Lives of Celebrated Women Part 1

Lives of Celebrated Women.

by Samuel Griswold Goodrich.

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 s.e.x 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 s.e.x 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 s.e.x as her father did to his; and while he enjoys the renown of having achieved the reformation in England, she is ent.i.tled 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 s.e.x, 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 n.o.ble 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 s.e.x 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 G.o.d 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 companions.h.i.+p 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 s.e.x in doing the same under the like circ.u.mstances. 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 a.s.sume.

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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 G.o.d; 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 circ.u.mstances 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 blus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+nes his name; Her trump shall sound it through the world, And the striped banner ne'er be furled.

And every s.e.x, and every age, From lisping boy to learned sage, The widow, and her orphan son, Revere the name of Was.h.i.+ngton!"

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 rect.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 blus.h.i.+ng 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, rus.h.i.+ng 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 lat.i.tude 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 compa.s.sion to man's erring heart, Gave thee of virtue, then of vice, a part, Lest we, in wonder here, should bow before thee, Break G.o.d's commandment, wors.h.i.+p, 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 G.o.d; 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 a.s.semblies 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 a.s.sembly, 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 a.s.sembly," 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.