Part 3

"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!

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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.

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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 God. 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 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."

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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 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 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.

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O, what unmingled pleasure then My youthful heart would feel, And o'er its thrilling chords each thought Of former days would steal!

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Amid the scenes of past delight, Or misery, I'd roam, Where ruthless tyrants swayed in might, Where princes found a home.

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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.

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:--

"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!

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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.

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Compound of weakness and of strength; Mighty, yet ignorant of thy power; Loftier than earth, or air, or sea, Yet meaner than the lowliest flower!--

Soaring towards heaven, yet clinging still To earth, by many a purer tie! Longing to breathe a tender air, Yet fearing, trembling thus to die!"

Some verses written about the same period show the feelings she held towards her sister Lucretia.

"My sister! with that thrilling word What thoughts unnumbered wildly spring! What echoes in my heart are stirred, While thus I touch the trembling string!

My sister! ere this youthful mind Could feel the value of thine own; Ere this infantine heart could bind, In its deep cell, one look, one tone,

To glide along on memory's stream, And bring back thrilling thoughts of thee; Ere I knew aught but childhood's dream, Thy soul had struggled, and was free.

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I cannot weep that thou art fled; Forever blends my soul with thine; Each thought, by purer impulse led, Is soaring on to realms divine.

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I hear thee in the summer breeze, See thee in all that's pure or fair, Thy whisper in the murmuring trees, Thy breath, thy spirit, every where.

Thine eyes, which watch when mortals sleep, Cast o'er my dreams a radiant hue; Thy tears, "such tears as angels weep," Fall nightly with the glistening dew.

Thy fingers wake my youthful lyre, And teach its softer strains to flow; Thy spirit checks each vain desire, And gilds the lowering brow of woe.

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Thou gem of light! my leading star! What thou hast been I strive to be; When from the path I wander far, O, turn thy guiding beam on me.

Teach me to fill thy place below, That I may dwell with thee above; To soothe, like thee, a mother's woe, And prove, like thine, a sister's love.

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When all is still, and fancy's realm Is opening to the eager view, Mine eye full oft, in search of thee, Roams o'er that vast expanse of blue.

I know that here thy harp is mute, And quenched the bright, poetic fire; Yet still I bend my ear, to catch The hymnings of thy seraph lyre.

O, if this partial converse now So joyous to my heart can be, How must the streams of rapture flow, When both are chainless, both are free!--

When, borne from earth for evermore, Our souls in sacred joy unite, At God's almighty throne adore, And bathe in beams of endless light!"

Although the extracts from the works of this gifted being have been so extensive, we cannot forbear giving some portions of a piece written about the same period, and entitled--

"AN APPEAL FOR THE BLIND.

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"Launched forth on life's uncertain path, Its best and brightest gift denied, No power to pluck its fragrant flowers, Or turn its poisonous thorns aside;--

No ray to pierce the gloom within, And chase the darkness with its light; No radiant morning dawn to win His spirit from the shades of night;--

Nature, whose smile, so pure and fair, Casts a bright glow on life's dark stream,-- Nature, sweet soother of our care, Has not a single smile for him.

When pale disease, with blighting hand, Crushes each budding hope awhile, Our eyes can rest in sweet delight On love's fond gaze, or friendship's smile.

Not so with _him_; his soul chained down By doubt, and loneliness, and care, Feels but misfortune's chilling frown, And broods in darkness and despair.

Favored by Heaven, O, haste thee on; Thy blest Redeemer points the way; Haste o'er the spirit's gloom to pour The light of intellectual day.

Thou canst not raise their drooping lids, And wake them to the noonday sun; Thou canst not ope, what God hath closed, Or cancel aught his hands have done.

But, O, there is a world within, More bright, more beautiful than ours; A world which, nursed by culturing hands, Will blush with fairest, sweetest flowers.

And thou canst make that desert mind Bloom sweetly as the blushing rose; Thou canst illume that rayless void Till darkness like the day-gleam glows.

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Thus shalt thou shed a purer ray O'er each beclouded mind within, Than pours the glorious orb of day On this dark world of care and sin.

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And when the last dread day has come, Which seals thine endless doom,-- When the freed soul shall seek its home, And triumph o'er the tomb,--

When lowly bends each reverend knee, And bows each heart in prayer,-- A band of spirits, saved by thee, Shall plead thy virtues there."

Hitherto Margaret had sedulously avoided all conversations about her health, and seemed unwilling to let the feeling that disease had marked her for its victim take possession of her mind. But in the summer of 1838, she one day surprised her mother by asking her to tell her, without reserve, her opinion of her state. "I was," says her mother, "wholly unprepared for this question; and it was put in so solemn a manner, that I could not evade it, were I disposed to do so. I knew with what strong affection she clung to life, and the objects and friends which endeared it to her; I knew how bright the world upon which she was just entering appeared to her young fancy--what glowing pictures she had drawn of future usefulness and happiness. I was now called upon at one blow to crush these hopes, to destroy the delightful visions; it would be cruel and wrong to deceive her. In vain I attempted a reply to her direct and solemn appeal; several times I essayed to speak, but the words died away on my lips; I could only fold her to my heart in silence; imprint a kiss upon her forehead, and leave the room, to avoid agitating her with feelings I had no power to repress."

But this silence was to Margaret as expressive as words. Religion had always been present with her, but from this period it engrossed a large portion of her thoughts. She regretted that so much of her time had been spent in light reading, and that her writings had not been of a more decidedly religious character. "Mamma," said she one day, "should God spare my life, my time and talents shall, for the future, be devoted to a higher and holier end." "O mother, how sadly have I trifled with the gifts of Heaven! What have I done which can benefit one human being?" The New Testament was now her daily study, and a portion of each day was devoted to private prayer and self-examination.

The closing scene of her life, which occurred on the 25th November, 1838, would lose much of its interest in the description, if given in other than the beautiful and touching language of her mother. It was night, and, at the entreaty of her husband, Mrs. Davidson had laid herself on the bed in a room adjoining that of her daughter. "Between three and four o'clock, the friend who watched came again, and said, 'Margaret has asked for her mother.' I flew. She held a bottle of ether in her hand, and pointed to her breast. I poured it on her head and chest. She revived. 'I am better now,' said she. 'Mother, you tremble; you are cold; put on your clothes.' I stepped to the fire, and put on a wrapper, when she stretched out both her arms, and exclaimed, 'Mother, take me in your arms.' I raised her, and, seating myself on the bed, passed both my arms around her waist; her head dropped on my bosom, and her expressive eyes were raised to mine. That look I never shall forget; it said, 'Tell me, mother, is this death?' I answered the appeal as if she had spoken. I laid my hand upon her white brow; a cold dew had gathered there. I spoke--'Yes, my beloved, it is almost finished; you will soon be with Jesus.' She gave one more look, two or three short, fluttering breaths, and all was over; her spirit was with its God: not a struggle or a groan preceded her departure."

Thus perished Margaret Davidson, at the early age of fifteen years and eight months. Her sister Lucretia had found in Miss Sedgwick a fitting biographer, and the memory of Margaret has been rendered more dear by the touching manner in which Irving has told her brief but wondrous story. We cannot better close our imperfect sketch, than to use the words of her biographer: "We shall not pretend to comment on these records; they need no comment, and they admit no heightening. Indeed, the farther we have proceeded with our subject, the more has the intellectual beauty and the seraphic purity of the little being we have endeavored to commemorate, broken upon us. To use one of her own exquisite expressions, she was 'a spirit of heaven fettered by the strong affections of earth,' and the whole of her brief sojourn here seems to have been a struggle to regain her native skies."

MRS. ADAMS.

The materials for preparing the memoirs of those American ladies whose virtues were conspicuous, and whose position in society imposed upon them great duties, and gave them an extensive influence in their day, are, in general, exceedingly scanty. Happily, the piety of a descendant has, in the present case, supplied the deficiency; and in a mode the most satisfactory. We are here not only made acquainted with the everyday life and actions as they were exhibited to the world around, but are admitted to the inmost recesses of the heart, and all its hopes and feelings are laid open to us. There are few who could bear such an exposure; but in respect to the subject of our present sketch, a nearer acquaintance and more rigid scrutiny serve only to increase our veneration, and to confirm the verdict which her contemporaries had passed upon her.

Abigail Smith, afterwards Mrs. Adams, was born on the 11th of November, 1744. She was the daughter of the Rev. William Smith, the minister of a small Congregational church in Weymouth, Massachusetts, and was descended on both sides from the genuine stock of the Pilgrims.

The cultivation of the female mind was neglected in the last century, not merely as a matter of indifference, but of positive principle; female learning was a subject of ridicule, and "female education," as Mrs. Adams tells us, "in the best families, went no further than writing and arithmetic; in some, and rare instances, music and dancing." But Mrs. Adams did not have an opportunity of receiving even the ordinary instruction. She was never sent to school, the delicate state of her health forbidding it. But this is hardly to be considered matter of regret, for constant intercourse with her pious and talented relations had an influence upon her character of even greater value than the learning of the schools. The lessons which made the deepest impression upon her mind were imbibed from her maternal grandmother, the wife of Colonel John Quincy. "I have not forgotten," says Mrs. Adams, to her daughter, in 1795, "the excellent lessons which I received from my grandmother, at a very early period of life. I frequently think they made a more durable impression upon my mind than those which I received from my own parents. Whether it was owing to the happy method of mixing instruction and amusement together, or from an inflexible adherence to certain principles, the utility of which I could not but see and approve when a child, I know not; but maturer years have rendered them oracles of wisdom to me. I love and revere her memory; her lively, cheerful disposition animated all around her, while she edified all by her unaffected piety. This tribute is due to the memory of those virtues, the sweet remembrance of which will flourish, though she has long slept with her ancestors."

But though the list of accomplishments thought essential for a young lady's education was so scanty, it must not be supposed that the mind was left wholly uncultivated. On the contrary, few women of the present day are so well acquainted with the standard English authors, as those of the period of which we are now speaking. The influence which they had on the mind of the subject of this memoir, is apparent throughout her published correspondence, not only in the style, in the fondness for quotation, but in the love of fictitious signatures, of which the "Spectator" had set the example. The social disposition of youth renders an interchange of thoughts and feelings between those of the same age essential to their happiness. The sparse population, and comparatively small facilities for locomotion in the last century, rendered personal intercourse difficult, and a frequent interchange of letters was adopted as a substitute. This, as an exercise for the mind, is of great value, as it induces habits of reflection, and leads to precision and facility in expressing ideas.

A few of Mrs. Adams's letters, written at an early period of her life, have been preserved, and from one of these--addressed to a married lady, several years older than herself, which will account for a gravity which is beyond her years and ordinary disposition--the following extracts are made. It is dated at Weymouth, October 5th, 1761.

"Your letter I received, and, believe me, it has not been through forgetfulness that I have not before this time returned you my sincere thanks for the kind assurance you then gave me of continued friendship. You have, I hope, pardoned my suspicions; they arose from love. What persons in their right senses would calmly, and without repining, or even inquiring into the cause, submit to lose their greatest temporal good and happiness? for thus the divine, Dr. Young, looks upon a friend, when he says,--

'A friend is worth all hazards we can run; Poor is the friendless master of a world; A world in purchase for a friend is gain.'