LITERARY WOMEN OF AMERICA.

ONE

MRS. JULIA L. DUMONT.

BY REV. T. M. EDDY, A. M.

NE of earth's sweetest spirits, most toil-enduring and earnest workers, as well as one of its noble minds, has recently been transplanted from earth to heaven-from a home below to a home in heaven. I speak of Mrs. Julia L. Dumont, one of the earliest and most popular writers of the west. I make no apology for coming with this imperfect sketch to the columns of the Ladies' Repository, and asking confidently a place. When it was young and small she aided it-her song gave sparkle, and her sentiments gave richness to its pages. Now that it has grown great and strong, it will not refuse to come with votive offering to her tomb.

I shall give a brief biographical sketch. She was the daughter of Ebenezer and Martha D. Corey. Her parents emigrated from Rhode Island to Marietta, O., with the "Ohio Company," who settled at that place. She was born at Waterford, Washington county, O., on the Muskingum river, in October, 1794. Her parents returned to Rhode Island during her infancy; and while yet a mere babe, her father died. Her mother removed to Greenfield, Saratoga county, N. Y. Her mother married the second time, to a Mr. Maurill, and they had their residence on the Kayda Rozeras Mountain, at Greenfield.

With the mother of Mrs. Dumont I had the pleasure of acquaintance during the closing years of her life. From her, doubtless, Mrs. D. inherited her delicate organism and strong emotional nature-her large-heartedness, united with shrinking sensibility. And in that mountain home her soui learned communion with nature in its noble forms-learned to love the mountain, with its beetling brow, and the gentle hyacinth which blossomed at its base.

VOL. XVII.-21

She spent some time in the Milton Academy, in Saratoga county, where she gave unmistakable evidence of superior mental powers. Indeed, at the early age of eleven her faculties were almost startlingly developed. She had then great thoughts. In 1811 she taught school in Greenfield, and in 1812 in Cambridge, Washington county, N. Y. In August, of the last-named year, she was married to Mr. John Dumont, and the following October they went to Ohio.

The village of Vevay, Ia., is on a beautiful site. The river has a majestic curve, and the level plateau on the shore corresponds to its semicircular sweep, while around its periphery stand, like guardian sentinels, a range of noble hills. Here settled a colony of Swiss, designing to engage in the culture of the grape. A few of the ancient ones were still remaining at the time of my last visit, chatting cheerily in their native French. To this locality Mr. and Mrs. Dumont removed in 1814, in the gloomy month of March, and there was her home till death.

Here were the struggles incident to a new country. To Mrs. D. was given a number of children. Her husband being a lawyer, was, according to the custom of those times, much from home, attending the courts of other counties. The care of that band was upon her, and she met it nobly.

Schools were scarce and poor. Her own children were to be instructed, and she determined to do that work herself. She opened a school, and thenceforward much of her life was spent in the school-room. For this she was peculiarly fitted by her sympathy and keen intuition. Indeed, we may claim for her a high position among western pioneer teachers. She had a lofty idea of the mission of the instructor, and if she did not attain it, 't was because she placed it above what a mind of far more than ordinary abilities, a tireless effort, and a loving heart could reach. She was successful in imparting what she knew, and her impress

is upon hundreds. A dear friend of hers, who often saw her in the school-room, says of her "How faithfully did she obey the command, 'Say to them that are of a fearful heart, be strong How zealously did she labor to confirm the feeble knees! Was there one in her school particularly unfortunate, that one was immediately taken especially under her maternal wing. I have known of her having in her school at once, several cripple boys, some of whom were poor and friendless, and it seemed to me no mother could have surpassed her care to fit those boys for usefulness!" We claim special honor for her early and successful devotion to education in the west. It may be as well just here to state what is to be said as to her religious character. I do not know precisely when she first made a profession of religion. When she first sought unto the Lord, or when was the date of her conviction and conversion, I can not definitely tell; but it was more than thirty years ago. There seemed to have been a time of darkness-of sore trial. This was of painful duration; but was succeeded by a glorious light, which filled her soul with gladness. Of this she often spoke in social meetings, and in converse with friends, as filling not merely her soul, but even her room! It dispelled the gloom of despair, and in that light she continued thenceforth to walk.

Her nature was so finely strung that few were capable of sympathizing with her, either in her sorrows or her rejoicings. She dwelt in some sense alone, and yet her heart was full of sympathy. When a great grief was pressing upon her soul, she was still in the parlor, surrounded by a promiscuous circle, capable of interesting and rendering happy those with whom she mingled.

Another hand has well portrayed some of the trials through which she passed, and the discipline of suffering which was her lot. I have alluded to her being the mother of a numerous family. She loved her children with all the intensity of her passionate soul. Yet she saw three sons wither, one by one, away to the cold grave. Another a daughter-followed.

There was a beautiful boy, whom she called Edgar, and whom she loved intensely. One summer morning he left her side full of glee; in half an hour he was drowned! She bore him to her house in her arms. The blow was terrible. Under the pressure of the grief, there is reason to believe, that, though "the light" never went out, it was at times beclouded. Her soul had a longcontinued struggle. His name she never mentioned; yet he was ever in her heart. I said she did not call his name, but a letter from her

daughter says: "Among all her papers was never found any allusion to his name, nor to this bereavement. But in a private drawer of hers are to be found several small packages marked thus— 'Seed of the flowers he planted;' 'The shoes he wore;' 'His little fish-hooks." There is scarcely to be found a more touching fact. It tells the deep, sad grief which preyed upon her soul. During all this struggle she did not "charge God foolishly;" she strove to feel what she believed to be true-that God was very pitiful and of tender mercy." Do you say she should have felt so at once? We will not argue with you, dear reader, but wait till the sad reality of such sorrow comes to your own habitation. You will triumph, doubtless, but it will be after a battle, hard and long! You will say, "Thy will be done," but will you feel it? There is a world-wide difference between the two.

But the light did not go out. There were other trials. She had another son who had grown to man's estate-had married-was admitted to the bar, and had high hopes of eminence in his profession. He was sprightly and full of force. Well did I know him-often I spoke with himunited him to his bride in marriage, and stood by his bedside as he was passing down into the swellings of Jordan. Aurelius was smitten and wasted to the tomb. His early manhood withered. Another shrine was broken! Still, amid these gloomy damps, that light continued to shine!

Her own health gave way-her constitution, though elastic, was delicate, and bowed at length; and can we wonder? She went south-among the orange groves and palmettos she sought to regain her former strength and activity. It was not to be so. She was marked for death. A year, or nearly so, was spent south, and then she returned home-for Vevay was still the home of the living and the resting-place of the dead.

Amid the greetings, the experiences, the questions asked and related, her children discovered that she had come back to them with a distressing cough. It never left her, but was developed into consumption!

It only needs the old history to tell what remains, so far as the disease was concerned-the mocking promise of restored health-then the change, the cough, the night-sweat, the oppressed breathing, the !

With the indomitable industry which had ever marked her, she would not cease work, but, in addition to preparing a volume of sketches for the press, also, after her return, taught through several terms. But she was compelled to desist and die.

And now when the dark shades rolled up from the gloomy valley into her very room, where was that light? Had it expired? Was the candlestick there with socket all rayless? No. Heretofore that light had flickered, had been unequal. Now it grew stronger and burned with a clear, steady flame, filling again "her soul-her room." "She trusted and was not afraid."

The light grew brighter, trust ripened into joy, and she, whose whole life had been one weary battle-field, now had triumphed! Her soul caught the rapture of heaven; she heard the minstrelsy of the skies. The light shone clearer and stronger still! She saw clear across the mystic river, and went up to be "forever with the Lord!"

I can not forbear transcribing one other passage from her daughter's letter to me, though it was written without the least idea of publication: "For many years she suffered with a nervous restlessness, which prevented her sleeping; but the blessed promise, 'He giveth his beloved sleep,' seemed graven on her heart. Again and again have I found her with eyes closed, hands clasped, and voice uttering, as in thanksgiving prayer,

'SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP.'"

I will here somewhat abruptly pass to Mrs. Dumont's literary history, and with a brief review of that close this imperfect sketch.

Early in life her superior mental powers attracted marked attention, and led many to presage for her a high literary position. But the cares of her household, her feeble health, and a distrust of her own abilities, prevented her from attempting more than fragmentary essays, tales, sketches, and poems. While her productions were sought after with avidity by publishers able to pay for them, she felt so much desire to build up and sustain the local press and home literature, that she more usually would send her best songs to some new village paper, struggling for an existence, and with the communication some words of cheer to the editor, to give him heart and hope.

Shortly before her death she gathered up a series of sketches from her pen, which had been published elsewhere, and threw them into a volume, entitled, "Life Sketches from Common Paths," which was brought out in neat 12mo. style, 286 pages, by the Appletons. Its execution did not meet her wishes, and she made no effort to give it circulation, and yet I see not why. The book abounds with beauties of no common order. She was an early contributor to the pages of the Repository, especially during the editorship of Drs. Hamline and Thomson. In short, she may be termed a pioneer in western literature.

She destroyed nearly all her papers, leaving only some juvenile pieces and unfinished poems.

In glancing at the characteristics of her style we are impressed with its purity. She never wrote a line calculated to lure one from virtue, to gild vice, or line with flowers the road to death. No; there is virtue in all that lives from her penvirtue, the child of heaven-the true guide to success in life, and true title to a fragrant memory. Nor was it merely a negative purity-her teachings addressed to the young, for to them and for them she mainly wrote, urged on to a heroic virtue, a working faith, a conquering zeal. She had ever a word of hopefulness for the desponding, of encouragement for the toiling. A gentleman, now for more than twenty years a minister, and from whose pen have fallen some stirring thoughts, told me that the articles he read in boyhood, from Mrs. Dumont's pen, first induced him to struggle upward to a reputable education.

Her admirers never claimed for her the loftiest style of genius, which is embodied in the rolling epic, the grand Miltonic chant, the Dantean vision, the Homeric sublimity. She essayed not to stand where they stood-upon the mountain's cloudy summits, while

"The live thunder

Leaped from crag to crag."

Hers was of a more tender order of song-more tender, more trustful. Yet there were times when she sang no common strain. Take as an instance: "Night."—Ladies' Repository, Vol. IV, p. 132 :

"She hath other train!
Blackness and rushing storms attend her sway--
Wild, dancing lights, exulting in her reign,
And lurid fires, round her pavilion play,

While the deep measure of the winds afar,
Mingling their rush with the loud thunder jar,
Round their dark chambers, holds its pealing way."

But while we claim that there is revealed the impress of real genius, yet her songs might usually be entitled, "Songs of the heart." It is her own soul sorrow which so often throws a sable background into her pictures-it is her triumphing faith which points to a star shining through the gloom, clear, beautiful, and an assurance that there was sky, cloudless and peaceful, beyond the bank of clouds! She wove the threads of her own life into her material, whether song or prose. In the biographical notes I have spoken of "the light;" now read this extract from "Life Sketches :"

"There are times-have n't you, my friends, felt them?-when that radiance which is not of the sun, or the moon, seems melting through the lower skies; so it appeared to me then; such seems the silver glory which touched the edges of the soft white cloud!"

Another passage in the biography will come up before you, dear reader, as your eye passes over this extract from the "manuscript rejected," in the same volume with the last extract:

"A rainbow had at that moment stretched far and wide over the earth-a perfect arch from corner to corner of the heavens. What a look of unearthly brightness passed over the face of the young dying believer!

"See,' she said, pointing her cold, white fingers earnestly toward it, 'see, Harley! His promise! so shall they all be fulfilled!

"The bow, as it has done for a thousand years, stood for some moments over the earth-a witness, not only of the covenant, but of the glories beyond, and then faded slowly and solemnly from the sky. It has passed with the day,' said Elizabeth; it is growing dark-how quickly the night has come! I'm weary, Harley, but I shall rest now-" HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP!"'"

Yes, it was her heart's own experience she was weaving into the web and woof of her story. And because of this all she has left us is so full of heart, of exhortations to work, of faith and of hope, of sympathy and love. It was this she felt when she sang,

"O thou whose spirit, dark and worn, is shaken

With dim, perplexing doubts and fainting dread,
Deeming thyself of light and heaven forsaken,
Lift up in trust thy bowed and sinking head.
Thou hast for guide life's fading splendors taken,
All is not darkness, though their glare is fled."

It was another vision of that light. But I am admonished by these lengthening pages, that my pen is going too far, and yet the

will ask the editor to make room, entire if he can, for "The Home-Bound Greek." It was published in the Repository, Vol. VI, p. 152. It is based upon the following passage from Xenophon, where he describes the celebrated retreat of the "ten thousand," and says:

"They arrived at a very high mountain, called Techas, from whence they descried the sea. The first who beheld it raised great shouts of joy for a considerable time, which made Xenophon imagine that the vanguard was attacked, and hastened to support it. But as he approached nearer, he distinguished the cry of 'The sea! the sea!' and when they had all come to the top, nothing was heard but a noise of the whole army, crying together, 'The sea! the sea! while they could not refrain from tears, nor from embracing their generals and officers. And then, without waiting for orders, they heaped up a pile of stones, and erected a trophy with broken bucklers and shattered arms."

"Days, weeks, and months wore heavy on,
And still the Grecian bands
Their slow, but glorious pathway won,
Through vast, barbarian lands.

Their glorious path, for not in fear

Turned they from the foeman's plains;
And still they met his hovering spear,
With a might that mocked at chains.

But lingering want and toil have power
To tame the strong man's soul,
And a surer work than the conflict's hour
Hath suffering's slow control.

Those men who thrilled at the trumpet's blast,
The fearless and the true,

Grew worn and haggard as they passed
The desert's perils through.

O'er vast and trackless mountain snows—
'Mid precipices wound-

On the river's bed was the path of those
For home and freedom bound.

Yet on, still on, they sternly pressed;
How might he sink to die,

Who must give his dust to earth's dark breast
Beneath a Persian sky?

But while the still and gathered soul

The purpose strong sustained,
The eye grew tame that had flashed control,
And the haughty strength was drained;
And the warlike cheer was heard no more,
Through all the long array,
Though many a province trodden o'er
In lengthening distance lay.

Their step had lost the warrior's pride,
Yet on they moved-still on;