Author; daughter of Judge Theodore Sedgwick; born at Stockbridge, Mass., Dec. 28, 1789; undertook after her father’s death (in 1813) the management of a private school for the education of young ladies, and continued in that employment fifty years. She published her first work of fiction, “A New England Tale,” in 1822, the success of which decided her to continue the career of authorship; brought out “Redwood” (2 vols., 1824), which was reprinted in England, translated into French, Italian, German, and Swedish, and compared favorably with the novels of Cooper, to whom, indeed, it was attributed in the French version; and was the author of other popular works, including “The Traveller” (1825); “Hope Leslie, or Early Times in Massachusetts” (2 vols., 1827), reputed her best work; “Clarence, a Tale of our Own Times” (1830); “The Linwoods” (1835); “The Poor Rich Man and the Rich Poor Man” (1836); “Live and Let Live” (1837); “Means and Ends, or Self-Training” (1838); “Stories for Young Persons” (1840); “Letters from Abroad to Kindred at Home” (1841); “Morals and Manners” (1846); “Facts and Fancies” (1848); “Married or Single?” (1857); and “Letters to my Pupils” (1862). Died near Roxbury, Mass., July 31, 1867. See her “Life and Letters,” by Mary E. Dewey (New York, 1871).
Personal
She is decidedly the pleasantest American woman I have ever seen…. The twang, to be sure, there is in plenty; and the toilette is the dowdiness (not the finery) of the backwoods; but then she is lively, kind, heart-warm; and I feel, somehow or other, almost on friendly terms with her, though I never spoke more than twenty consecutive words to her.
She is about the medium height, perhaps a little below it. Her forehead is an unusually fine one; nose of a slight Roman curve; eyes dark and piercing; mouth well-formed and remarkably pleasant in its expression…. Her manners are those of a high-bred woman, but her ordinary manner vacillates, in a singular way, between cordiality and a reserve amounting to hauteur.
I had a great admiration of much in Miss Sedgwick’s character, though we were too opposite in our natures, in many of our views, and in some of our principles, to be very congenial companions. Her domestic attachments and offices were charming to witness; and no one could be further from all conceit and vanity on account of her high reputation in her own country. Her authorship did not constitute her life; and she led a complete life, according to her measure, apart from it: and this is a spectacle which I always enjoy, and especially in the case of a woman. The insuperable difficulty between us,—that which closed our correspondence, though not our good will, was her habit of flattery;—a national weakness, to which I could have wished that she had been superior. But her nature was a timid and sensitive one; and she was thus predisposed to the national failing;—that is, to one side of it; for she could never fall into the cognate error,—of railing and abuse when the flattery no longer answers. She praised or was silent. The mischief was that she praised people to their faces, to a degree which I have never considered it necessary to permit.
Your aunt did me the honor to call on me soon after my arrival in New York, and was among my first American acquaintances, and was my first American friend. She was then, I suppose, between thirty and forty years old, of a slight and graceful figure, the movements of which were remarkably light and elastic, and with a countenance in which bright intelligence, a keen sense of humor, and an almost pathetic tenderness of expression were charmingly combined. None of these winning attributes had departed from my dear friend’s form and face up to the last time of my seeing her, and it is some consolation to me for my separation from her during the last years of her life that my latest vision of her was (considering the interval between them) but little different from the earliest; the graceful figure had not grown heavy, nor the tender countenance harsh, nor had the liberal mind become narrowed, nor the warm heart chilled under the touch of Time.
Admirable as it was, her home life was more so; and beautiful as were the examples set forth in her writings, her own example was, if possible, still more beautiful. Her unerring sense of rectitude, her love of truth, her ready sympathy, her active and cheerful beneficence, her winning and gracious manners, the perfection of high breeding, make up a character, the idea of which, as it rests on my mind, I would not exchange for any thing in her own interesting works of fiction.
The story of her life is a simple tale as regards outward circumstances. No striking incidents, no remarkable occurrences will be found in it, but the gradual unfolding and ripening amid congenial surroundings of a true and beautiful soul, a clear and refined intellect, and a singularly sympathetic social nature. She was born eighty years ago, when the atmosphere was still electric with the storm in which we took our place among the nations, and passing her childhood in the seclusion of a New England valley, while yet her family was linked to the great world without by ties both political and social, early and deep foundations were laid in her character of patriotism, religious feeling, love of nature, and strong attachment to home, and to those who made it what it was. And when, later in life, she took her place among the acknowledged leaders of literature and society, these remained the central features of her character, and around them gathered all the graceful culture, the active philanthropy, the social accomplishment which made her presence a joy wherever it came.
General
A very good female writer; simple, chaste, and very sensible; without pretension.
Her delineations of character are generally striking and happy, and the national peculiarities are hit off with great dexterity and effect, though perhaps, in some instances, they are brought out a little too broadly. There is, however, very little overcharging and exaggeration; the actors in the plot do not come upon the scene in their stage dresses, ready, on every occasion that offers, as in duty bound, to display, resolutely, and with all their might, the supposed peculiarities of the personages they represent, but they are made to look and act like people in the world about us. The characters are not only thus chastely drawn, but they are varied with exceeding art and judgment, and this variety is, for the most part, founded on essential differences.
“Hope Leslie” is the last of this lady’s three larger works, and, in our judgment, the best. It bears the lineaments of the two others, so far as to entitle them to claim a family resemblance to it; but it is written with an easier, freer spirit than the others; its chain of beauty is less frequently interrupted; it contains a greater number of prominent characters; its style is more matured. In the whole three, however, there is the same purity and delicacy; the same generous, lofty sentiment; the same deep and solemn breathings of religion without parade, and of piety without cant or censoriousness; the same love of the grand and the lovely in nature, together with the same power so to express that love as to waken it up ardently, devotionally in others; the same occasional touches of merry wit and playful satire; the same glowing fancy; and, spread through all, and regulating all, the same good sense, leading to a right apprehension of human life and motives, restraining genius from extravagance, giving an air of reality to the narrative, and securing our constant respect for the narrator.
She writes English with uncommon elegance and purity…. She has the rare merit of never being common-place…. Her style is perfectly feminine…. Almost the only fault of style we have noticed, is an occasional diffuseness, the easily besetting sin of female writers.
If her literary power be somewhat less than that of her illustrious English prototype, Miss Edgeworth, the moral strain of her writings is of a yet higher cast. There are some appearances in the present state of learning, which seem to show that the ladies are taking the department of novel-writing into their own hands, and if they would all manage it with the ability, taste and discretion of our author, we cannot say that we should deeply regret the revolution.
In speaking of the great worth of Miss Sedgwick’s writings, in a moral and political point of view, as inculcating and exciting the self-respect and mutual respect, which make the distinctive nobility of the republican character,—that is, of the character of man, in a condition of society where he may fully act out the man,—we have implied our sense of their high literary excellence; since if her pictures were not radiantly true and vivid, they would not charm and move leaders as they do. We remarked that, in this series of tales, she was working the true vein of her own power. She has also, we believe, fallen upon the vein, from which the treasures of our future literature are to be wrought…. Miss Sedgwick’s imaginations have such vigor and bloom, because they are no exotics. She paints scenes, as she has looked upon them; characters, as she has known them; the energy of passion and principle, as they have impelled or crossed each other under her own view; the pressure and the encouragement of circumstance, as American life exhibits it. She writes of minds and hearts, as they muse and beat, not in ancient Rome, nor modern Cumberland, but in the streets of our marts, and the retirement of our villages.
As to Miss Sedgwick, I have not read the particular work. And the reason why I have not read that and several others of Miss S—’s works is that she never interests me in her books. She wants refinement, deep thought, knowledge of human nature; her men and women all stand on one leg—I mean one apiece; and her views, political and religious, are superficial and erroneous. In private life I like her exceedingly for her simplicity and kindness, and for not wearing blue stockings, but I never care to see her in print.
Miss Sedgwick has been returning the compliment of all English journalists, by putting us all round on paper, to a degree which is too bad. She asked, it seems, poor dear Miss Mitford’s servants what wages they received, and the like; and, I hear, has written that which is likely most sadly to compromise some of the Italian refugees in America, who were negotiating with the Austrian Government for a restoration to their families. I liked her so well in private, as an honest-minded, simple-mannered, cultivated woman, that I am really more vexed than there is any occasion for. I fear the next cage of Trans-atlantic birds will not run much chance of being very liberally dinnered and soiréed here; only everything passes off like a nine-days’ wonder!
Strong common-sense and a masculine disdain of mere ornament.
Though a multitude of attempts have been made, the only successful novel that we remember, founded on the early history of Massachusetts, is Miss Sedgwick’s “Hope Leslie.”
The best trait of Miss Sedgwick’s writings is the amiable home-sentiment which runs through them: her pen is always intent to improve life and cultivate its refinements; but besides this practical trait she has cultivated the imaginative element in American fiction with success. The Indian character in “Hope Leslie” is identified in the local feeling with the streams and mountain scenery of the region in which the author resides.
The most renowned of the female novelists of the earlier period, Miss Catharine M. Sedgwick, from her home at Stockbridge, gave to the world an excellent series of native tales.
Another almost forgotten writer. Her “Hope Leslie,” a novel, was among the most popular in the circulating libraries in 1842, although written fifteen years previously. As an American novelist Miss Sedgwick showed great skill in choosing American subjects. The local traditions, scenery, manner, and costume being thus entirely familiar, she had greater freedom of the creative faculty.
Although the day of the leisurely two-volume novel has nearly passed, Miss Sedgwick’s novels are still readable. Her greatest defect is the sermonizing tendency of her day, which filled her novels with diffuse and tedious pages. Her excellencies are the quiet, truthful pictures of her native Massachusetts home life.
What Irving was pleased to designate as “the classic pen of Miss Sedgwick” vied in favor with Cooper’s stronger quill. Her “Redwood,” remembered for Debby Lennox, its Yankee spinster, was reprinted in England and translated into French. Her “Hope Leslie,” a story of the early Colonial days, ran through edition after edition, and “The Linwoods,” depicting Revolutionary times, accomplished the feat of wringing copious tears from her publisher, one of the Harper brothers, as he read the proof-sheets.
