University of Virginia Library

1. SKETCHES,
BY
MRS. SIGOURNEY

THE FATHER.

I was in the full tide of a laborious and absorbing
profession,—of one which imposes on intellect
an unsparing discipline, but ultimately opens the
avenues to wealth and fame. I pursued it, as one
determined on distinction,—as one convinced that
mind may assume a degree of omnipotence over
matter and circumstance, and popular opinion. Ambition's
promptings were strong within me, nor was
its career unprosperous.—I had no reason to complain
that its promises were deceptive, or its harvest
tardy.

Yet as my path was among the competitions and
asperities of men, a character combining strong elements
might have been in danger of becoming indurated,
had it not been softened and refined by the
domestic charities. Conjugal love, early fixing on
an object most amiable and beautiful, was as a fountain
of living water, springing up to allay thirst,
and to renovate weariness. I was anxious that my
home should be the centre of intellectual and polished
society, where the buddings of thought should

expand unchilled, and those social feelings which
are the life-blood of existence, flow forth, unfettered
by heartless ceremony.—And it was so.

But my present purpose is to delineate a single,
and simple principle of our nature,—the most deep-rooted
and holy,—the love of a father for a daughter.
My province has led me to analyze mankind; and
in doing this, I have sometimes thrown their affections
into the crucible. And the one of which I
speak, has come forth most pure, most free from
drossy admixture. Even the earth that combines
with it, is not like other earth. It is what the foot
of a seraph might rest upon, and contract no pollution.
With the love of our sons, ambition mixes its
spirit, till it becomes a fiery essence. We anticipate
great things for them,—we covet honors,—we goad
them on in the race of glory;—if they are victors,
we too proudly exult,—if vanquished, we are prostrate
and in bitterness. Perhaps we detect in them
the same latent perverseness, with which we have
waged warfare in our own breasts, or some imbecility
of purpose with which we have no affinity; and then,
from the very nature of our love, an impatience is
generated, which they have no power to soothe, or
we to control. A father loves his son, as he loves
himself,—and in all selfishness, there is a bias to disorder
and pain. But his love for his daughter is
different and more disinterested; possibly he believes
that it is called forth by a being of a higher and
better order. It is based on the integral and immutable

principles of his nature. It recognizes the sex
in hearts, and from the very gentleness and mystery
of womanhood, takes that coloring and zest which
romance gathers from remote antiquity. It draws
nutriment from circumstances which he may not
fully comprehend, from the power which she possesses
to awaken his sympathies, to soften his irritability,
to sublimate his aspirations;—while the support
and protection which she claims in return, elevate
him with a consciousness of assimilation to the
ministry of those benevolent and powerful spirits,
who ever “bear us up in their hands, lest we dash
our foot against a stone.”

I should delight longer to dwell on this development
of affection, for who can have known it more
perfectly in its length and breadth, in its depth and
height? I had a daughter, beautiful in infancy, to
whom every year added some new charm to awaken
admiration, or to rivet love. To me, it was of no
slight import, that she resembled her mother, and
that in grace and accomplishment, she early surpassed
her cotemporaries. I was desirous that her mind
should be worthy of the splendid temple allotted
for its habitation. I decided to render it familiar
with the whole circle of the arts and sciences. I
was not satisfied with the commendation of her
teachers. I determined to take my seat in the sacred
pavilion of intellect, and superintend what entered
there. But how should one buried beneath the ponderous
tomes and Sysiphean toils of jurisprudence,

gain freedom, or undivided thought, for such minute
supervision? A father's love can conquer, if it
cannot create. I deprived myself of sleep: I sat till
the day dawned, gathering materials for the lectures
that I gave her. I explored the annals of architecture
and sculpture, the recesses of literature and
poetry, the labyrinthine and colossal treasure-houses
of history,—I entered the ancient catacombs of the
illustrious dead, traversed the regions of the dim and
shadowy past, with no coward step,—ransacked
earth and heaven, to add one gem to her casket.
At stated periods, I required her to condense, to
illustrate, to combine, what I had brought her. I
listened, with wonder, to her intuitive eloquence: I
gazed with intense delight upon the intellect that I
thus embellished,—upon the Corinthian capital that
I had erected and adorned. Not a single acanthus-leaf
started forth, but I cherished and fostered it with
the dews of a father's blessing.

Yet while the outpoured riches of a masculine understanding
were thus incorporating themselves with
her softer structure, I should not have been content,
unless she had also borne the palm of female grace
and loveliness. Was it therefore nothing to me, that
she evinced in her bloom of youth, a dignity surpassing
her sex, that in symmetry she restored the
image of the Medicean Venus, that amid the circles
of rank and fashion, she was the model—the cynosure?
Still was she saved from that vanity which
would have been the destroyer of all these charms,

by the hallowed prevalence of her filial piety. It
was for my sake, that she strove to render herself
the most graceful among women,—for my sake, that
she rejoiced in the effect of her attainments. Her
gentle and just nature felt that the “husbandman who
had labored, should be first partaker of the fruits.”
Returning from those scenes of splendor, where she
was the object of every eye, the theme of every
tongue, when the youthful bosom might be forgiven
for inflation from the clouds of incense that had
breathed upon it, to the inquiry of her mother, if
she had been happy, the tender and sweet reply
was, “Yes,—because I saw that my dear father
was so.”

Sometimes, I was conscious of gathering roughness
from the continual conflict with passion and
prejudice, and that the fine edge of the feelings could
not ever be utterly proof against the corrosions of
such an atmosphere. Then I sought my home, and
called my bird of song, and listened to the warbling
of her high, heaven-toned voice. The melody of
that music fell upon my soul, like oil upon the troubled
billows,—and all was tranquil. I wondered
where my perturbations had fled, but still more,
that I had ever indulged them. Sometimes, the turmoil
and fluctuation of the world, threw a shade of
dejection over me: then it was her pride to smooth
my brow, and to restore its smile. Once, a sorrow
of no common order had fallen upon me; it
rankled in my breast, like a dagger's point; I came

to my house, but I shunned all its inmates. I threw
myself down, in solitude, that I might wrestle alone
with my fate, and subdue it; a light footstep approached,
but I heeded it not. A form of beauty
was on the sofa, by my side, but I regarded it not.
Then my hand was softly clasped, breathed upon,
—pressed to ruby lips. It was enough. I took my
daughter in my arms, and my sorrow vanished.
Had she essayed the hackneyed expressions of sympathy,
or even the usual epithets of endearment, I
might have desired her to leave my presence. Had
she uttered only a single word, it would have been
too much, so wounded was my spirit within me.
But the deed, the very poetry of tenderness, breathing,
not speaking, melted “the winter of my discontent.”
Ever was she endued with that most
exquisite of woman's perfections, a knowledge both
when to be silent, and where to speak,—and so to
speak, that the frosts might dissolve from around
the heart she loved, and its discords be tuned to
harmony.

Thus was she my comforter, and in every hour
of our intercourse, was my devotion to her happiness
richly repaid. Was it strange that I should
gaze on the work of my own hands with ineffable
delight? At twilight I quickened my homeward
step, with the thought of that countenance, which
was both my evening and morning star; as the bird
nerves her wearied wing, when she hears from the
still-distant forest, the chirpings of her own nest.

I sat in the house of God, in the silence of sabbath
meditation, and tears of thrilling exultation
moistened my eyes. I gazed upon my glorious
creature, in the stainless blossom of unfolding youth,
and my whole soul overflowed with a father's pride.
I said, What more can man desire? I challenged
the whole earth to add another drop to my cup
of felicity. Did I forget to give glory to the Almighty,
that his decree even then went forth, to smite
down my idol?

I came from engrossing toil, and found her restless,
with strange fire upon her cheek. Fever had
lain rankling in her veins, and they had concealed
it from me. I raved. I filled my house with physicians.
I charged them wildly to restore her to
health and to me. It was in vain. I saw that God
claimed her. His will was written upon her brow.
The paleness and damps of the tomb settled upon
her.

I knelt by the bed of death, and gave her back to
her Creator. Amid the tears and groans of mourners,
I lifted up a firm voice. A fearful courage entered
into me. I seemed to rush even upon the
buckler of the Eternal. I likened myself unto him
who, on Mount Moria, “stretched forth his hand, and
took the knife to slay his son.” The whole energy
of my nature armed itself for the awful conflict. I
gloried in my strength to suffer. With terrible sublimity,
I stood forth, as the High Priest of my smitten
and astonished household. I gave the lamb in

sacrifice, with an unshrinking hand, though it was
my own heart's blood, that steeped, and streamed
over the altar.

It was over. She had gone. She stayed not
for my embraces. She was permitted to give me
no parting-token. The mind that I had adored,
shrouded itself and fled. I knew that the seal upon
those eyes must not be broken, till the trump of the
Archangel.

Three days and nights, I sat by the dead. Beauty
lingered there, in deep, and solemn, and sacred repose.
I laid my head upon her pillow. I pressed
my lips to hers, and their ice entered into my soul.
I spoke to her of the angels, her companions. I
talked long to the beautiful spirit, and methought, it
answered me. Then I listened breathlessly, but
“there was no voice, nor any that regarded.” And
still, I wept not.

The fatal day came, in which even that clay was
to be no longer mine. The funeral knell, with its
heavy, yet suppressed summons, came over me like
the dividing of soul and body. There was a flood of
weeping, when that form, once so replete with every
youthful charm, so instinct with the joyous movement
of the mysterious principle of life, was borne
in marble stillness from its paternal halls. The eye
of the mother that bore her, of the friend that had
but casually beheld her, even of the poor menial
that waited upon her, knew the luxury of tears.
All were wet with that balm of sorrow, to overflowing—
all save mine.

The open grave had a revolting aspect. I could
not bear that the form which I had worshipped, should
be left to its cold and hideous guardianship. At the
hollow sound of the first falling clod, I would fain
have leaped into the pit, and demanded her. But I
ruled myself. I committed her to the frozen earth,
without a tear. There was a tremendous majesty
in such grief. I was a wonder to myself.

I returned to my desolated abode. The silence
that reigned there was appalling. My spirit sank
beneath it, as a stone goes down into the depths of
ocean, bearing the everlasting burden of its fathomless
tide. I sought the room where I had last seen
her, arrayed in the vestments of the tomb. There
lay the books which we had read together. Their
pages bore the marks of her pencil. I covered my
eyes from them, and turned away. I bowed down
to inhale the fragrance of her flowers, and felt that
they had no right to bloom so fair, when she, their
culturer and their queen, was blighted. I pressed
my fingers upon the keys of her piano, and started
back at the mournful sound they made. I wandered
to her own apartment. I threw myself on the
couch where from infancy she had slumbered. I
trusted to have wept there. But my grief was too
mighty, to be thus unchained. It disdained the relief
of tears. I seemed to rush as upon a drawn sword,
and still it refused to pierce me.

Yet all this was when no eye saw me. In the
presence of others, I was like Mount Atlas, bearing
unmoved the stormy heavens upon his shoulders.

I went forth, amid the jarring competitions and
perpetual strifes of men. I adjusted their opposing
interests, while I despised them and their concerns.
I unravelled their perplexities. I penetrated their
subterfuges. I exposed their duplicity. I cut the
Gordian knots of their self-conceit. I made the
“crooked straight, and the rough places plain,”—
with an energy that amazed them and myself. It
was like that of a spirit, which has nothing to do
with the flesh. I suffered the tumult of my soul to
breathe itself out in bursts of stormy declamation.
I exerted the strength of a giant, when it was not
required. I scorned to balance power with necessity.
The calculations of prudence, and the devices
of cunning, seemed equally pitiful, and despicable.
I put forth the same effort to crush an emmet, as to
uproot the oak of a thousand centuries. It was sufficient
for me always to triumph. While men marvelled
at the zeal with which I served them, I was
loathing them in my heart. I was sick of their chicanery,
and their sabbathless rush after empty
honors and perishable dross. The whole world
seemed to me, “less than nothing, and vanity.”
Still, I was sensible of neither toil, nor fatigue, nor
physical exhaustion. I was like one, who in his
troubled dream of midnight, treads on air, and finds
it strangely sustaining him.

But every night, I went to my daughter's grave.
I laid me down there, in unutterable bitterness. While
the stars looked coldly on me, I spoke to her fondly

and earnestly, as one who could not be denied. I
said,—“Angel! who art mine no longer, listen to
me. Thou, who art raised above all tears, cause
one tear to moisten my burning brow. Give it to
me, as a token that thou hearest me, that thou hast
not forgotten me.” And the blasts of Winter, through
the leafless boughs, mocking replied,—“Give it to
me,—Give it to me.” But I wept not. Ten days
and nights passed over me,—and still I wept not.

My brain was heated to agony. The visual
nerves were scorched and withered. My heart was
parched and arid, as the Libyan desert. Then I
knew that the throne of Grief was in the heart:
that though her sceptre may reach the remotest nerve,
and touch the minutest cell where the brain slumbers,
and perplex every ethereal ambassador from
spirit to sense,—yet the pavilion where her darkest
dregs are wrung out, the laboratory where her consuming
fires are compounded, is the heart,—the
heart.

I have implied that my intellect faltered. Yet
every morning I went to the scene of my labors. I
put my shoulder to the wheel, caring not though it
crushed me. I looked at men fixedly and haughtily
with my red eye-balls. But I spoke no word to
betray the flame feeding at my vitals. The heart-strings
shrivelled and broke before it, yet the martyrdom
was in silence.

Again, Night drew her sable curtain, and I sought
my daughter's grave. Methought, its turf-covering

was discomposed, and some half-rooted shrubs that
shuddered and drooped when placed in that drear
assemblage of the dead, had been trampled and broken.
A horrible suspicion took possession of my
mind. I rushed to the house of the sexton.—“Has
any one troubled my daughter's grave?” Alarmed
at my vehemence, he remained speechless and irresolute.

“Tell me,” I exclaimed, in a voice of terror,
“who has disturbed my daughter's grave.” He
evaded my adjuration, and murmured something
about an injunction to secrecy. With the grasp of
a maniac, I bore him to an inner apartment, and
bade him satisfy my question. Trembling at my
violence, he confessed that the grave had been watched
for ten nights.

“Who has watched my daughter's grave?” Reluctantly
he gave me the names of those friends,—
names for ever graven upon my soul.

And so, for those ten long, wintry nights, so
dreary and interminable, which I had cast away
amid the tossings of profitless, delirious, despairing
sorrow, they had been watching, that the repose of
that unsullied clay might remain unbroken.

A new tide of emotion was awakened. I threw
myself down, as powerless as the weaned infant.
Torrents of tears flowed. The tenderness of man
wrought what the severity of Heaven had failed to
produce. It was not the earthquake, nor the thunder,
nor the tempest, that subdued me. It was the

still, small voice. I wept until the fountains of tears
failed. The relief of that hour of weeping, can never
be shadowed forth in language. The prison-house
of passionate agony was unlocked. I said to God that
he was merciful, and I loved him because my angel
lived in his presence. Since then, it would seem,
that my heart has been made better. Its aspirations
are upward, whither she has ascended, and as I tread
the devious path of my pilgrimage, both the sunbeam
and the thorn point me as a suppliant to the Redeemer
of Man, that I may be at last fitted to dwell
with her for ever.

Hartford, October 28, 1833.