Lives of Celebrated Women

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 entrée 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 hourOf 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, glowsWith 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 dearFor 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 beBy 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 trustFor 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 lightUpon 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 showerBending the summer tree and flower,And felt my little heart beat highAs 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 thusBowed 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 headBeneath 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 gleamsAthwart the brow where sorrow sits enshrined,Brooding o’er ruins of what once was fair;But like departing sunset, as it throwsOne farewell shadow o’er the sleeping earth,Thus, thus it fades! and sorrow more profoundDwells on each feature where a smile, so cold,It scarcely might be called the mockeryOf 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 foundA resting-place with God.O, let the eye of heaven-born Faith disperseThe darkening mists of earthly grief, and pierceThe 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 budsWhich 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 waitFor 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 aërial car, to flyOn, through the realms of light,To regions rife with poesy,And teeming with delight.O’er many a wild and classic streamIn ecstasy I’d bend,And hail each ivy-covered towerAs though it were a friend;Through many a shadowy grove, and roundFull many a cloistered hall,And corridors, where every stepWith echoing peal doth fall.…O, what unmingled pleasure thenMy youthful heart would feel,And o’er its thrilling chords each thoughtOf 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.