Lives of Celebrated Women Part 2

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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 gra.s.sy 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 b.a.l.l.ston. 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 sh.o.r.e?

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 amus.e.m.e.nt: among others, a weekly newspaper was issued in ma.n.u.script, 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 G.o.d.

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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sage, a trap-door, large apartments with ma.s.sive 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 cla.s.sic 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 antic.i.p.ations 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 acc.u.mulated 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d, Where sin and care can never come.