eleven years old. Her parents were much gratified by her talents, and gave her all the indulgence in their power, which was only time for reading such books as she could obtain by borrowing; an they could afford no money to buy books, or to pay for her instruction. Before she was twelve years old, she had read most of our standard poets—much of history, both sacred and profane—Shakspere's, Kotzebue's, and Goldsmith's dramatic works, and many of the popular novels and romances of the day. Of the latter, however, she was not an indiscriminate reader—many of those weak arid worthless productions, which are the élite of the circulating libraries, this child, after reading a few pages, would throw aside in disgust. Would that all young ladies possessed her delicate taste and discriminating judgment!
When Lucretia was about twelve years old, a gentleman, who had heard of her genius and seen some of her verses, sent her a complimentary note, enclosing twenty dollars. Her first exclamation was, "Oh, now I shall buy me some books!" But her dear mother was lying ill—the little girl looked towards the sick-bed—tears gushed to her eyes, and putting the bill into her father's hand, she said—"Take it, father; it will buy many comforts for mother; I can do without books."
It is no wonder that her parents should feel the deepest affection for such a good and gifted child. Yet there will always be found officious, meddling persons, narrow-minded, if not envious, who are prone to prophesy evil of any pursuits in which they or theirs cannot compete. These meddlers advised that she should be deprived of pen, ink, and paper, and rigorously confined to domestic pursuits. Her parents were too kind and wise to follow this counsel; but Lucretia, by some means, learned that such had been given. Without a murmur she resolved to submit to this trial; and she faithfully adhered to the resolution. She told no one of her intention or feelings, but gave up her writing and reading, and for several months devoted herself entirely to household business. Her mother was ill at the time, and did not notice the change in Lucretia's pursuits, till she saw the poor girl was growing emaciated, and a deep dejection was settled on her countenance. She said to her one day, "Lucretia, it is a long time since you have written anything." The sweet child burst into tears, and replied, "O, mother, I have given that up long ago." Her mother then drew from her the reasons which had influenced her to relinquish writing, namely, the opinions she had heard expressed that it was wrong for her to indulge in mental pursuits, and the feeling that she ought to do all in her power to lighten the cares of her parents. Mrs. Davidson was a good, sensible woman; with equal discretion and tenderness, she counselled her daughter to take a middle course, resume her studies, but divide her time between these darling pursuits and the duties of the household. Lucretia from thenceforth occasionally resumed her pen, and soon regained her quiet serenity and usual health.
Her love of knowledge grew with her growth, and strengthened by every accession of thought. "Oh!" said she one day to her mother, "Oh! that I only possessed half the means of improvement which I see others slighting! I should be the happiest of the happy!" At another time she exclaimed—"How much there is yet to learn!—If I could only grasp it at once!"
