A Biographical Dictionary of the Celebrated Women of Every Age and Country/Rowe, (Elizabeth)
Till the death of his wife, her father resided at Ilchester, but soon after removed into the neighbourhood of Frome, in the same county, where he had an estate, and was highly respected. The pious and exemplary life of this good man seems to have had great effect on his daughter's mind, which was religiously inclined from her childhood.—In her Devout Exercises of the Heart, published by Dr. Watts, she says "I humbly hope I have a rightful claim; thou art my God, and the God of my religious ancestors, the God of my mother, the God of my pious father: dying and breathing out his soul, he gave me to thy care; he put me in thy gracious arms, and delivered me up to thy protection; he told me thou wouldst never leave nor forsake me; he triumphed in thy long experienced faithfulness and truth; and gave his testimony for thee with his latest breath."
Miss Singer gave early indications of a taste for the sister arts, poetry and painting. She began to write verses at twelve years of age; and loved the pencil, when she had hardly strength and steadiness of hand sufficient to guide it; and, in her infancy, one may almost venture to say so, would squeeze out the juices of herbs to serve her instead of colours. Mr. Singer perceiving her fondness for this art, was at the expence of a master to instruct her in it; and it never ceased to be her amusement at times, until her death.
But her strongest bent was to poetry and writing. Poetiy, indeed, was the most favourite employment of her youth. So prevalent was her genius this way, that her very prose hath all the charms of verse, without the fetters; the same fire and elevation, the same bright images, bold figures, a rich and flowing diction. She could hardly write a familiar letter but it bore the stamp of a poet. In the year 1696, the twenty-second of her age, a collection of her poems, on various occasions, was published at the desire of two of her friends, to which the signature of Philomela was affixed. Though many of these poems are of a religious kind, and all of them consistent with the strictest regard to the rules of virtue; yet some things in them gave her no little uneasiness in advanced life. Not satisfied to have done nothing that injured the cause of virtue, she was displeased with herself for having written any thing that did not directly promote it.
Of her two sisters, one died in childhood; the other survived to her twentieth year. She had the same extreme passion for books, chiefly those of medicine, in which art she arrived to a considerable insight.
What first introduced her to the notice of the noble family at Longleat, was a little copy of verses, with which they were so highly delighted as to express a curiosity to see her; and the friendship that commenced at that time, subsisted ever after; not more to her honour, who was the favourite of persons, so much superior to her in the outward distinctions of life, than to the praise of their judgment and taste, who knew how to prize, and took a pleasure to cherish such blooming worth. She was not then twenty. Her Paraphrase of the 38th Chapter of Job was written at the request of Bishop Kenn, and gained her a great deal of reputation.
She had no other tutor for the French and Italian languages, than the Honourable Mr. Thynne, son to the Lord Viscount Weymouth, who willingly took that task upon himself, and had the pleasure to see his fair scholar improve so fast under his lessons, that in a few months she was able to read Tasso's Jerusalem with great ease.
Her merit, and the charms of her person and conversation, procured her many admirers; and among others it is said that the celebrated Prior made his addresses to her. There was certainly much friendship, if not love between them; and Mr. Prior's answer to her Pastoral on those subjects, gives room to suspect, that there was something more than friendship on his side. He likewise addressed the poem which follows that in bis works to her. But Mr. Thomas Rowe was the object of her choice. He was a man of uncommon parts and learning, author of eight Lives of the Ancients, in continuation of Plutarch, which were published, and afterwards translated into French.
They were married 1710, in her 36th year. The almost saint-like innocence of her life, the felicity of her natural disposition, and the superior sprightliness of her temper, which she always retained, seem to have prolonged the period, not only of her beauty, but youth, beyond their ordinary limits. The appearances of age had not time to steal upon a mind engaged only in the contemplation of sublime and noble subjects. This observation may seem misplaced; but Mr. Rowe was but twenty-three. Though not a regular beauty, she possessed a large measure of the charms of her sex. She was of a moderate stature, her hair a fine auburn, and her eyes of a darkish grey, inclining to blue, and full of fire. Her complexion was very fair, and a natural rosy blush glowed in her cheeks. She spoke gracefully, and her voice was exceedingly sweet and harmonious, perfectly suited to that gentle language which always flowed from her lips. But the softness and benevolence of her aspect is beyond all description: it inspired irresistible love, yet not without some mixture of that awe and veneration which distinguished sense and virtue, apparent in the countenance, are wont to create.
On the marriage of these two accomplished persons alike favourites of nature and fortune, a learned friend of Mr. Rowe's wrote a Latin epigram, which was translated: No more, proud Gallia, bid the world revere
Thy learned pair, Le Fevre and Dacier;
Britain may boast this happy day unites
Two nobler minds in Hymen's sacred rites:
What they have sung, while all th' inspiring Nine
Exalt the beauties of the verse divine,
The former (humble critics of the strain)
Shall bound their fame, to comment and explain.
Mr. Rowe had not a robust natural constitution, which was also impaired by intense application. In the latter end of 1714, he appeared to labour under all the symptoms of a consumption. This fatal distemper, after having confined him for some months, put a period to his life, 1715, in his 28th year. He died at Hampstead. The elegy she wrote on his death, is deservedly ranked amongst the most admirable of her poetical works.
She expressed to the last moments of her life the highest veneration for his memory, and a particular regard and esteem for his relations; several of whom she honoured with a long and most intimate friendship. A short time before her death, she shewed how incapable she was of forgetting him, by shedding fresh tears at the mention of his name.
It was only out of regard to Mr. Rowe, that with his society she was willing to be at London during the winter season, and, as soon after his decease as her affairs would permit, she indulged her unconquerable inclination for solitude, by retiring to Frome, in Somersetshire, in the neighbourhood of which place the greatest part of her estate lay. When she forsook the town, she determined to return to it no more, but to spend the remainder of her life in an absolute retirement; yet on some few occasions she thought it her duty to violate this resolution. In compliance with the importunate request of the Honourable Mrs. Thynne, she passed some months with her in London, after the death of her daughter, the Lady Brooke; and, on the melancholy occasion of the decease of Mrs. Thynne herself, she could not dispute the commands of the countess of Hertford, who earnestly desired her to reside some time with her at Marlborough, to soften, by her conversation and friendship, the severe affliction of the loss of so excellent a mother: and I think, once or twice, the power this last lady had over Mrs. Rowe drew her, by an obliging kind of violence, to spend a few months with her at some of the earl's seats in the country. Yet, even on these occasions, she never quitted her retreat without regret.
In this recess she composed the most celebrated of her works. Friendship in Death, 1728, and the several parts of the Letters moral and entertaining, in 1729 and 1731. The design of both is, by fictitious examples of the most generous benevolence and heroic virtue, to allure the reader to the practice of every thing that ennobles human nature, and benefits the world; and by just and lively images of the sharp remorse and real misery that attend the false and unworthy satisfactions of vice, to warn the young and unthinking from being seduced by the name of pleasure, to inevitable ruin. Mr. Cowley observed of her, that she possessed so much strength and firmness of mind, and such a perfect natural goodness, as could not be perverted by the largeness of her wit, and was proof against the art of poetry itself. These Letters, which are more popular than any of her other works (excepting perhaps a few of her Hymns, which certainly have no superior in that species of composition in our language) are in very extensive circulation.
In 1736, the importunity of some of Mrs. Rowe's acquaintance, who had seen the History of Joseph, in manuscript, prevailed on her (though not without real reluctance) to suffer it to be made public. She wrote this piece in her younger years, and when first printed, had carried it no farther than the marriage of the hero; but, at the request of her friends, particularly of the Duchess of Somerset, that the relation might include Joseph's discovery of himself to his brethren, she added two other books; the composing of which, I am informed, was no more than the labour of three or four days. This additional part, which was her last work, was published but a few weeks before her death.
This grand event, to prepare for which she had made so much the business of her life, befel her, according to her wish, in her beloved recess. She was favoured with an uncommon strength of constitution, and had passed a long series of years with scarce any indisposition severe enough to confine her to her bed. But about half a year before her decease, she was attacked by a distemper, which seemed, to herself as well as others, attended with danger: though this disorder, as she expressed herself to one of her most intimate friends, found her mind not quite so serene, and prepared to meet death, as usual; yet, by devout contemplations on the atonement and mediation of Our Blessed Redeemer, she had fortified herself against that fear and diffidence, from which the most exalted piety does not always secure us.
After this threatening illness, Mrs. Rowe recovered her usual good state of health; and though at the times of her decease she was pretty far advanced in age, yet her exact temperance, and the calmness of her mind, undisturbed with uneasy cares and passions, encouraged her friends to flatter themselves with a much longer enjoynnent of her society, than it pleased heaven to allow them. On the day in which she was seized with that distemper, which in a few hours proved mortal, she seemed, to those about her, to be in perfect health and vigour. In the evening, about 8 o'clock, she conversed with a friend with all her wonted vivacity, and not without laughter; after which she retired to her chamber. At about ten, her servant hearing some noise in her mistress's room, went up and found her fallen off her chair on the floor, speechless, and in the agonies of death. She had the immediate assistance of a physician and surgeon, but all the means used were without success; and, after having given one groan, she expired, 1736–7, in the sixty-third year of her age: her disease was judged to be an apoplexy. A pious book was found lying open by her, and also some loose papers, with unconnected sentences, or prayers.
Though, from the gaiety and cheerfulness of her temper, she seemed peculiarly fitted to enjoy life, and all its innocent satisfactions; yet, when her acquaintances expressed to her the joy they felt on seeing her look so well, and possessed of so much health as promised many years to come, she was wont to reply, "that it was the same as telling a slave his fetters were like to be lasting; or complimenting him on the strength of the walls of his dungeon."
She was buried, according to her own request, under the same stone with her father, in the meeting-place at Frome. Her death was lamented with very uncommon and remarkable sorrow, by all who had heard of her virtue and merit, but particularly those of the town where she had so long resided, and her intimate acquaintance. Above all, the news of her death touched the poor and distressed with inexpressible affliction; and at her doors, and over her grave, they bewailed the loss of their benefactress, poured blessings on her memory, and recounted to each other the gentle and condescending manner with which she had heard their requests, and the numerous instances in which they had experienced her unexampled goodness and bounty.
In her cabinet were found letters to several of her friends, filled with the kindest professions of unalterable friendship, and the tenderest concern for their immortal welfare. The following sentiments I must transcribe: "It would not be worth the while to cherish the impressions of a virtuous friendship, if the generous engagement was to be dissolved with mortal life; such a thought would give the grave a deeper gloom, and add horrors to the fatal darkness.
"But I confess, I have brighter expectations, and am fully persuaded, those noble attachments that are founded on real merit are of an immortal date. That benignity, that divine charity, which just warms the soul in these cold regions, will shine with new lustre, and burn with an eternal ardour in the happy seats of peace and love.
"My present experience confirms me in this truth; the powers of nature are drooping, the vital spark grows languid and faint; while my affection for my surviving friends was never more warm, my concern for their happiness was never more ardent and sincere."
Her acquaintance with the great had taught her all the accomplishments of good breeding, and complaisance of behaviour; and without formality or affectation she practised, in a distant solitude, all the address and politeness of a court; but she learned no more than the real elegancies of grandeur. She was very remote from extravagance in habit. The labours of the toilette consumed very little of her time: she justly despised the art of dress and ornament, and endeavoured to infuse the same contempt of them into all her acquaintance; yet without falling into the other extreme of indecent negligence.
She had the happiest command over her passions; and maintained a constant calmness of temper, and sweetness of disposition, that could not be ruffled with adverse incidents, or soured by the approach of old age; scarcely ever discovering any anger, except on occasions, when some degree of indignation is not only irreproachable, but truly deserves the name of commendable and virtuous zeal. Scandal and detraction appeared to her extreme inhumanity, which no charms of wit and politeness could make tolerable. In a letter to an old friend, she says, "I can appeal to you, if you ever knew me make an envious, or an ill-natured reflection on any person on earth." If she was forced to be present at such kind of conversation, she had sometimes (when the freedom might decently be used) the courage openly to condemn it, and always the generosity to undertake the defence of the absent, when unjustly accused, and to extenuate even their real faults and errors. She had few equals in conversation.
The native grandeur of her soul, preserved it from a fondness for any kind of luxury, judging it much beneath the dignity of a being possessed of reason, and born for immortality. Play, she believed, at best was but an art of losing time, and forgetting to think, and therefore never learned any game, however polite or fashionable. She mixed in no parties of pleasure, and extremely despised the trivial and uninstructive conversation of formal visits, which she avoided as much as possible.
The love of money she thought the most sordid and ignoble of passions, and was so far from that rigour in exacting her due, which approaches to inhumanity, that her neglect of her interest might rather be censured as excessive: she let her estates beneath their intrinsic value, and was so gentle to her tenants, that she would not so much as suffer them to be threatened with the seizure of their goods, on the neglect of payment of their rents. She trembled at the idea of injustice, and the delicacy of her conscience, with regard to this sin, was so great, that she hardly thought she could keep far enough from it. She devoted the whole of her income, but what was barely sufficient for the necessities of life, to the relief of the indigent and distressed; and it is astonishing, how the moderate estate she was possessed of could supply such various and extensive benefactions as she was in the habit of bestowing. The first time she accepted of a gratification from the bookseller for any of her works, she bestowed the whole sum on a family in distress. And once, when she had not by her a sum of money sufficient to supply the like necessities of another family, she readily sold a piece of plate for that purpose. She was accustomed, on going abroad, to furnish herself with pieces of money of different value, that she might relieve any objects of compassion who should fall in her way, according to their several degrees of indigence. She contributed to some designs that had the appearance of charity, though she could not approve of them in every respect; for she said, "it was fit, sometimes, to give for the credit of religion, when other inducements were wanting, that the professors of christianity might not be charged with covetousness,"—a vice which she abhorred so much, that scarce any grosser kind of immorality could more effectually exclude from her friendship. Besides the sums of money she gave away, and the distribution of practical books on religious subjects, she employed her own hands in labours of charity to clothe the necessitous. This she did, not only for the natives of the Lower Palatinate, when they were driven from their country by the rage of war, but it was her frequent employment to make garments of almost every kind, and bestow them on those who wanted them. She discovered a strong sense of humanity, and often shewed her exquisite concern for the unhappy, by weeping over their misfortunes. These were the generous tears of virtue, and not from any weakness, for she was rarely observed to weep at afflictions that befel herself. She used to visit the sick and wretched, to inquire into and supply their wants; and caused children to be taught to read and work, furnishing them with clothing and good books. This she did not only at Frome, but in a neighbouring village, where part of her estate lay. And when she met with children of promising countenances, who were perfectly unknown to her, if, upon inquiry, it appeared, that through the poverty of their parents they were not put to school, she added them to the number of those taught at her own expence. She instructed them herself in the plain and necessary principles and duties of religion; and the grief she felt when any of them did not answer the hopes she had entertained was equal to the great satisfaction she received when it appeared that her care and bounty had been well placed. Her charities were not confined to those of her own opinions; all partook of her bounty. Nor was her beneficence confined to the poor, since she used to say, "It was one of the greatest benefits that could be done to mankind, to free them from the cares and anxieties that attend a narrow fortune;" in pursuance of these generous sentiments, she has been often known to make large presents to persons, who were not oppressed with the last extremes of indigence.
Mrs. Rowe declined all honours that might have been paid her, on account of her works, by not prefixing her name to any of them, except a few poems in the earlier part of her life. The same modest disposition of mind appears in the orders that she left in writing to her servant, in which, after having desired that her funeral might be by night, and attended only by a small number of friends, she adds, "Charge Mr. Bowden," (the gentleman who preached the funeral sermon) "not to say one word of me in the sermon. I would lie in my father's grave, and have no stone nor inscription over my vile dust, which I gladly leave to oblivion and corruption, till it rise to a glorious immortality."
Filial piety was a remarkable part of her character. She loved her father as she ought, and repaid his uncommon care and tenderness by the just returns of duty and affection. She has been heard to say, "that she would rather die than displease him;" and the anguish she felt at seeing him in pain, in his last sickness, was so great, that it occasioned some kind of convulsion; a disorder from which she was wholly free in every other part of her life.
When she entered into the marriage state, the highest esteem and most tender affection appeared in all her conduct to Mr. Rowe; and by the most gentle and obliging manner, and the exercise of every social and good-natured virtue, she confirmed the empire she had gained over his heart. She complied with his inclinations, in several instances to which she was naturally averse, and made it her study to soften the anxieties, and heighten all the satisfactions of his life.
Her capacity for superior things did not tempt her to neglect the less honourable cares which the laws of propriety impose on the wife. Mr. Rowe had some mixture of natural warmth in his temper, which he could not always command; but she always remained mistress of herself, and by the gentlest language and endearments, studied to restore his mind to that calmness which reason approves. And equally endeavoured by persuasion, far remote from any airs of superiority, to lead him on to that perfection of virtue, to which she aspired with the truest christian zeal. During his long illness, she scarce ever stirred from him a minute, and alleviated his affliction by performing with tenderness and assiduity, all the offices of compassion suited to that melancholy season.
She was a gentle and kind mistress; treated her servants with great condescension and goodness, and almost with the affability of a friend and equal. A warm and generous friend, just, if not partial, to the merit, and most gentle and candid to the errors, of those she loved. She was always forward to do them good offices, but in a distinguished manner she studied, with infinite art and zeal, to insinuate the love of virtue into all her acquaintance, and to promote their most important interest, by inciting them to the practice of every thing that would recommend them to the higher degrees of the divine favour. This she proposed as the best end of friendship.
Mrs. Rowe was not entirely free from the attacks of malice, yet one could scarce learn from her discourse that she had an enemy; for she was not wont to complain of any injuries done to herself: so that it was apparent, such things made light impression on her mind; or that she endeavoured to efface them with the happiest success.
Strict in every christian and moral duty, she possessed the serenity and cheerfulness of temper, which seem naturally to flow from conscious virtue, and the hope of the divine favour. Her whole life appear not only a constant calm, but a perpetual sunshine, and every hour of it sparkled with good humour and inoffensive gaiety.
Amongst the number of her friends, who were remarkable for their rank, virtues or talents, Dr. Watts ought to have been mentioned.
Besides the works mentioned, are Miscellaneous Works, two volumes in 8 vo, which are valuable books, and especially the second volume, that contains her letters to the duchess of Somerset. They are lively and rational, and have many fine sentiments. Devout Exercises of the Heart, published by her friend Dr. Watts, and dedicated by him to the countess of Hertford.