Lucretia, "proceeded from nothing cold or exclusive in her character; never was there a more loving or sympathetic creature. It would be difficult to say which was most rare, her modesty, or the genius it sanctified." It does not surprise us to learn that, under the guidance of pious parents, religion took a deep and enduring hold, at a very early period, upon so susceptible a child. From her earliest years, she evinced a fear of doing any thing displeasing in the sight of God; and if, in her gayest sallies, she caught a look of disapprobation from her mother, she would ask, with the most artless simplicity, "O mother, was that wicked? Her extreme conscientiousness exhibited itself in a manner quite remarkable in a child. Some of the friends of the family thought their mode of education not the most judicious, and that her devoting so much time to study was not consistent with the pecuniary circumstances and the physical condition of the mother, who, being a confirmed invalid, was able to take little part in the ordinary family labors. Lucretia's parents, however, did not concur in this opinion, and carefully concealed it from her; but she in some manner became aware of its existence, and voluntarily acted in accordance with it. The real feeling which prompted this conduct was artlessly made apparent by the incident which led her to return to her favorite occupation. When she was about twelve, she attended her father to a "birth-night" ball. The next day, an elder sister found her absorbed in composition. "She had sketched an urn, and written two stanzas under it. She was persuaded to show them to her mother. She brought them blushing and trembling. Her mother was ill, in bed; but she expressed her delight with such unequivocal animation, that the child's face changed from doubt to rapture, and she seized the paper, ran away, and immediately added the concluding stanzas. When they were finished, her mother pressed her to her bosom, wept with delight, and promised her all the aid and encouragement she could give her. The sensitive child burst into tears. 'And do you wish me to write, mamma? and will papa approve? and will it be right that I should do so?'" The following are the verses: "And does a hero's dust lie here? Among the heroes of the age, The toils of war and danger past, His pure soul mounts on cherub's wings, The brightest on the list of Fame, In golden letters shines his name ; Her trump shall sound it through the world, And every sex, and every age, A literary friend, to whom these verses were shown, felt some doubts as to Lucretia's being the real author of the stanzas, and suffered them to appear. The feeling that her rectitude was impeached made the sensitive girl actually ill; but a poetic remonstrance, which she prepared on the occasion, removed every doubt. From what has been before said, it must not be supposed that Lucretia was suffered to abandon herself to literary avocations. She had her prescribed tasks in sewing, and other customary employments, which she generally performed with fidelity and with wonderful celerity; sometimes, however, the voice of her muse struck her in the midst, and "enchanted she dropped each earthly care." One day, she had promised to do a certain piece of sewing, and had eagerly run for her basket; she was absent long, and on her return found that the work was done. "Where have you been, Lucretia?" said her mother, justly displeased. "O mamma," she replied, "I did forget; I am grieved. As I passed the window, I saw a solitary sweet pea. I thought they were all gone. This was alone. I ran to smell it, but, before I could reach it, a gust of wind broke the stem. I turned away disappointed, and was coming back to you; but as I passed the table, there stood the inkstand, and I forgot you." The following beautiful verses insured the forgiveness of her mother: "The last flower of the garden was blooming alone, The last rays of the sun on its blushing leaves shone Still a glittering drop on its bosom reclined, And a few half-blown buds 'miast its leaves were entwined Say, lovely one, say, why lingerest thou here? Tis the tear of the zephyr - for summer 'twas shed, Why lingerest thou here, when around thee are str:wn As I spoke, a rough blast, sent by winter's own hand, All her short pieces were composed with equal rapidity; and sometimes she wished that she had two pair of hands to record as fast as her muse dictated. These she composed wherever she chanced to be when the spirit of poesy came over her. In the midst of her family, blind and deaf to all around her, she held sweet communion with her muse. But when composing her longer poems, as "Amie Khan," or " Chi6 comicos,” she required complete seclusion. She retired to her own room, closed the blinds, and placed her Æolian harp in the window. Her mother gives this graphic description: "I entered her room,—she was sitting with scarcely light enough to discern the characters she was tracing; her harp was in the window, touched by a breeze just sufficient to rouse the spirit of harmony; her comb had fallen on the floor, and her long, dark ringlets hung in rich profusion over her neck and shoulders; her cheek glowed with animation; her lips were half unclosed; her full, dark eye was radiant with the light of genius, and beaming with sensibinty; her head rested on her eft hand, while she held her pen in her right. She looked like the inhabitant of another sphere. She was so wholly absorbed that she did not observe my entrance. I looked over her shoulder, and read the following lines: 'What heavenly music strikes my ravished ear, And do the tuneful nine then touch the lyre, Or does some angel strike the sounding strings, The noise made by her mother roused Lucretia, who soon afterwards brought her the preceding verses, with the following added to them, being an address to ner Eolian harp: "And tell me now, ye spirits of the wind, O, tell me where those artless notes to find. But hark! those notes again majestic rise, Then hither fly, sweet mourner of the air, Her parents indulged her in the utmost latitude in her reading. History, profane and sacred, novels, poetry, and other works of imagination, by turns octu |