Lives of Celebrated Women. Samuel G. Goodrich

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 19 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 20 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 21 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.

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      “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?

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      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, 23 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