# A Cyclopaedia of Female Biography/Gilman, Caroline

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GILMAN, CAROLINE,
One of those estimable women who are doing good in whatever way duty opens before them, be it to write, teach, or work, with unfailing zeal and cheerfulness. She has given the reminiscences of her early days in her own pleasant vein; and from it we extract these characteristic passages.
"I am asked for some 'particulars of my literary and domestic life.' It seems to me, and I suppose at first thought it seems to nil, a vain and awkward egotism to sit down and inform the world who you are. But if I, like the Petrarchs, and Byrons, and Helmanses, greater or less, have opened my heart to the public for a series of years, with all the pulses of love, and hatred, and sorrow, so transparently unveiled, that the throbs may be almost counted, why should I or they feel embarrassed in responding to this request? Is there not some inconsistency in this shyness about autobiography?
I find myself, then, at nearly sixty years of age, somewhat of a patriarch in the line of American female authors—a kind of past-master in the order.
The only interesting point connected with my birth, which took place October 8th., 1794, at Boston, Massachusetts, is that I first saw the light where the Mariner's Church now stands, in the North Square. My father, Samuel Howard, was a shipwright; and, to my fancy, it seems fitting that seamen should assemble on the former homestead of one, who spent his manhood in planning and perfecting the noble fabrics which bear them over the waves. All the record I have of him is, that on every State Thanksgiving-Day he spread a liberal table for the poor; and for this, I honour his memory.
My father died before I was three years old, and was buried at Copp's Hill. My mother, who was an enthusiastic lover of nature, retired into the country with her six children, and placing her boys at an academy at Woburn, resided with her girls, in turn at Concord, Dedham, Watertown, and Cambridge, changing her residence almost annually, until I was almost ten years old, when she passed away, and I followed her to her resting-place, in the burial-ground at North Andover.
My education was exceedingly irregular—a perpetual passing from ​school to school—from my earliest memory. I drew a very little, and worked the Babes in the Wood on white satin; my teacher and my grandmother being the only persons who recognised, in the remarkable individuals that issued from my hands, a likeness to those innocent sufferers. I taught myself the English guitar, at fifteen, from hearing a school-mate take lessons, and composed a tune, which I doubt if posterity will care to hear. By depriving myself of some luxuries, I purchased an instrument, over which my whole soul was poured in joy and sorrow for many years. A dear Mend was kind enough to work out all my sums for me, while I wrote a novel in a series of letters, under the euphonious name of Eugenia Fitz-Allen. The consequence is, that, so far as arithmetic is concerned, I have been subject to perpetual mortifications, and shudder to this day when any one asks me how much is seven times nine.
The religious feeling was always powerful within me, and at sixteen I joined the communion at the Episcopal church at Cambridge. At the age of eighteen, I made another sacrifice in dress to purchase a Bible, with a margin sufficiently wide to enable me to insert a commentary. To this object I devoted several months of study, transferring to its pages my deliberate convictions. I am glad to class myself with the few who first established the Sabbath-school and benevolent society at Watertown, and to say, that I have endeavoured under all circumstances, wherever my lot has fallen, to carry on the work of social love.
At sixteen, I wrote 'Jepthah's Rash Vow,' and was gratified by the request of an introduction from Miss Hannah Adams, the erudite, the simple-minded, and gentle-mannered author of 'The History of Religions.' The next effusion of mine was 'Jairus' Daughter,' which I inserted, by request, in 'The North American Review,' then a miscellany. A few years later, I passed four winters at Savannah, and remember still vividly the love and sympathy of that genial community.
In 1819, I married Samuel Oilman, and went to Charleston, South Carolina, where he was ordained pastor of the Unitarian Church.
In 1832, I commenced editing the 'Rose Bud,' a hebdomadal, the first juvenile newspaper, if I mistake not, in the Union. From this periodical I have reprinted, at various times, the following volumes: 'Recollections of a New England Housekeeper,' Recollections of a Southern Matron,' 'Ruth Raymond, or Love's Progress,' 'Poetry of travelling in the United States,' 'Tales and Ballads,' 'Verses of a Life-time,' 'Letters of Eliza Wilkinson during the invasion of Charleston.' Also several volumes for youth, now collected in one, and recently published as 'Mrs. Oilman's Gift-Book.'
My Heavenly Father has called me to various trials of joy and sorrow, and I trust they have all drawn me nearer to Him. I have resided in Charleston thirty-one years, and shall probably make my final resting-place in the beautiful cemetery adjoining my husband's church—the church of my faith and my love."
The character of Mrs. Oilman's writings, both prose and poetry, is that of a healthy imagination and cheerful mind—just what her reminiscences would lead us to expect. She sees no "lions in her path," and she never parades fictitious woes. She admires nature, delights in social enjoyments, and chooses the dear domestic affections and ​household virtues for themes of story and song. Her pictures of southern life are vivid and racy; she excels in these home-sketches, and her moral lessons evince the true nobility of her soul.