Lives of Celebrated Women. Samuel G. Goodrich

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.”

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      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.

       Table of Contents

      “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 fly

      On, through the realms of light,

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      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 40 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 41 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:—

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      “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.

      … … . …