of my heart. I will not, however, contemplate with
too much regret, disappointments that were inevitable, though his
feelings and my own were in perfect unison with respect to our
predilection for private life. Yet I cannot blame him for having
acted according to his ideas of duty in obeying the voice of his
country. The consciousness of having attempted to do all the good in
his power, and the pleasure of finding his fellow-citizens so well
satisfied with the disinterestedness of his conduct, will, doubtless,
be some compensation for the great sacrifices which I know he has
made. Indeed, on his journey from Mount Vernon to this place in his
late tour through the Eastern States, by every public and every
private information which has come to him, I am persuaded he has
experienced nothing to make him repent his having acted from what he
conceived to be a sense of indispensable duty. On the contrary, all
his sensibility has been awakened in receiving such repeated and
unequivocal proofs of sincere regard from his countrymen.
"With respect to myself, I sometimes think the arrangement is not
quite as it ought to have been,--that I, who had much rather be at
home, should occupy a place with which a great many younger and gayer
women would be extremely pleased. As my grandchildren and domestic
connections make up a great portion of the felicity which I looked for
in this world, I shall hardly be able to find any substitute that will
indemnify me for the loss of a part of such endearing society. I do
not say this because I feel dissatisfied with my present station; for
every body and every thing conspire to make me as contented as
possible in it; yet I have learned too much of the vanity of human
affairs to expect felicity from the scenes of public life. I am still
determined to be cheerful and happy in whatever situation I may be;
for I have also learned from experience that the greater part of our
happiness or misery depends on our dispositions, and not on our
circumstances. We carry the seeds of the one or the other about with
us in our minds wherever we go.
"I have two of my grandchildren with me, who enjoy advantages in point
of education, and who, I trust, by the goodness of Providence, will be
a great blessing to me. My other two grandchildren are with their
mother in Virginia."
In the spring of 1797, bidding adieu to public life, Washington
took leave of the seat of government, and returned to Mount Vernon,
prepared in good earnest to spend the remainder of his days in
retirement. He accepted, indeed, the command of the army of the
United States, soon after; but this did not draw him from his home.
In 1799, he died, after a brief illness. His affectionate partner
was at the bedside when his spirit departed. "It is all over now,"
said she. "I shall soon follow him. I have no more trials to pass
through." About two years after, she was seized with bilious fever.
Being perfectly aware that her end was at hand, she assembled her
grandchildren at her bedside, discoursed with them of their duties in
life, of the happy influences of religion, of the consolations it had
afforded her in hours of affliction, and the hopes it offered of a
blessed immortality; and then, surrounded by weeping relatives,
friends, and domestics, the venerable relict of Washington resigned
her life into the hands of her Creator, in the seventy-first year
of her age.
Few women have figured in the great drama of life, amid scenes so
varied and imposing, with so few faults, and so many virtues, as
Martha Washington. Identified with the Father of his country in the
great events which led to our national independence, she partook much
of his thoughts, views, and counsels. In the dark hours of trial, her
cheerfulness soothed his anxieties, and her devotional piety aided him
in drawing hope and confidence from Heaven. She was indeed the fit
partner of Washington, and, in her sphere, appears to have discharged
her duties with a dignity, devotion, and consistency, worthy of her
exalted destinies.
[3] American Portrait Gallery.
MADAME DE STAEL.
Jacques Necker, born of Protestant parents at Geneva, was sent, at
the age of fifteen, to seek his fortune at Paris. After serving as
a clerk in the banking-house of Vernet, he passed into that of the
eminent banker Thelusson, where he displayed such a capacity for
business, as to lead to his admission into the house as a partner.
In a few years he acquired a large fortune, and withdrew from active
business, but remained at Paris as minister of the republic of
Geneva to the French court. His "Eloge de Colbert," which gained the
prize in the French Academy in 1773, and his essay on the corn
laws, first drew towards him the attention of the public, which
finally settled upon him as the only person capable of preserving
the country from that bankruptcy upon the verge of which it was
standing; and Louis XVI., notwithstanding his religious bigotry, was
compelled to appoint Necker to the office of director-general of
the finances, in 1785, being the first Protestant who had held office
since the revocation of the edict of Nantes.
There resided with Madame Thelusson, as companion, a Swiss lady, named
Curchod, the same who had the fortune to excite in the bosom of the
historian Gibbon, for the first and last time, the passion of love.
There is, however, no undue praise in the following description which
he has given of her: "The personal attractions of Mdlle. Curchod were
embellished by the virtues and talents of her mind. Her fortune was
humble, but her family was respectable. Her mother, a native of
France, had preferred her religion to her country. Her father, with
the moderation of a philosopher, was content with a small salary and
laborious duty in the obscure lot of minister of Cressy, a small
village in the mountains of Switzerland. He bestowed a liberal and
even learned education on his only daughter. She surpassed his hopes
by her proficiency in the sciences and languages; and in her short
visits to Lausanne, the wit, the beauty, and the learning, of
Mademoiselle Curchod were the theme of universal applause. The report
of such a prodigy awakened my curiosity; I saw and loved. I found her
learned without pedantry, witty in conversation, pure in sentiment,
and elegant in manners." After the death of her father, she supported
herself and her mother by teaching young ladies at Geneva; from whence
she removed to Paris.
The character of Necker gained her admiration, her respect, and her
love. She married him; and, from that time, the great business of her
life was to make him happy. To divert him after the cares of business,
she sought to make her house agreeable. She had not the light and gay
manners of a Parisian lady, but she had a native grace and sweetness,
and a solidity of talent, which caused her society to be sought for by
the learned and intelligent, and her drawing-rooms to be filled with
the _beaux esprits_ of Paris.
Her only daughter, Anne Louisa Germaine, born in 1766, became her next
object of solicitude. She wished that her education should be perfect;
she wished her to know every thing, and thought that her mind could
not be stored with too many words and facts; she introduced her, even
in infancy, to the brilliant circle of her own friends, and learned
men were almost her only companions. It was therefore with a transport
of delight that the child received, at the age of eleven, a young
girl, whom her mother wished her to make her companion, and who
afterwards described her thus: "She spoke with a warmth and facility
which were already eloquent, and which made a great impression on me.
We did not play like children. She at once asked me what my lessons
were, if I knew any foreign languages, and if I went often to the
play. When I said, I had only been three or four times, she exclaimed,
and promised that we should often go together, and, when we came home,
write down an account of the piece. It was her habit, she said; and,
in short, we were to write to each other every day. We entered the
drawing-room. Near the arm-chair of Madame Necker was the stool of her
daughter, who was obliged to sit very upright. As soon as she had
taken her accustomed place, three or four old gentlemen came up, and
spoke to her with the utmost kindness. One of them, in a little round
wig, took her hands in his, held them a long time, and entered into
conversation with her, as if she had been twenty. This was the Abbe
Raynal; the others were Messrs. Marmontel, Thomas, the Marquis de
Pesay, and Baron de Grimm. We sat down at table. It was a picture to
see how Mademoiselle Necker listened. She did not speak herself; but
so animated was her face, that she appeared to converse with all. Her
eyes followed the looks and movements of those who talked; it seemed
as if she grasped their ideas before they were expressed. She entered
into every subject, even politics, which at this epoch was one of the
most engrossing topics. After dinner, a good deal of company arrived.
Each guest, as he approached Madame Necker, addressed her daughter
with some compliment or pleasantry; she replied to all with ease and
grace. They delighted to attack and embarrass her, and to excite her
childish imagination, which was already brilliant. The cleverest men
were those who took the greatest pleasure in making her talk." When
she was not in society, she was kept constantly at her books. She
wrote a great deal, and her writings were read in public and
applauded. This system of education had its natural results. Praise,
and reputation, and success in society, became as necessary to her as
her daily food: her understanding, brilliant, but not profound,
gathered knowledge by cursory reading and from conversation--not by
hard study; hence it was superficial.
Her physical strength could not endure this constant straining and
excitement of the mind. At fourteen, her physicians ordered that she
should be removed to the country, and should give up all study. Madame
Necker was deeply disappointed: unable to carry her system of
education to the fullest extent, she abandoned it altogether;
henceforth she took little interest in the talents of her daughter,
and, when she heard her praised, would say, "O, it is nothing,
absolutely nothing, in comparison to what I intended to make her."
This carelessness on the part of her mother, developed in the young
girl an ardent affection for her father, which she dwells upon in her
writings with so much fervor. There existed between them the most
unreserved and open communication of thought. He delighted in her
talents, which she exerted for his entertainment, and to amuse his
hours of leisure. Her superior success in this last particular even
excited the jealousy of her mother, who sought by reproof to check the
outpouring of her wit and imagination. Mademoiselle listened with
respect to the reproof, but took the first opportunity to escape from
her mother's side, and shelter herself behind her father's chair,
where she soon collected the cleverest men in the room to listen to
her sallies, and to be charmed by her eloquence.
As has already been said, her career of authorship began at a very
early age. When a little older, she composed tales and plays, which
were received with rapturous applause by the company to which, in
accordance with French custom, they were read; but which in print
appear flat enough. At the age of fifteen, she made her appearance
before the great public as the author of an anonymous political
pamphlet in defence of an act of her father's, which had excited a
great clamor on the part of the ultra-royalists, and was the cause of
his resignation of office.
The position which her father held in France, during her early years,
exercised a very important influence on the character and feelings of
Mademoiselle Necker. Despised as a plebeian and detested as a reformer
by the queen and the court, he was regarded, by the moderate of all
parties, as the only man who could save France, and was worshipped as
an idol by the people at large. No sooner was it known that he had
resigned, than "all France," as she says,--that is, all who were
eminent for wealth, for talent, or for rank, excepting the few
attached to the court,--came to visit him, and to express to him their
regrets, their fears, and the hope that he would soon return to
office. She heard that consternation pervaded Paris; all fearing ruin
for that country which Necker had abandoned. It is not surprising that
she should conceive for him a passionate admiration; should regard him
as superior to all in modern times, and as answering the _beau ideal_
of Grecian or of Roman patriotism. Nor is it wonderful that his
persecution by the court should have excited feelings of resentment
and disgust towards a form of government under which such things could
take place.
Necker remained a short time in France, and then returned to Coppet,
an estate which he purchased on the banks of the Lake of Geneva, from
whence he watched the course of events, feeling certain that he should
at last be recalled to the helm. An occasional visit to Paris, or the
publication of a political pamphlet, served to keep him in the public
remembrance.
At the age of twenty-two; Mademoiselle Necker was married. To her,
marriage was merely a convenience. It was necessary to give her a
position in society--admittance at court. She did not look for a
lover, not even for a friend or companion, in her husband. He must be
of noble birth, and a Protestant. The Baron de Stael, the Swedish
ambassador, had both these requisites; he was, moreover, an amiable
and honorable man. He had received positive assurances from his
sovereign, that he should be continued for many years at the court of
France, and she, having made a distinct contract that she should never
be obliged to go to Sweden, except with her own consent, accepted his
proposals of marriage.
We have a portrait of her as she appeared at this period, written in a
style then much in fashion: "Zalma advances; her large dark eyes
sparkle with genius; her hair, black as ebony, falls on her shoulders
in waving ringlets; her features are more marked than delicate, yet
they express something superior to her sex. 'There she is!' every one
cried, when she appeared, and all became breathless. When she sang,
she extemporized the words of her song; the celestial brightness of
composition animated her face, and held the audience in serious
attention; at once astonished and delighted, we know not which most to
admire, her facility or perfection. When her music ceased, she talked
of the great truths of nature, the immortality of the soul, the love
of liberty, of the fascination and danger of the passions: her
features meanwhile have an expression superior to beauty; her
physiognomy is full of play and variety; the accents of her voice have
a thousand modulations; and there is perfect harmony between her
thoughts and their expression. Without hearing her words, the
inflection of her tones, her gestures, her look, cause her meaning to
be understood. When she ceased, a murmur of approbation ran round the
room; she looked down modestly; her long eyelashes covered her
flashing eyes, and the sun was clouded over."
Meantime affairs in France were rapidly approaching to a crisis.
Minister succeeded minister, but each left the ship more inextricably
involved than his predecessor. The failure of the crops, and
consequent distress of the poorer classes, increased the turbulence of
the people and the distress of the court. At length, in 1788, seven
years after his resignation, the queen and the court were compelled to
confess that the only hope of safety was in recalling Necker, and to
join in the general solicitation that he would take the helm.
His name revived the public credit; the pressing wants of the treasury
were supplied; by importing grain, he removed the fears of famine. His
position at this period was one to gratify his highest ambition; his
return had been a triumph over the court; and the people were eager to
prostrate themselves at his feet. But his talents were those of the
financier only; as a statesman, he was sadly wanting. The example of
the Americans had excited in the minds of a portion of the nobility an
indefinable and romantic longing for something called _liberty_; the
middle classes, who possessed the most intelligence, education, and
wealth, were indignant at being excluded from most places of honor,
and at being obliged to bear the whole burden of the taxes, from which
the nobles and the clergy were exempt; the great body of the people,
who were in the condition of slaves, had the wrongs and outrages of
many centuries of oppression to avenge: all these classes, though
agreeing in nothing else, were united in demanding a change. On the
other side, the queen, supported by her royal brothers-in-law and a
portion of the nobles, resolutely set themselves against any
innovations.
Necker did not agree entirely with either party; he was in favor of a
limited monarchy; the British constitution appeared to him, as it did
to his daughter, the perfection of government. But he had not the
decision and energy requisite for insuring the success of his own
opinions. The well-disposed but weak monarch yielded to the more
daring counsels of the court, and prepared to crush at once their
opponents by force. But these measures were concerted without the
knowledge of Necker, and before they could be executed, he must
quietly be got rid of. Accordingly, on the 11th of July, 1789, as he
was about to sit down to dinner, he received an order to quit France
within four and twenty hours, and without exciting observation. Necker
obeyed to the very letter. He and his wife, without changing their
dress, stepped into the carriage, as if to take the usual evening
airing, and travelled night and day till they reached Brussels.
Madame de Stael was informed of this event on the morning of the 12th,
and on the 15th, having been advised of their route, she set off to
join her parents. "When I reached them," says she, "three days after,
they still wore the full dress which they had on, when, after a large
dinner party, and while no one suspected the agitating position in
which they were placed, they silently quitted France, their friends,
their home, and the power which they enjoyed. This dress, covered with
dust, the name assumed by my father for the sake of avoiding
recognition in France, and so detention through the favor in which he
was still held,--all these filled me with feelings of reverence, that
caused me to throw myself at his feet, as I entered the room of the
inn where I found him."
While thus exhibiting his respect for the king, Necker, by another
act, displayed his love for the people. To purchase a supply of corn
for the starving population of Paris, Necker had negotiated a loan of
two millions of livres, for which his own personal security was to be
given. The transaction was not completed at the period of his exile,
and, lest this should occasion any delay, he wrote at once to confirm
his guaranty.
No sooner was Necker's dismissal known, than Paris rose in insurrection.
An army of one hundred thousand men was arrayed in a night; on the 14th
of July, the Bastile was destroyed, and the king was forced to attend
in person at the Hotel de Ville, and to express his approbation of the
acts of the revolutionists. A courier, bearing an order of recall,
overtook Necker at Frankfort. He hesitated, but at last determined to
comply. "What a moment of happiness," says Madame de Stael, "was our
journey to Paris! I do not think that the like ever happened to any man
who was not sovereign of the country. * * * The liveliest acclamations
accompanied every step; the women threw themselves on their knees afar
off in the fields when they saw his carriage pass; the first citizens
of the different places acted as postilions; and, in the towns, the
inhabitants took off the horses to drag the carriage themselves. It was
I that enjoyed for him; I was carried away by delight, and must not
feel ungrateful for those happy days, however sad were the ones that
followed." "O, nothing can equal the emotion that a woman feels when she
has the happiness of hearing the name of one beloved repeated by a
whole people. All those faces, which appear for the time animated by
the same sentiment as one's self; those innumerable voices, which echo to
the heart the name that rises in the air, and which appear to return
from heaven after having received the homage of earth; the inconceivable
electricity which men communicate to each other when they share the
same emotions; all those mysteries of nature and social feeling are added
to the greatest mystery of all--love--filial or maternal--but still love;
and the soul sinks under emotions stronger than itself. When I came to
myself, I felt that I had reached the extreme boundary of happiness."
The triumph was of short duration: striving to act a middle part,
Necker incurred the distrust of both parties. His want of capacity,
also, to rule the tempest, was most evident; his propositions were
weak and inconsistent; but his daughter saw not this: the loss of the
confidence of the king and of the favor of the people, was attributed
by her to their ingratitude and perversity; in her eyes, her father
was still the greatest of men. His resignation and departure from
France was to her a subject of mortification, however. As he passed on
his way to Switzerland, the same people who, the year before, had
swelled the acclamations of triumph and joy, now met him with
reproaches and revilings. At one place he was detained as a prisoner,
and only released in pursuance of a decree of the National Assembly.
His daughter remained at Paris. Although excluded theoretically from
the exercise of any political power, there is no country where the
women take so active a part in politics as in France. Madame de Stael
was not a woman to forego the exercise of rights which custom had
given her sex: accordingly we find her deeply involved in all the
political intrigues of the day, and her drawing-room the scene of the
most important political discussions.
During the dreadful days of August, 1792, she exerted herself to the
utmost to save the lives of her friends; fearlessly traversing the
streets filled with the lowest wretches of both sexes; visiting the
victims in the obscure houses in which they were concealed, and taking
them into her own house, which, from the protection which the law of
nations throws over an ambassador, she trusted would be to them a
sanctuary. But those now in power heeded little the law of nations:
the police demanded to search her house; she met them at the door,
talked to them of the rights of ambassadors, and of the vengeance
which Sweden would take if they persisted in their demand; she rallied
them upon their want of courtesy, and finally, by argument and gayety,
induced them to abandon their intention.
Although it was apparent that her personal safety was endangered, she
could not bear to leave Paris, the theatre in which so exciting a
drama was being acted. With her passports ready, she yet lingered
until the 2d of September, when the news of the advance of the
foreign troops into France excited the Parisians to madness, and led
to the commission of those horrible excesses which have left an
indelible stain on the French name. She then set out for Switzerland;
but even now her love of effect and of display was exhibited. She left
her house in a coach drawn by six horses, with the servants in full
livery, trusting for safety to her title as wife of an ambassador. But
she had hardly left her own door, when the carriage was surrounded by
a host of furious women, who compelled the postilions to drive to the
office of the section of the city to which she belonged, from whence
she was ordered to the Hotel de Ville. This was at the opposite side
of the city, and she was three hours in making her way thither through
crowds of ferocious wretches thirsting for her blood. She was detained
at the Hotel de Ville during the remainder of the day, and in the
evening was conducted by Manuel to his own house. On the next day, she
was suffered to leave the city attended by her maid alone, and
accompanied by a gendarme.
At Coppet she found personal safety; but not even the society of her
father could render its quiet agreeable to her. Her activity found
some exercise for itself in affording protection to those who were so
fortunate as to escape from the fangs of the Revolutionary Tribunal.
She also wrote an eloquent appeal in behalf of the queen, and
"Reflections on the Peace," which was quoted by Fox, as full of sound
political views and just argument.
No sooner had the fall of Robespierre rendered Paris a comparatively
safe place of residence, than she hastened thither, eager to bear a
part in the busy scenes which were taking place. Her return formed an
epoch in society; it was the signal of the revival of refinement. She
became the centre of a brilliant circle, composed of the most
distinguished foreigners, and of the most eminent men of France. In
the society of women she took no pleasure; she loved to be surrounded
by those who could appreciate her talents, and could discuss those
questions which are foreign to the general tastes of women. But it
could hardly be called discussion: her own opinions were delivered
like oracles, and if she ever asked a question, it was in such an
indeterminate way that no one felt called upon to reply. In this
connection one little peculiarity may be mentioned: in public she
always held in her hand, which, by the by, was well-formed, some
plaything, which she twirled between her fingers; in summer, it was a
twig of poplar with two or three leaves at the end; in winter, it was
a rolled paper; and it was usual, on her entrance at a party, to
present a number of these, from which she made a selection.
The influence which she had acquired excited the alarm of the
revolutionists; she was denounced in the Convention and attacked in
the newspapers. But this moved her not, so long as by her eloquence
she could make converts to her own opinions--opinions adopted hastily,
and without reflection, which were, therefore, often changing, and
frequently contradictory.
At length Bonaparte appeared upon the stage; and at their first
interview, Madame de Stael felt that he was a man not to be dazzled or
won. He had just returned from the conquest of Italy. She thus speaks
of the impression he made on her: "I could not reply to him, when he
told me that he had visited Coppet, and felt much regret at passing
through Switzerland without seeing my father. To a feeling of
admiration succeeded one of fear--a feeling that was experienced by
all who approached him, and which resulted solely from his personal
attributes; for at this time he held no political power, but had
himself fallen under the suspicions of the Directory. I soon learned
that his character was not to be defined by the words in ordinary use;
that he was neither gentle nor violent, mild nor cruel, according to
the fashion of other men. The feeling of fear was only increased by
subsequent intercourse with him. I had a confused feeling that no
emotion of the heart ever influenced him."
In all that Madame de Stael says of Napoleon, there is an evident
feeling of pique, and of mortified vanity. Hitherto triumphant in
society, she now met with one upon whom all her powers were tried in
vain. An opportunity of testing this occurred at an early period.
Bonaparte proposed to the Directory the invasion of Switzerland;
upon which she sought a conference with him, in the hope of turning
him from his purpose. He viewed the interference as impertinent,
and the matter entirely out of a woman's province: from deference
to her reputation, however, he entered into a discussion of the
matter, and, having said as much as he thought ought to convince her,
turned the conversation to other subjects, much to Madame de Stael's
mortification, who could not bear to be treated like a mere woman.
When Bonaparte became first consul, Madame de Stael did not hesitate
to express openly her dissatisfaction at his rising power. Joseph
Bonaparte, of whom she was fond, remonstrated with her. "My brother,"
said he, "complains of you. 'Why,' said he, yesterday, 'does not
Madame de Stael attach herself to my government? What does she want?
The payment of the money due her father? She shall have it. To remain
in Paris? I will permit it. In short, what does she want?'" "The
question is not what I want," replied Madame de Stael, "but what I
think."
There was one thing which operated as a check on her, and that was,
the fear of being obliged to leave Paris. The possibility of such a
catastrophe filled her with wretchedness. Away from the society and
the excitements of that capital, she was the victim of _ennui_: her
own brilliant powers of mind furnished her with no protection; she had
no internal resources for happiness. Hear her own confession: "In this
point was I vulnerable. The phantom of _ennui_ forever pursues me;
fear of it would have made me bow before tyranny, if the example of my
father, and the blood which flowed in my veins, had not raised me
above such weakness."
The "dispensation of _ennui_" she viewed as the most terrible exercise
of Bonaparte's power. But even her fear of it would not control the
ruling passion: she continued to discourse on politics, though to a
constantly diminishing audience, and to excite those with whom she
possessed influence to oppose the measures of government, until the
forbearance of that government was exhausted, and she received advice
from the minister of police to retire for a short time into the
country. This she terms the commencement of a series of persecutions
by Bonaparte--a reproach which is not deserved; for it could not be
expected that any government, much less one whose power was not yet
established, would submit to a constant opposition, which exhibited
itself not only in epigrams, always a most powerful weapon in France,
but, as she herself confesses, in direct political intrigues; the
interference, too, being by one who had small claims to be called a
Frenchwoman. She was the daughter of a Swiss, and the wife of a Swede,
of which latter character she more than once made use to secure her
own personal safety and that of her friends. What course could the
government have adopted of a milder character? There was no personal
violence, nor threat of any: she was banished from the theatre of her
hostile influence, and forbidden to circulate her works there.
Not long after the banishment of Madame de Stael from Paris, Bonaparte
passed through Switzerland, on his way to Italy. Having expressed a
wish to see Necker, the latter waited on him. After a two hours'
conversation, the aged minister left Napoleon, fascinated, like all
who approached him, by his powers of pleasing, and gratified, as well
by this mark of respect, as by the permission which he obtained for
his daughter to reside at Paris.
The publication of her work on "Literature" restored Madame de Stael
to popularity. Her _salons_ were again crowded, but chiefly with
foreigners, for she still remained upon bad terms with the first
consul. "She pretends," said he, "to speak neither of politics nor of
me; yet it happens that every one leaves her house less attached to me
than when they went in. She gives them fanciful notions, and of the
opposite kind to mine." Wounded vanity had no doubt a large share in
producing her state of feeling. Upon him, as we have before seen, all
her powers of fascination were exerted in vain. Indeed, he seems, in
his treatment of her, to have been wanting in his usual tact. She was
one day asked to dine in company with him. As she had heard that he
sometimes spoke sarcastically of her, she thought he might perhaps
address to her some of these speeches, which were the terror of the
courtiers. She prepared herself, therefore, with various repartees.
But Bonaparte hardly appeared conscious of her presence, and her
consolation for the neglect was the conjecture that fear had been the
cause of his forbearance.
The early attempts of Madame de Stael in novel-writing gave no promise
of superiority in that department of literature. Four tales, published
in 1795, were as weak in plan and in execution as they were deficient
in moral taste. It is a sad illustration of the state of moral feeling
in the community, that a mind, naturally so well-intentioned and
powerful, could be so debased, especially of one who had, at all
times, a deep sense of religion, and who had been educated in the
strict principles of Calvin. "Delphine," which appeared in 1802, is
marked by the same faults of a moral character, and its tendency was
so marked, as to incur the censure even of French critics, "who
dared," as Madame de Stael indignantly exclaims, "to blame a book
approved by Necker." That the censure was merited, no right-minded
person can deny. The defence which Madame de Stael felt called upon to
put forth is weak, inconclusive, and abounding in sophistries. The
misfortunes of the heroine are, indeed, the consequences of her
actions, but these results are made to appear her misfortune, and not
her fault. Fascinated by the eloquence of the author, our hearts are
enlisted on the side of the sufferer, whatever may be the decision of
our judgment.
Though deficient in some of the requisites for a novelist, especially
in dramatic talent, Madame de Stael was eminently endowed with one
essential faculty--that of delineating character. In Delphine, it was
said the character of the author herself was exhibited, and that
Madame de Vernon, in whom we have a perfect picture of social
Machiavelism, was drawn from Talleyrand. "I am told," said he to her,
"that you have put us both in your novel in the character of women."
Even if this had been the occasion of offence to the wily courtier, he
was too sagacious to disclose it.
Madame de Stael was at Coppet, passing the summer, when her father
published a work called "Last View of Politics and Finance." In this
he points out the progress which Bonaparte was making towards despotic
power. Irritated at this attack, the first consul forbade the return
of the daughter to Paris, from whence she had conveyed such false
impressions to her father.
But, much as she loved her father, she could not content herself away
from Paris. Genevese society contrasted sadly, in her estimation, with
the brilliant circle of her Parisian friends. Hoping, amidst the
excitements which attend the commencement of a war, to be overlooked,
she ventured, after the rupture of the peace of Amiens, to establish
herself at the distance of thirty miles from her beloved capital. The
first consul was informed that the road to her residence was crowded
with her visitants. She heard that she was to receive an order to
depart, and she sought to evade it by wandering from the house of one
friend to that of another. It was at length received, and the
intercession of Joseph Bonaparte, and other friends of the first
consul, was of no avail.
Loath to appear in disgrace among the Genevese, and hoping, amid new
scenes, to forget her griefs, she resolved to visit Germany. "Every
step of the horses," she tells us, as she left Paris, "was a pang;
and, when the postilions boasted that they had driven fast, I could
not help smiling at the sad service they did me."
The enjoyment which she derived from the attention and kindness with
which she was every where received, and from the vast field of
knowledge which opened itself to her, was interrupted by the sad news
of the illness of her father, followed quickly by intelligence of his
death. She at once set off for Coppet. Her feelings, during the
melancholy journey, are beautifully and naturally recorded in the "Ten
Years of Exile." This work, which was not published until after her
death, is the most interesting of her writings, and the best as it
respects style. It was commenced at Coppet, and feigned names and
false dates were substituted for the real, for the purpose of
misleading the government, whose perfect system of _espionage_ would
otherwise have rendered fruitless her most careful endeavors at
concealment.
Her fears for the consequences of a discovery were natural; for she
expresses most freely her opinions of the character and conduct of the
great ruler of France, which take their coloring from her feelings,
highly excited by the persecution of which she conceived herself to be
the victim. Here are also recorded her observations on the various
countries which this persecution compelled her to visit. But the work
is far more valuable and interesting from the traits which it
unconsciously discloses of the character of the author herself; and
any diminution of our preconceived ideas of the absolute dignity of
her nature, is more than compensated by the abundant proofs of the
kindness and honesty of her disposition.
Her first occupation, after the death of her father, was to publish
his writings, accompanied by a biographical memoir. Her passion for
him took a new turn. Every old man recalled his image; and she watched
over their comforts, and wept over their sufferings. It mingled with
her devotions. She believed that her soul communed with his in prayer,
and that it was to his intercession that she owed all the good that
befell her. Whenever she met with any piece of good fortune, she would
say, "It is my father who has obtained this for me."
In happier days, this passion sometimes was the occasion of scenes not
a little amusing to the bystanders. Her cousin and biographer, Madame
de Necker Saussure relates the following anecdote: She had come to
Coppet from Geneva in Necker's carriage, and had been overturned on
the way, but received no injury. On relating the incident to Madame de
Stael, she inquired, with great vehemence, who had driven; and, on
being told that it was Richel, her father's coachman, she exclaimed,
in an agony, "Mon Dieu! he may one day overturn my father!" and
ordered him into her presence. While waiting his coming, she paced the
room, crying out, "My father, my poor father, _he_ might have been
overturned;" and, turning to her cousin, "At your age, and with your
slight person, the danger is nothing; but with his bulk and age--I
cannot bear to think of it!" The coachman now came in; and the lady,
usually so mild and indulgent with her servants, in a sort of frenzy,
and in a voice of solemnity, but choked with emotion, said, "Richel,
do you know that I am a woman of genius?" The poor man stared at her
in astonishment, and she went on, yet louder, "Have you not heard, I
say, that I am a woman of genius?" The man was still mute. "Well,
then, I tell you that I _am_ a woman of genius--of great genius--of
prodigious genius! and I tell you more--that all the genius I have
shall be exerted to secure your rotting out your days in a dungeon, if
ever you overturn my father!"
To recruit her health, which was wasting with grief, she next
undertook a journey into Italy. Hitherto she had appeared totally
insensible to the beauties of nature, and when her guests at Coppet
were in ecstasies with the Lake of Geneva, and the enchanting scenery
about it, she would exclaim, "Give me a garret in Paris, with a
hundred Louis a year." But in Italy she seems to have had a glimpse
of the glories of the universe, for which enjoyment she always said
she was indebted to her father's intercession.
The delights which she experienced in that enchanting country are
imbodied in the novel of "Corinne." Her representation of its society
evinces a want of intimate acquaintance with it, but it is a lively
and true picture of the surface. In this work her peculiar talent as a
novelist is richly displayed. In the characters of Comte d'Erfeuil,
Corinne, and Oswald, we have not only examples of the most true and
delicate discrimination, but vivid portraits of individuals, in whom
are imbodied the most pleasing peculiarities of their respective
nations. A purer morality displays itself in Corinne; the result,
rather than the object, of the book. She does not seek, by logical
demonstration, to enforce a moral axiom, but the influence of the
spirit which emanates from the whole is purifying and elevating.
Madame de Stael was forbidden to approach within forty leagues of
Paris; but, after hovering about the confines of the magical circle,
she at last established herself within it, at a distance of only
twelve leagues from the city. So long as she was contented to remain
in obscurity, in the society of a small circle of friends, and to
maintain a strict silence on the subject of politics, her violation of
the imperial mandate was overlooked. But the publication of Corinne
put an end to the indulgence, and she was ordered to quit France.
The tedium of her life at Coppet was somewhat relieved by the visits
of her friends, and of distinguished foreigners. She was occupied,
too, by her work on Germany, which was completed in 1810. To
superintend its publication, she took up her abode at the permitted
distance from Paris, at the old chateau of Chaumont-sur-Loire, already
notable as the residence of Diane de Poitiers, Catherine de Medicis,
and Nostradamus.
She submitted her book to the censor, and expunged such passages as
were objected to. She now deemed herself safe in publishing it. Ten
thousand copies were already printed, when an order was issued by
Savary, minister of police, for the suppression of the work. The
impressions were seized, and, the ink being obliterated by a chemical
process, the paper was returned to the publisher. The manuscript was
demanded, and the author ordered to quit France in twenty-four hours;
but, upon her remonstrance, the time was extended to eight days. "Your
exile," says Savary, "is the natural consequence of the course of
conduct you have constantly pursued for many years. It is evident that
the air of France does not agree with you." The true reasons for the
suppression of her work were not assigned, but were turned off with
the remark that "It is not French; and that the French are not yet
reduced to seek for models in the countries which she admired."
In 1810, M. de Rocca, a French officer, who was yet suffering from
dangerous wounds, received in Spain, arrived at Geneva. His personal
condition and his reputation for brilliant courage heightened the
interest excited by his youth and noble physiognomy. He first saw
Madame de Stael at a public assembly. She entered the ball-room,
dressed in a costly but unbecoming style, and followed by a train of
admirers. "Is this the far-famed woman?" said Rocca; "she is very
ugly, and I detest such straining for effect." A few words of
sympathy, set off by the music of her voice, effected a complete
revolution in his feelings. Wishes and hopes apparently the most
extravagant took possession of his heart--for she was now a widow. "I
will love her so much that she will marry me," said he, and his words
were soon fulfilled; but the event was carefully concealed until the
death of Madame de Stael; for she was peculiarly sensitive to public
opinion, and refused to acknowledge a marriage which might have
excited ridicule--so great was the disparity of age and of condition
between the parties. She was unwilling likewise to change her name.
"Mon nom est a l'Europe," said she to M. Rocca, when, on a subsequent
occasion, he jestingly asked her to marry him.
For this marriage, as well as for her former one, Madame de Stael has
been severely censured. Many apologies, if any be really necessary,
may be found for her. Since the death of her father, she had felt,
more than before, the want of an essential accessory to her happiness.
Speaking of the asylum which she hoped to find in England, she said,
"I feel the want of love, of cherishing, of some one to lean upon; if
I can find in that country a man possessing real nobleness of
character, I will gladly yield up my liberty." Heartbroken and
disappointed, both as a woman and an author, she had returned to
Coppet, to find her residence there more irksome and unhappy than
ever. She was advised not to go farther than ten leagues from home;
and fear lest she should involve her friends, induced her to forbid
their coming to her. Her fears were not altogether without reason.
Regardless of the advice she had received, she made the tour of
Switzerland with M. de Montmorency, and the consequence to him was
exile from France. Another friend, the beautiful and celebrated Madame
de Recamier, paid for a few hours' intercourse by exile to Lyons.
Imagination conjured up new terrors. The fear of imprisonment seized
her, and she resolved to escape. The choice of a route perplexed her.
She passed her life, she says, in studying the map of Europe, to find
how she could escape beyond the wide-spread poison-tree of Napoleon's
power. She at length departed. England was the point of destination.
Passing through Germany, she was received at St. Petersburg with great
distinction by the emperor, and, thence passing on her way, spent
eight months at Stockholm with her old friend Bernadotte, crown prince
of Sweden; with whom at Paris, in the early days of Bonaparte's
career, she had been discovered concerting measures to stop his
progress towards absolute power--a discovery which furnished an
apology for the treatment she received.
The "Ten Years of Exile," which, after an intermission of several
years, had been resumed, closes at Stockholm. In England, she met with
a most cordial reception. Fashionable society courted her as a _lion_;
the more intelligent and highly educated sought her for her genius.
Her work on Germany was published in London, and raised her
reputation as a critic to the highest point. She was among the
founders of the philosophical school of critics; who, not wasting
their attention on the conventional forms of composition, look to the
intrinsic qualities which constitute literary excellence. But she was
not sufficiently dispassionate always to form a correct judgment. Her
enthusiasm and susceptibility made her too indulgent. As she would
often be thrown into ecstasies by a wretched hand-organ in the street,
so she would be in raptures with verses, the melody of which pleased
her ear. She would repeat them with great pomp and emphasis, and say,
"That is what I call poetry! it is delicious! and all the more that it
does not convey a single idea to me."
"Germany" was a gift of the greatest price to France. Her standards in
literature had been fixed a century before, and to alter or advance
them was deemed a work of impiety. A natural result was a want of
vigor and of originality. She had imposed her fetters, too, on foreign
nations. The cold, artificial spirit of the age of Louis XIV. long
pressed, like an incubus, upon the literary spirit of Germany. But
about the middle of the last century, the spell was broken. A literary
revolution took place in that country, and, from being destitute of
all national literature, Germany became possessed of one the most
characteristic. To furnish a literary and mental portraiture of this
emancipated nation, was a work requiring a rare combination of
talents, and one which was executed by Madame de Stael with singular
ability.
She hailed with delight the overthrow of Napoleon, which opened to
her the way to Paris. But she never joined in the senseless cry which
was raised, that he had neither talents nor courage. "It would be too
humiliating for France, and for all Europe," she said, "that, for
fifteen years, it had been beaten and outwitted by a coward and a
blockhead." Her joy was, however, tempered by grief and indignation,
that the soil of France, "cette belle France," should be desecrated by
the feet of foreign invaders. To avoid witnessing the humiliating
spectacle of Paris in the possession of barbarians, she retired to
Coppet, where, in 1816, she renewed her acquaintance with Lord Byron,
whose genius fascinated her, and who had been chief favorite while she
was in England. She now gave him much advice as to his conduct, which
he met by quoting the motto to "Delphine,"--"Man must learn to brave
opinion,--woman to submit to it." But she no longer defended the truth
of this epigraph. Always religious, the principles of Christianity now
mingled more intimately in her sentiments.
Time, too, had wrought a change in her character: she was much
softened, and appreciated more justly the real blessings and
misfortunes of life. In her own family she found sources of happiness.
Her children were dutiful and affectionate, and the marriage of her
daughter to the Duke de Broglie gave her pleasure. Her chief cause of
disquietude was the ill health of her husband, in anticipation of
whose death she composed a book, with the title, "The only Misfortune
of Life, the Loss of a Person beloved." But she was not destined to be
the sufferer now. She had ever despised the accommodation of the body,
and gave herself no trouble about health. She affected to triumph
over infirmity, and was wont to say, "I might have been sickly, like
any body else, had I not resolved to vanquish physical weakness." But
nature was not to be thus defied. Her health failed, and the use of
opium aided the progress of disease. But sickness threw no cloud over
her intellect; "I am now," she said, "what I have ever been--sad, yet
vivacious;" but it displayed the moral beauties of her character in a
more striking light. She was kind, patient, and devout. Her sleepless
nights were spent in prayer. Existence no longer appeared to her in
its gayest colors. "Life," she said, "resembles Gobelin tapestry; you
do not see the canvass on the right side; but when you turn it, the
threads are visible. The mystery of existence is the connection
between our faults and our misfortunes. I never committed an error
that was not the cause of a disaster." Yet she left life with regret,
though death possessed for her no terrors. "I shall meet my father on
the other side," she said, "and my daughter will ere long rejoin me."
"I think," said she, one day, as if waking from a dream, "I think I
know what the passage from life to death is; and I am convinced that
the goodness of God makes it easy; our thoughts become confused, and
the pain is not great." She died with the utmost composure, at Paris,
July, 1817.
Her husband survived her but a few months. "Grief put a period to his
already precarious existence. He withdrew from Paris, to die beneath
the beautiful sky of Provence, and there breathed his last sighs in
the arms of his brother."
The chief works of Madame de Stael, and her peculiarities as an
author, have already been spoken of. One work, published after her
death, and the most powerful of all, remains to be mentioned. In the
"Considerations on the French Revolution," she sought to blend the
memoir with the philosophical history. The faults are what might have
been expected. The details, too minute for the one, are too scanty for
the other. In the selection of these she was biased by her personal
feelings, but to a degree far less than was to be anticipated. Her
feelings were warm and excitable; she had lived in the midst of the
events of which she speaks; she had herself been an actor, and her
father had borne a conspicuous part, in them; indeed, one grand
purpose of the work is to exculpate him. That she should, under these
disqualifying circumstances, have produced a work so temperate, and on
the whole so impartial--one that exhibits such philosophical depth and
comprehensiveness of vision--excites in us wonder and admiration. But
it is not as a history that the work is interesting and valuable. It
is that it exhibits to us the impressions made by the great events of
which she speaks, and the scenes which she witnessed, upon a powerful
and original mind. It abounds with profound reflections and brilliant
remarks. The style, eloquent and impassioned, is in a high degree
conversational, and, as we read it, we almost expect to hear the sound
of the voice. The remarkable talent for discrimination and delineation
of character, which distinguish her as a novelist, lead us to regret
that it did not come within the design of the work to furnish us with
historical portraitures of the distinguished personages of the period.
The few which she has given us, increase our regret, and mark her as a
mistress in the art.
LADY HESTER STANHOPE.
The third Earl of Stanhope, father of the subject of our present
sketch, possessed abilities which qualified him for any station; yet
he devoted his ample fortune, his time, and his thoughts, to mechanics
and to experiments in science and philosophy; with what success, the
Stanhope printing press, many improvements in the process of
stereotype printing, and his various papers on the electric fluid, are
evidence. He married a daughter of the great Earl of Chatham; and of
this marriage, Lady Hester Stanhope was the earliest fruit. She was
born in 1776.
[Illustration: LADY HESTER STANHOPE.]
Genius was the only inheritance she received from her father. Upon the
death of her mother, which happened when she was young, she was
received into the house of her uncle, William Pitt, the younger, and
was there brought up. Between this minister and his brother-in-law
there was little sympathy of opinion. Stanhope was an enthusiast for
the improvement of social institutions, and hailed the French
revolution as the beginning of the change which he hoped for. So
confident was he in those views, as to urge upon his children the
necessity of qualifying themselves to earn a living by some honest
calling. He could not approve the measures which the minister now
adopted; and, as his children adhered in principle to their uncle, he
renounced them, saying, "that, as they had chosen to be saddled on the
public purse, they must take the consequences."
The genius and originality of Lady Hester made her an especial
favorite with her uncle. She presided at his table, and he evinced his
respect for her abilities, by employing her, after his retirement from
office, as his secretary. Though to the multitude this great statesman
appeared cold and unbending, with his intimates, and those whom he
received into his private friendship, he was cheerful and affable; to
women he was polite in the extreme, and, in the midst of his gravest
avocations, would rise to pick up his secretary's fallen handkerchief.
Devoted to the affairs of state, Pitt paid no attention to his own
pecuniary concerns, so that the only provision he could make for his
niece at his death, was to recommend her to the favor of his king and
country, who acknowledged their obligation to him by bestowing upon
her a pension of twelve hundred pounds, annually.
Soon after the death of her uncle, she left England, and spent some
years in visiting the chief cities of continental Europe. Her rank,
her beauty, and her fortune, were alone sufficient to attract crowds
of suitors; but they were all rejected. After satisfying her curiosity
in Europe, she embarked, with a numerous retinue, for Constantinople,
with the determination of making a long sojourn in the East, and
taking with her a large amount of property. A storm overtook the
vessel on the coast of Caramania, fronting the Island of Rhodes; the
vessel struck against a rock, and soon went to pieces, burying Lady
Hester's jewels and other property, to a large amount, in the waves.
Her own escape was almost miraculous. The piece of the wreck on which
she had taken refuge was cast on the shore of a small, desert island,
where she remained twenty-four hours, without help or food of any
kind. At last, some fishermen of Marmoriga, who were in search of the
remains of the wreck, found her out, and brought her to Rhodes.
Her resolution was not daunted by this disaster. She returned to
England, collected the remains of her fortune, and, after investing a
portion of it in the English funds, embarked once more for the East,
taking with her articles for presents, and whatever else might be of
service in the countries she designed to visit. Her voyage was
prosperous, and she landed at the site of the ancient Laodicea, now
called Latakia, between Tripoli and Alexandretta, on the coast of
Syria.
In the neighborhood of this place she fixed her residence, and entered
upon a course of preparation for her intended journeys into the most
inaccessible parts of Arabia, Mesopotamia, and the desert. She
strengthened her body by diet and exercise, and, from being weak and
debilitated, became strong and vigorous as an Amazon. She studied the
Arab language, and sought for intercourse with the various classes of
Arabs, Druses, and Maronites of the country.
After having become perfectly familiar with the language, manners, and
usages, of the country, she organized a large caravan, and, loading
her camels with rich presents for the Arabs, set out on her travels.
She visited every place worthy of notice in Syria. At Palmyra numerous
hordes of wandering Arabs assembled round her tent, to the number of
forty or fifty thousand, and, charmed by her beauty, her grace, and
her splendor, proclaimed her queen of that once imperial city, and
delivered firmans into her hand, by which it was agreed that every
European who should receive her protection might proceed in perfect
safety through the desert, paying to them a certain fixed tribute.
The newly-proclaimed queen herself ran great hazard, on her return
from Palmyra, and narrowly escaped being carried off by a tribe
hostile to those of that region. She, however, received notice of her
danger in season--by the swiftness of her horses, and a twenty-four
hours' journey of almost incredible extent--to place herself and her
caravan out of the reach of the enemy. The next few months she passed
at Damascus, protected by the Turkish pacha, to whom the Porte had
highly recommended her.
Satisfied, at length, with a life of wandering, Lady Hester settled
herself on one of the mountains of Lebanon, near the ancient Sidon.
Quitting this place, the traveller enters upon a wild and barren
country. Hill succeeds to hill, and all are divested of vegetation or
soil. At last, from the top of one of these rocks, his eye rests upon
a valley deeper and broader than the rest, bordered on all sides by
more majestic but equally barren mountains. In the midst of this
valley the mountain of Djoun rises, with a flat summit covered with a
beautiful green vegetation. A white wall surrounds this mass of
verdure, and marks the habitation of the "Sittee Inglis," or "English
lady." It is a confused assemblage of small cottages, each containing
one or two rooms, without windows, and separated from one another by
small gardens. All the verdure was the result of her own labor; she
created what to Eastern eyes might seem a paradise--gardens containing
bowers of fragrant vines, kiosks embellished with sculpture and
paintings, with fountains of marble; and arches formed of orange, fig,
and lemon-trees.
Here she resided for many years in a style of Eastern magnificence,
surrounded by a concourse of household officers, and a numerous
retinue of young females,--upon whose education she employed
herself,--and a host of servants, black and white. She held friendly
intercourse with the Sublime Porte, with the various pachas, and with
the chiefs of the numerous tribes of Arabs and others about her. Such
was the state in which she lived, and the influence which she exerted,
that she might well imagine herself "Queen of the Desert."
But the splendor of her reign was soon dimmed. Her treasures were not
large enough to bear the unlimited draughts upon them. Her Arab
friends, whose affections were only to be preserved by constant gifts,
cooled towards her when these became less rich and less frequent;
those who had accompanied her from Europe, died or deserted her; and
she was at length left in a state of absolute retirement.
Some sources of influence still remained to her; one of these was in
that power which the strong-minded and educated always exercise over
the weak and ignorant. Astrology--a science long banished from
Europe--still holds its sway in the East. The opinion went abroad that
Lady Hester could read the stars, and procured for her that respect
among the common people, and, to a certain extent, that personal
security, which had formerly been purchased with the shawls of
Cashmere, and the rich silver-mounted pistols of England.
But whilst practising these arts upon others, she became herself the
victim of strange delusions. She came by degrees to believe that the
history of all was written in the stars, and that she had there read
the history of the world. The Messiah was soon to appear upon the
earth, and by his side, mounted upon a milk-white mare of matchless
beauty, which was then in her stable, she was to witness the conquest
of Jerusalem, and the establishment of his kingdom. She had, too, in
her stable the mare upon which her companion was to ride. This animal,
in all other respects of beautiful proportions, had behind the
shoulders a cavity so large and deep, and imitating so completely a
Turkish saddle, that one might say with truth she was foaled saddled.
The appearance of an animal with this peculiarity, in itself a
deformity, served as an incitement to credulity, and to keep up the
delusion. The animal was watched with the greatest care by two grooms,
one of whom was never to lose sight of her. No one had ever mounted
her, and from her bearing one might have fancied that the creature was
conscious of the admiration and respect which were entertained for her
by all around, and felt the dignity of her future mission.
The talent which Lady Hester was supposed to possess was put in
constant requisition by her credulous neighbors; nor was her power
ever exercised for bad purposes. She used it to calm the passions of
the violent; to induce the unjust and the oppressor to make reparation
for their wrong-doings; and put it to other good uses, of which the
following anecdote, related by herself, will furnish an example: "An
Arab suspected his wife of talking too much with strangers in his
absence, and one of his neighbors confirmed his suspicions. He went
home, proceeded to strangle the unfortunate woman, and, when she
became insensible, he dragged her to some distance, and commenced
interring her: the first heap of sand which he threw upon her recalled
sensation; she manifested symptoms of life, and he repented of his
vengeance; he brought her to me half dead; told the story of her
supposed guilt, but owned he was premature in strangling her, as he
should have first got me to consult her star, to ascertain if she
really deserved to die or not. I sent the woman to the _harem_, had
her bled, and taken care of till she recovered, and then I summoned
the man before me. 'My good friend,' said I, 'your wife's star has
been consulted; take her back in peace, and thank God you have her;
for it is written in the stars, "On vain surmises thou shalt not
strangle thy wife, neither shalt thou hearken to the slanderers of her
honor."' The man immediately held out his hand to his gentle rib; she
kissed it, and forth he walked, desiring her to follow him, with the
most perfect indifference. I asked the woman if she were afraid of
another act of violence. She calmly replied, 'Is he not my husband?
Has he not a right to kill me, if he suspects me of doing wrong?'"
Lady Hester believed in the science of astrology to the fullest
extent. She believed that we are all children of some one of the
celestial fires which presided at our birth, and of which the happy or
malignant influence is written in our eyes, on our foreheads, in our
fortunes, in the lines of our hands, in the form of our feet, in our
gesture, in our walk. She believed that, from these various elements,
she could read the character and destiny of any individual who was but
for a few moments in her presence. In accordance with her belief, she
thought that skilful astrologers should be appointed to every
district, to consult the heavenly bodies at the birth of every child;
the nature of each natal star to be registered by them, and kept
secret till the period of education, which is to be adapted to that
particular calling which the star of every human being indicates.
The following somewhat poetical description of the personal appearance
of Lady Hester is given by a traveller, who, in 1832, was suffered to
visit her--a favor rarely granted to Europeans: "I was introduced into
her cabinet by a little negro child. It was so extremely dark, that it
was with difficulty I could distinguish her noble, grave, yet mild and
majestic features, clad in an Oriental costume. She rose from the
divan, advanced, and offered me her hand. She appeared to be about
fifty years of age; but she possessed those personal traits which
years cannot alter. Freshness, color, and grace, depart with youth;
but when beauty resides in the form itself, in purity of expression,
in dignity, in majesty, and a thoughtful countenance, whether in man
or woman, this beauty may change with the different periods of life,
but it does not pass away--it eminently characterized the person of
Lady Hester Stanhope.
"She wore a white turban, and on her forehead was a purple-colored
woollen fillet, which fell on each side of her head as low as her
shoulders. A long, yellow Cashmere shawl, and an immense Turkish robe
of white silk, with flowing sleeves, enveloped all her person in
simple and majestic folds, while an opening of these folds upon the
bosom displayed a tunic of rich Persian stuff, covered with flowers,
which was attached round the neck by a clasp of pearls. Turkish yellow
morocco boots, embroidered with silk, completed this beautiful
Oriental costume, which she wore with that freedom and grace, as if
she had never used any other from her youth."
Though Lady Hester retained her power over the lower classes by means
of their superstitious fears, the neighboring chiefs were not to be
thus restrained, and some of them sought by robbery to indemnify
themselves for the loss of the accustomed presents. Hoping to coerce
her into a renewal of them, they harassed her by petty vexations; her
camels were seized; her servants were beaten; and at length, when she
retaliated, a firman was procured, forbidding any Mussulman, on pain
of death, to remain in her service, or to carry water to her house.
The severity of the last prohibition may be judged from the fact that
the water for the use of her house and garden had to be brought from a
river three or four miles distant. Her appeal, however, to the Porte
procured the withdrawal of the firman, and saved her gardens from the
destruction which a want of irrigation would soon have produced.
In 1837, a new source of vexation to Lady Hester arose. The British
government, having received information that some of her English
creditors were in a state of destitution, appropriated the pension
which Lady Hester had so long received to their relief. This met with
a spirited remonstrance on the part of her ladyship, who called to
her aid the Duke of Wellington and other opponents of the whig
administration. Failing in these efforts, she appealed to the queen
herself, but with no better success. She did not long survive this
new source of mortification. On hearing of her illness, the British
consul at Beyroot, accompanied by Mr. Thomson, an American missionary,
hastened to her assistance; but, on their arrival, nothing was left
for them to do but to pay the last sad offices to her remains. She
died on the 23d of June, 1839.
Various and opposing motives have been assigned for the unusual
conduct of Lady Hester: we think, however, its explanation is to be
found in an eccentric imagination, a turn for adventure, and that love
of power which is inherent in the human breast. We can hardly consider
it more extraordinary that one English lady should be found willing to
accept a government under the sunny skies of Syria, than that so many
English officers should seek for sway on the burning shores of Africa
and the East Indies.
HANNAH MORE.
Hannah More was the youngest but one of the five daughters of Jacob
More, who, after receiving an education for the church, bounded his
wishes by the possession of a school at Stapleton, England, upon
obtaining which, he married the daughter of a respectable farmer; and
to the soundness of her judgment in the culture and regulation of her
children, the credit and success which attended them are, in a great
degree, to be attributed.
Like other intelligent children, Hannah More displayed at an early age
a desire for knowledge and a love of books. To supply the want of the
latter, her father was accustomed to relate to his children, from
memory, the most striking events of Grecian and Roman history,
dwelling much on the parallels and wise sayings of Plutarch. He would
also recite to them the speeches of his favorite heroes in the
original languages, and then translate them into English. Hannah thus
acquired a taste for the Latin classics, an acquaintance with which
she carefully cultivated, in defiance of her father's horror of _blue
stockingism_, which was extreme, and which probably prevented his
instructing her in Greek.
The bent of her mind displayed itself at an early age. Every scrap of
paper, of which she could possess herself, was scribbled over with
essays and poems, having some well-directed moral. Her little sister,
with whom she slept, was the depositary of her nightly effusions; and,
in her zeal lest they should be lost, she would sometimes steal down
to procure a light, and commit them to paper. The greatest wish her
imagination could frame, was that she might some day be rich enough to
have a whole quire of paper; and, when this wish was gratified, she
soon filled it with letters to depraved characters, of her own
invention, urging them to abandon their errors, and letters in return,
expressive of contrition and resolutions of amendment.
[Illustration: HANNAH MORE.]
Her elder sisters, having been educated with that view, opened a
boarding-school for young ladies at Bristol; and under their care the
school education of Hannah was completed. While yet a pupil, she
attracted the notice and enjoyed the friendship of many eminent men.
She delighted to study the sciences with Ferguson, the astronomer; and
such was his opinion of her taste and genius, that he submitted his
compositions to her for the correction of errors in style. Of her
conversational powers at this period an anecdote is related. A
dangerous illness brought her under the care of Dr. Woodward, an
eminent physician. On one of his visits, being led into conversation
with his patient on literary subjects, he forgot the purpose of his
coming; till, recollecting himself when half way down stairs, he cried
out, "Bless me! I forgot to ask the girl how she was;" and returned to
the room, exclaiming, "How are you to-day, my poor child?"
In her seventeenth year, she appeared before the public as an author.
The class of books, now so common, called "Readers," and "Speakers,"
was then unknown. Young persons were in the habit of committing to
memory the popular plays of the day, which were not always pure in
their sentiments, or moral in their tendency. "To furnish a
substitute," as the youthful moralist tells us in her preface, "for
the very improper custom of allowing plays, and those not of the
purest kind, to be acted by young ladies in boarding-schools, and to
afford them an innocent, and perhaps not altogether unuseful
amusement, in the exercise of recitation," she composed a drama,
called the "Search after Happiness." Her object was to convey
instruction in a pleasing form, and the intention was well executed.
The plot is of the simplest kind, and one not calculated to kindle the
fervors of poetry. Four young ladies betake themselves to the retreat
of a virtuous lady, who, with her two daughters, has renounced the
world and fixed herself in a secluded spot--to receive from her, as
from an oracle, instructions which shall guide them in the way which
leads to peace and contentment.
Among the pupils of the Misses More were two Misses Turner, who were
in the habit of passing the vacations at the house of a bachelor
cousin of the same name. They were permitted to bring some of their
young friends with them, and took the two youngest of their
governesses, Hannah and Patty More. "The consequence was natural.
Hannah was clever and fascinating; Mr. T. was generous and sensible:
he became attached, and made his offer, which was accepted. She gave
up her interest in the school, and was at much expense in fitting
herself out to be the wife of a man of fortune." The day was fixed
more than once for the wedding, and Mr. Turner each time postponed it.
Her sisters and friends interfered, and broke off the engagement, and
would not suffer her to listen to any of his subsequent proposals. To
compensate her, as he said, for the robbery he had committed on her
time, and to enable her to devote herself to literary pursuits, Mr.
Turner settled upon her an annuity; and at his death, to show that he
still retained his esteem, he left her a legacy. The distress and
disturbance which this event occasioned her, led to a resolution, on
her part, never again to incur a similar hazard--a resolution the
strength of which was tested by actual trial.
Among the favorite sports of Hannah's childhood was the making a
carriage of a chair, and playing at riding to London to visit bishops
and booksellers--a day-dream which became a reality in 1784. Of the
circumstances which led to the journey we have no record. A few days
after her arrival in London, she was, by a fortunate accident, brought
to the notice of Garrick. A letter written by her to a mutual friend,
describing the effect produced upon her mind by his representation of
Lear, was shown to him, and excited in him a curiosity to see and
converse with her. The desire was gratified; they were reciprocally
pleased, and Miss More was soon domesticated with Mr. Garrick and his
affectionate wife; and, for the next twenty years, she spent six
months of each year under their hospitable roof. Through them she was
at once received on terms of cordial kindness into their wide and
splendid circle. She was welcomed as a sister spirit by the _coterie_
which she has so elaborately eulogized in the "Bas Bleu." She has
often been heard to describ
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