Sigourney: an ungathered sunbeam

For her latest book, Lydia Huntley Sigourney produced over 300 pages of poems and sketches about North America, from her native state of Connecticut to the Wyoming Territory. She poeticized historical or cultural objects or events, including the Washington Elm in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Bunker Hill, Plymouth Rock, and the Jamestown settlement. Her poems were set all over New England (where she spent much of her life) and even Niagara Falls. The book, then, lived up to its title, Scenes in My Native Land. In its final pages, dated December 4, 1844, from Hartford, Connecticut, she offered a conclusion:

And now, reader and friend, our hour of pleasant gossip is finished. We have said nothing of the pictured rocks, or the great western caverns, nor wandered together in spirit on the borders of our mighty lakes, or the shores of the " father of waters."

No. I have spoken only of such places as "keepers at home" may readily reach, and which probably you have yourself visited. Still it is as useful, and vastly more convenient, to admire objects near at hand than those far away; and on what the eye hath oft-times looked, we may still discover an unplucked flower, or an ungathered sunbeam, to cheer and to uplift the heart...

So now, reader and friend, unknown, perchance, but still a friend, Farewell. If it is morning with you, may the day be blessed and happy; and if it is evening,
                                                  "a fair good night,
              And pleasant dreams, and slumbers light."

The last words were a quote from Sir Walter Scott. Many of the poems in the collection are several pages long. Perhaps most appropriate here is a portion of her poem "The Snow-Storm" which, though without a specific location mentioned in the text, gives a fairly good image of New England:

How quietly the snow comes down,
        When all are fast asleep,
And plays a thousand fairy pranks
        O'er vale and mountain steep.
How cunningly it finds its way
        To every cranny small,
And creeps through even the slightest chink
        In window, or in wall.

To every noteless hill it brings
        A fairer, purer crest
Than the rich ermine robe that decks
        The haughtiest monarch's breast.
To every reaching spray it gives
        Whate'er its hand can hold —
A beauteous thing the snow is,
        To all, both young and old...

Lydia Sigourney and the Cherokee Nation

The Cherokee Phoenix and Indian Advocate has been recognized as the first newspaper published by a Native American tribe and the first to report news in a tribal language. Its first issue was published in northern Georgia in early 1828. In the next decade, the Cherokee Nation would relocate to present-day Oklahoma thanks to Indian Removal Act, commonly called the Trail of Tears.

But the newspaper also published each article in English translation and attracted more white readers than Native American readers. It also attracted white contributors, including Connecticut poet Lydia Sigourney, who published her poem "The Cherokee Mother" in the March 12, 1831 issue.

Ye bid us hence.—These vales are dear,
To infant hope, to patriot pride,
These streamlets tuneful to our ear,
Where our light shallops peaceful glide.

Beneath yon consecrated mounds
Our fathers' treasur'd ashes rest,
Our hands have till'd these corn-clad ground,
Our children's birth these home have blest,

Here, on our souls a Saviour's love
First beam'd with renovating ray,
Why should we from these haunts remove?
But still you warn us hence away.

Child, ask not where! I cannot tell,
Save where wide wastes uncultur'd spread,
Where unknown waters fiercely roll,
And savage monsters howling tread;

Where no blest Church with hallow'd train,
Nor hymns of praise, nor voice of prayer,
Like angels soothe the wanderer's pain;
Ask me no more. I know not where.

Go seek thy Sire. The anguish charm
That shades his brow like frowning wrath,
Divide the burden from his arm,
And gird him for his pilgrim-path.

Come, moaning babe! Thy mother's arms
Shall bear thee on our weary course,
Shall be thy shield from midnight harms,
And baleful dews, and tempests hoarse.

Sigourney was clearly writing in opposition to the Indian Removal Act ("Why should we from these haunts remove?"). However, rather than writing in a political tone, she appeals to the emotions, representing the mother figure as loyal to her family and, perhaps most importantly, as a Christian. To this mother and her child, the "wide wastes" to which they are being removal has "no blest Church" and no hymns nor prayer. Sigourney apparently never republished her poem "The Cherokee Mother" in her various collected works. Even so, the poem was certainly not her only attempt at educating the public about the Native Americans. In 1822, for example, she published a sympathetic epic poem called Traits of the Aborigines of America.

Further, Sigourney, who once said she "never wrote for fame," was one of several prominent women who urged other women to write to Congress in opposition of the Indian Removal Act. Despite a flood of responses, the bill passed in a close vote in the House of Representatives, 102 to 97, and President Andrew Jackson signed it into law.

Sigourney in England: With careful footsteps

In the summer of 1840, Lydia Huntley Sigourney went on a tour through Europe. Considered by some as the most famous woman writer in the United States in the first half of the 19th century, she found her reputation was no less substantial across the Atlantic. Visiting England, Scotland, and France, she took advantage of the inspirational trip to write a book, Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands, the next year.

Among the sites she honored in her book was Hampton Court, London, written as the poem "Hampton Court" on March 3, 1841. "Twas with a bridal party," Sigourney wrote, "that we went / To Visit Hampton Court." The day was full of vows, music, and kind words:

...But all too soon the fond leave-taking came,
The parent's benediction, and the embrace
Of loving kindred; for impatient steeds
Curving their necks, by white-gloved coachmen reined,
Waited the bridge, and lo! her silvery veil
And lustrous satin robe, gave sudden place
To traveller's graver costume.
                            Thus doth fleet
Woman's brief goddess-ship, and soon she takes
The sober matron tint, content to yield
Tinsel and trappings, if her heart be right,
That in her true vocation she may shed
A higher happiness on him she loves,
For earth and heaven.

Sigourney muses on the transition from maiden to matron before exploring Hampton Court, the "lordly manor" with its birds and trees. Sigourney notes her attempts to describe the experience in verse will be in vain. Recalling the stories and history of the place, she continues for several hundred non-rhyming lines, ultimately thinking of Thomas Wolsey, a religious leader who amassed great power and influence in the 16th century, and for whom Hampton Court was originally built. Wolsey had used his power for personal gain and, as he himself allegedly admitted, more carefully did the work of his monarch, King Henry VIII, than the work of God. Sigourney wonders if, now that he is dead, Wolsey has had his faith restored and been forgiven:

Is pride for man? the crushed before the moth?
Is it for angels? Answer, ye who walked
Exulting on the battlements of Heaven,
And fell interminably. Dizzy heights
Suit not the born of clay. Oh, rather walk
With careful footsteps, and with lowly eyes,
Bent on thine own original nor mark
With taunt of bitter blame thy brother's fall.
In dust his frailties sleep. Awake them not,
Nor stir with prying hand the curtaining tomb,
But lead the memory of his virtues forth
Into the sun-light.
                           So shalt though fulfill
The law of love.

Sigourney: I never wrote for fame

Lydia Huntley Sigourney was probably the most famous American woman poet in the first half of the 19th century. Her first book of poems, Moral Pieces, was published in 1815. She worked as a teacher in Hartford until her marriage to Charles Sigourney in 1819, when she left her job to focus on domestic duties. The marriage was an unhappy one and, shortly after her husband's business failed, Mrs. Sigourney (as she called herself) turned to writing to support the family, which her husband resented.

Her career saw the production of 46 volumes and 2000 articles (published in 300 journals and magazines). Though today maligned as a sentimentalist, she commanded attention in her lifetime; her name alone was worth $500 to the popular Godey's Lady's Book, which paid her to list her as an editor. She was involved in several political and social issues (abolitionism, the rights of Native Americans, women's education) and wrote her autobiography at the end of her life. She died on June 10, 1865 at the age of 73.

Her autobiography, Letters of Life, was published posthumously and served as a great indication of her popularity. She dedicated ten pages to requests she received from various people (mostly strangers) asking her to write poems for them — those ten pages were merely a sampling. She rarely refused these requests, including memorial poems written for people she never knew, though she never wrote one for her husband at his death in 1854.

One chapter of Mrs. Sigourney's autobiography, "Letters of Love," describes her thoughts on marriage. She originally made a personal oath never to marry, deeming herself "a thing set apart." After ignoring love letters for years, she finally found herself engaged. Years later, she was surprised by how she described it in her journal: "I feel almost astonished as I write the words. I am no more mine own, but another's." The final chapter of the book is titled "Good-Bye." As the author faced death, she wrote what is believed to be her final poem, "The Valedictory":

  Here is my Valedictory. I bring
A basket of dried fruits—autumnal leaves,
And mosses, pressed from ocean's sunless tides.
I strew them votive at your feet, sweet friends,
Who've listened to me long—with, grateful thanks
For favoring smiles, that have sustained and cheered
All weariness.
                    I never wrote for fame—
The payment seemed not to be worth the toil;
But wheresoe'er the kind affections sought
To mix themselves by music with the mind,
That was my inspiration and delight.
  And you, for many a lustrum, have not frowned
Upon my lingering strain. Patient you've been,
Even as the charity that never fails;
And pouring o'er my heart the gentlest tides
Of love and commendation. So I take
These tender memories to my pillowed turf,
Blessing you for them when I breathe no more.
  Heaven's peace be with you all!
                    Farewell! Farewell!

Sprung up like wild flowers

Sometimes nicknamed the "Sweet Singer of Hartford," Lydia Huntley Sigourney wrote the preface to her Poems on May 10, 1834. In it, she claims that the poems "have sprung up like wild flowers in the dells, or among the clefts of the rock; wherever the path of life has chanced to lead."

Mrs. Sigourney, as she often signed her works, proved incredibly popular even outside her home state of Connecticut. Several women's book clubs and literary salons were named in her honor. A good wife and mother, as was expected of her, she only turned to writing to reverse financial problems in the family. Self-educated, she focused on poetry with pious themes and domestic topics.

Modern feminist scholars often  decry this aspect; "the mere mention of Sigourney's name invokes a caricature: a mildly comical figure exemplifying the worst aspects of domestic sentimentalism," according to Nina Baym, who seeks to reclaim her work. Those who support her suggest that her poetry was written especially for an audience expecting certain social roles, not that Sigourney herself did not challenge them. Perhaps that is why her 1834 collection of Poems went through 25 editions during her lifetime. Even so, she did get an anti-slavery poem into this edition — impressive for such an early, public stance.

Form your own opinion, perhaps from her poem "The Mother," part of this 1834 collection:

I saw an aged woman bow
  To weariness and care,
Time wrote his sorrows on her brow
  And 'mid her frosted hair.

Hope, from her breast had torn away
  Its rooting scathed and dry,
And on the pleasures of the gay
  She turned a joyless eye.

What was it that like sunbeam clear
  O'er her wan features run,
As pressing toward her deafened ear
  I named her absent son?

What was it? Ask a mother's breast
  Through which a fountain flows
Perennial, fathomless and blest,
  By winter never froze.

What was it? Ask the King of kings,
  Who hath decreed above
That change should mark all earthly things,
  Except a mother's love.