Memoir of Mary L. Ware, Wife of Henry Ware, Jr.
by Edward B. Hall · English · Gutenberg #36928 · 796,332 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Memoir of Mary L. Ware, Wife of Henry Ware, Jr.
Author: Edward B. Hall
Release date: July 31, 2011 [eBook #36928]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
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Credits: Produced by Julia Miller, Mary Meehan and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMOIR OF MARY L. WARE, WIFE OF HENRY WARE, JR. ***
Produced by Julia Miller, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
MEMOIR OF MARY L. WARE,
WIFE OF HENRY WARE, JR.
BY EDWARD B. HALL.
Seventh Thousand.
BOSTON:
CROSBY, NICHOLS, AND COMPANY.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES S. FRANCIS AND COMPANY
1854.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by
CROSBY, NICHOLS, AND COMPANY,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
CAMBRIDGE:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY
METCALF AND COMPANY,
PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
I. INTRODUCTION
II. CHILDHOOD
Parentage.--Character of the Mother.--First Training of Mary
Pickard.--Early Visit to England.--Friends there.--Voyage
Home.--Extracts from Letters.--Residence in Boston.--Pearl
Street.--First Friendships.--Nature and Education.--A Friend's
Description of Mary.
III. MENTAL AND MORAL CULTURE
School at Hingham.--A Teacher's Reminiscence.--Sickness and
Death of Mrs. Pickard.--Mary's Position.--Her Father's
Circumstances.--Dr. Park's School.--Earliest Letters.--Thoughts
and Themes.--Chosen Friend.--Peculiar Confidence.--Return to
Hingham.--Teacher's Account.--Moral Decision and
Declaration.--Letters.--Joining the Church.--Henry Ware.
IV. DISCIPLINE AND CHARACTER
Mr. Pickard's Embarrassments.--His Correspondence with
Mary.--Her Sympathy and Faith.--Her Teacher's Testimony to her
Piety.--She leaves Hingham.--Her Grandfather's Death.--Devotion
to her Grandmother.--Visit to Northampton.--Her
Self-distrust.--Interest in Dr. Churning.--Letters on his
Preaching, and Interview with him.--Correspondence with Miss
Cushing.--Death of her Grandmother.
V. CHANGES AT HOME
Leaving Pearl Street.--Fears for the Future.--Pecuniary
Means.--Business and Travel.--New York and Baltimore.--Mr.
Pickard's Displeasure.--Return to Boston.--Letters on
Providence and Bereavement.--Death of J. E. Abbot.--Living in
Dorchester.--Morbid Feelings.--Marriage of her Friend.--Her own
Trials.--Influence upon others.--Interesting Case.--Dr.
Channing's Absence and Return.--Death of her Father.
VI. VISIT ABROAD
Loneliness.--Invitation to go Abroad.--Letters relating to
it.--A Friend's Admiration.--Arrival in England.--Mrs.
Freme.--Letters from London and Broadwater.--Isle of
Wight.--Paris.--Her Friends' Return to America.--She remains
with Relatives in England.--Chatham.--Burcombe House.--Many
Letters.--Arrival of E. P. F. from America.--Letters from
Sydenham.--Tour to Scotland.--Description of the Country.
VII. SCENES OF SUFFERING
The Poor Aunt.--Osmotherly.--Sickness and Sorrow among
Kindred.--Mary the Chief Nurse and Devoted Laborer.--Details in
Successive Letters.--She goes to Penrith.--Recalled to
Osmotherly.--Further Changes.--Her own Sickness.--Anxiety of
Friends in England and America.--Joy at her Escape.
VIII. NEW RELATIONS
Return from England.--Welcome Home.--Labors of Love.--Henry
Ware's Preaching.--Interest and Engagement.--Their Letters to
Friends.--Views of the Relation of Stepmother.--Parish
Relations and Duties.--Sense of Responsibility.--Desire of
Usefulness.--Visit to Northampton.--Disappointments.--Husband's
Illness at Ware.--She goes to him.--Thence to Worcester.--Birth
of her First Child.--Husband's Journey for Health.--Poetical
Epistle to his Wife.--Newton.--Return to Sheafe
Street.--Attachment and Removal.--Brookline.--Plan for
Cambridge.--Thoughts of Europe.--End of Parish Life.
IX. EUROPEAN TOUR
Sailing for England with her Husband.--Her Feelings at leaving
the Children.--Difference between this and her former
Visit.--Her Husband's Sickness and Depression.--The Great
Trial.--Their Route.--England and Scotland.--The
Continent.--Geneva and Letters.--The Treatise on Christian
Character.--Italy.--Naples and Rome.--Annual to Mrs.
Paine.--Birth of a Daughter.--Mr. Ware's Discouragement.--Mrs.
Ware's Anxiety.--Her Account of Sufferings and
Exertions.--Their Return to France and England.--His Excursion
alone.--Her Provision for her Aunt.--Letter to her
Children.--Passage Home.--Husband's Illness.--Arduous
Offices.--Her View of her own Constitution.
X. LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE
Final Leave of the Parish in Boston.--Removal to Cambridge--New
Position.--Chief Anxieties.--Pecuniary Straits.--Mrs. Ware's
Sickness, long and serious.--Husband's Feelings.--Emma's
Visit.--Letters to Mrs. Paine and Emma.--Mrs. Ware's Recovery
and Summons to Concord.--Mr. Ware's Illness there, and
Apprehensions.--Her Use of the Warning, and Habit of
Preparation.--Death of her Son Robert.--Her Account.--Devotion
to her Children.--Letters to John.--Cases of
Hospitality.--Crowded, but never worried.--Journal to
John.--Letters at the End of 1832 and 1833.--Dangerous Illness
of a Child.
XI. LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. (CONTINUED.)
Prudence in Sickness.--Mrs. Ware's View of it, and
Experience.--Her Principle and Practice in Regard to
Dress.--Exemption from Sickness.--Social and Private Efforts
for Others.--Moral Cases.--General Intercourse.--Sympathy with
Children.--Hatred of Gossip.--Husband's Severe Illness in
1836.--The Aid she rendered him.--Her Interest in the
Theological Students.--Their Testimony to her Kindness and
Influence.--Pecuniary Embarrassment--Death of a Sister.--View
of Events and Circumstances.--Continued Mercies.--Pleasant
Letters.--A Change approaching.--Various Records.--Her Husband
goes to New York.--His Sickness there, and her Joining
him.--Return, and Resignation of Office.--Dark
Prospects.--Strong Faith and Hope.--Leaving Cambridge.
XII. LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM
Pain of Removal.--New Residence.--Generosity of
Friends.--Extracts from Letters.--Faithful Domestic.--Views of
Service.--Larger Extracts.--Death of Dr Channing.--Kindness of
Neighbors.--Mr. Ware's Illness in Boston.--Her
Feelings.--Return to Framingham.--His Jaunts and final
Sickness.--His Death.--First Sabbath.--Burial at
Cambridge.--Letters to Children and Friends.--Isolation and
Suffering.--Labor, Mental and Manual.--Preparation of a
Memoir.--Communion with her Husband and the Departed
Ones.--Letters to her Son.--Looking for a new
Residence.--Decision for Milton.--Last Record of Framingham.
XIII. LIFE IN MILTON
Mrs. Ware's Fears of Loss of Power.--First Letter from Milton,
describing her Condition.--Progress of Mind seen in her
Letters.--Views of Education.--Reliance upon her
Children.--Various Records.--The New Cottage.--Love of
Nature.--Beginning of Disease.--Continued Work.--School.--Views
of separating Children.--Trust for Things Temporal and
Spiritual.--Annuals for 1845 and 1846.--Letters of
Sympathy.--Letters to her Children.--Son at Exeter.--Her Visit
there.--Views of Preaching and Preachers.--Tribute of a
Pastor.--Family Religion.--Important Letters.--Equanimity in
Sickness.--Death of Emma.--Visit to Cambridge.--End of the
Year.--The Time yet remaining.
XIV. THE END
Last Days natural, not wonderful.--Quietness and
Enjoyment.--Relative Duties.--Decline of Strength.--Disclosure
of her Disease.--Private Paper.--Visit to her Son.--Once more a
Nurse and Helper.--Sinking and Rallying.--Accounts of her by
Friends.--Her own Account.--Influence upon Others.--Her Pain at
being praised.--Letter from England.--Her last
Letter.--Conversation on the Future.--Her Pastor's
Visit.--Closing Expressions.--Her Husband's Words.--Death and
Burial.--Conclusion.
MEMOIR.
I.
INTRODUCTION.
The life of an unpretending Christian woman is never lost. Written or
unwritten, it is and ever will be an active power among the elements
that form and advance society. Yet the written life will speak to the
larger number, will be wholly new to many, and to all may carry a
healthy impulse. There are none who are not strengthened and blessed by
the knowledge of a meek, firm, consistent character, formed by religious
influences, and devoted to the highest ends. And where this character
has belonged to a daughter, wife, and mother, who has been seen only in
the retired domestic sphere, there may be the more reason that it be
transferred to the printed page and an enduring form, because of the
very modesty which adorned it, and which would never proclaim itself.
Such are our feelings in regard to the subject of the following Memoir,
and such our reasons for offering it to the public. It has not been
without scruple, and after an interval of years, that the family and
nearest friends of Mrs. Ware have consented to the publication of facts
and thoughts so private and sacred as many which must appear in a
faithful transcript of her life. Perhaps this reluctance always exists,
particularly in regard to a woman and a mother. In this instance it has
been very strong, and it is but just that it be made known. Never was
there a woman, we may believe, more retiring or peculiarly domestic than
she of whom we are to speak. Never, we are sure, were the materials of a
life more entirely private, and in one sense confidential, than those
which we are to use; for letters are all the materials we have, and
letters written in the unrestrained freedom of personal friendship, in
the midst of pressing cares, and with a rapidity and unstudied
naturalness, which will appear in all the extracts, but are still more
manifest in the entire originals. Her correspondence was voluminous, to
an extent unsurpassed perhaps in a life so quiet, with no pretence to
literary character, and nothing ever written except for the eye of the
receiver. How would the writer have felt, had she supposed these letters
were ever to be opened to the public eye? It is a question which many
ask,--some with pain, some with decided disapproval. It is a question
which we have asked ourselves, and we prefer to answer it before we
enter upon the work.
To answer it unfavorably, to yield to this natural reluctance to publish
any thing designed to be private, and in its nature personal, would
deprive us of the best biographies that are written. It would restrict
to single families, and to a brief period, the knowledge of facts and
features, of all most reliable, most valuable. Indeed, it is this very
fact of humility and reserve, of freedom and naturalness, indulged in
confidential communion and the quiet of home, that reveals most the
reality of virtue, force of character, disinterested nobleness, and the
power of religion. Who is willing that the knowledge of such examples
should be withheld from the many who crave it, and whom it would
stimulate and bless? Shall we make no sacrifice of our own feelings,
supposing it to require one, shall we hoard exclusively for our own use
the richest of God's gifts, when those by whom the gifts have come to us
spent their lives in service and sacrifice for us? To these obvious
considerations, we will add our firm faith in the knowledge which
departed friends have of the motives from which we are acting, and of
the influence which their own modest virtues and lowly efforts on earth
may exert upon those remaining here; thus continuing, in a higher and
surer way, the very work for which the loved and the pure always live,
and are willing to die.
It is in point, not only for our immediate purpose, but for the
exhibition in part of the character we would delineate, to say that
these were the feelings of Mrs. Ware herself, in regard to a memoir of
her husband. Public as a large portion of his life was, she shrunk from
the exposure of that which was private, and which seemed to be sacredly
committed to her own keeping. She remembered, too, his peculiar
sensitiveness in this connection, and the injunctions he gave when under
the influence of disease and depression. But another voice came to her
from his present higher abode and larger vision; and thus she wrote to a
friend, of the conflict and the decision, in language applicable now to
her own case:--"I cannot tell you the agony it has given me at times, to
realize that that sacred inner life, which I had felt was my own
peculiar trust, was no longer mine, but was to be shared by the whole
world. But this was sinful, selfish, earthly; and I have gradually left
it all far behind, and can now only be glad that such a life is shown
for the aid and encouragement of others."
It is our desire to give to this Memoir as much as possible of the
character of an autobiography. We have few facts except those found in
the letters, with the advantage of an intimate intercourse for more than
twenty years. In the several hundred letters and notes that have been
put into our hands, there is nothing that might not appear, so far as
any one else is concerned. This fact is well worthy of note, as
belonging to the character, and revealing a remarkable elevation and
purity of thought,--that in such a mass of free epistolary writing, from
different countries and to persons of every age, not a single severe
stricture, not one unkind allusion or offensive personality, much less
any approach to petty gossip, can be found. We feel the greater freedom
in making copious extracts; and shall attempt little more than so to
arrange and connect them as to give a fair view of the whole life, or
rather of the mind and character that appear in every part of the life.
That a life so private contained such a variety of incident, and a
measure of unavoidable publicity, was the ordering of Providence; and
may serve to show that the sphere of woman, even the most domestic and
silent, is broad enough for the most active intellect and the largest
benevolence.
II.
CHILDHOOD.
Mary Lovell Pickard was an only child, her parents having but one other,
who died an infant before the birth of Mary. She was born in Atkinson
Street, Boston, on the 2d of October, 1798. Mark Pickard, her father,
was an English merchant, who came to this country on business, and
remained here. Her mother was Mary Lovell, daughter of James Lovell, and
granddaughter of "Master Lovell," so long known as a classical teacher
in Boston. James Lovell, the grandfather of the subject of this Memoir,
was a man of mind and influence. He had been active in the Revolutionary
war, and was once made prisoner at Halifax, sharing there, it is said,
the prison of Ethan Allen. Subsequently he was a prominent member of the
Continental Congress, and at the adoption of the Constitution received
the appointment of Naval Officer in the Boston custom-house, a place
which he retained until his death. A man of free and bold thought,
associating much at one time with French officers, Mr. Lovell adopted
some infidel principles, became familiar and fond of Paine's arguments,
and, as we are led to infer, treated religion with little respect in his
family; the family in which Mary Pickard, as well as her mother, passed
her childhood and youth. James Lovell had nine children, but only one
daughter, Mary, who grew up the idol of the family. At the age of
twenty-five she married Mark Pickard, who was seventeen years her
senior, but not her equal in intellect or energy, we infer, yet always
kind and most tenderly attached to her. She was a woman of rare
excellence, in whose character, as drawn by those still living who knew
her well, we can see, as usual, much that accounts for the character of
the daughter.
Mrs. Pickard had been educated in Boston, and well educated, having a
naturally vigorous mind and strong common sense. She was a woman of
self-culture, loving books and choosing the best, conversing with marked
propriety as well as ease, and exhibiting decided energy and generosity
of character. In person, she is described as remarkable; of so
commanding figure, benignant countenance, and dignified demeanor, as to
draw general observation in public, and suggest the thought once
expressed by a gentleman of intelligence,--"She seems to me as if she
were born for an empress." Yet her empire was only the home, and her
life peculiarly domestic; with enough of discipline and change to prove
her fortitude, but never to damp her cheerfulness. She was a Christian.
In early life, perhaps from causes already referred to, her mind had
been disturbed, and apparently doubts raised, though never fixed, by
sceptical writers and so-called philosophical reasoners,--more common in
good society then than now, and more bold and insidious, notwithstanding
our complaints of present degeneracy. A gentleman to whom Mrs. Pickard
had once communicated her difficulties, and who was less a believer than
she, spoke of her the day after her death, in reference to that
conflict, as "one of strong mind, who took nothing upon trust" even at
that early age when she approached him with "obstinate questionings."
Whatever the effect upon his faith, her own was strengthened by all
inquiry and experience. She was a member of the Episcopal Church, though
apparently less a devotee to its ritual than Mr. Pickard. Not sect, but
piety, was the source of her power and peace. "In religion," says one
most intimate, "she was unostentatious and charitable, but decided and
sincere; and her whole life was an exhibition of the ascendancy of
principle over mere taste and feeling."
Such was the mother, who was the constant companion and instructor of an
only daughter, through the whole of childhood; for Mary never attended
school, that we can find, until she was nearly thirteen years old. But
in that best of schools for the very young, an intelligent and quiet
home, she was well instructed in the common branches, in habits of
order, refinement, and frugality, in principles of undeviating truth and
integrity, and in that most essential of all accomplishments for a girl,
whether in ordinary or exalted station, the use of the needle. Her
mother also taught her to sing, being herself passionately fond of
music, with one of the sweetest voices, and, though not a great
performer, enough so to impart a love of it to her child which always
continued, associated with holy recollections. "Often," says one, "at
early evening, just before going to rest, have I seen the little girl
upon her mother's lap, and have heard her singing her evening hymn:--
'Teach me to live, that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed'; &c."
In January, 1802, Mr. Pickard was called to England on business, and
took with him his wife and the little Mary, then but three years old.
They remained there a year and a half, visiting both his and her
relatives, in different parts of the kingdom; Mrs. Pickard being
connected, on her mother's side, with Alexander Middleton, a Scotch
farmer, in whose family Ferguson, the astronomer, lived as a shepherd
boy, and of whom, with his wife and three children, there are still
existing likenesses drawn in pencil by that lad, so celebrated as a man.
Among such friends, and in such new scenes, we can believe a deep
impression would be taken by an observing, thoughtful child, though at
an age when it is considered of little consequence what a child sees or
hears. Mary never forgot the enjoyment or the instruction of that visit.
When she was again in England, twenty years later, she wrote her friends
here that she was surprised to find herself recognizing her old home in
Guildford Street, London, and other objects with which she was then
familiar. And years afterwards, when her own children came round her
with the never-satisfied request, "Mother, do tell us about when you
were a little girl," the standing favorites were incidents which
occurred either in England or on the voyage home, and particularly the
following. During the voyage, her fifth birthday came round, and the
captain promised her baked potatoes for her dinner, but, as the cook
burnt them, threatened to give him the "cat-o'nine-tails"; when poor
little Mary, not taking the joke, burst into tears, and begged him "not
to hurt the kind, good sailor, who didn't mean to burn the potatoes."
A lady who came as passenger in the same vessel, has told us of the
peculiar sweetness of little Mary, and the universal interest and love
inspired by her in the ship's company. And this from no outward
attractions, or efforts to commend herself, but by the simple power of
goodness, and her ever-prompt obedience. If inclined to go anywhere, or
do any thing, not approved by her mother, it was always enough to
say,--"It will make me unhappy, my child, if you do that."
A few extracts which we are permitted to make from letters that passed,
during this absence abroad, between Mrs. Pickard and her parents, will
help to show the respect and affection which the daughter inspired, as
well as the interest felt in the little granddaughter.
Under date of January 10, 1802, James Lovell writes from Boston to his
daughter in England:--
"I constantly recur to the joyful consideration, that you,
though absent, are still left to me, an amiable object, within
the reach of hope, and a source of expected comfort for my last
days. I think of you, at this moment, as safely arrived with
your most worthy husband, and my _None-such_, in health, and
happy among your friends. My engagements in office, especially
since General Lincoln has been confined by sickness at
Hingham, have occupied me very much. Though it is evening,
little Dickey is bristling up and attempting to sing, that I
may not forget to tell my dear little _Molly Pitty_ how
constantly he looks for her in the morning, at the rattling of
the tongs and fender. Kiss the dear child for me.
"JAMES LOVELL,--need I add,
your affectionate father?"
In February, 1803, Mrs. Pickard writes home to her mother:--
"Your pickles and berries came in good order, and were very
acceptable, particularly to my darling Mary. She often thanks
you for them, and is now writing to you, and interrupts me
every minute to hear her read her letter. My father must not
laugh, and say I call my goose a swan; every one allows she is
a charming child. You will not be able to deny her a large
portion of your love, though you have so many lovely ones with
you. She has been an inexhaustible source of comfort to me
since I left you; and, as if she knew it would please us all,
most of her conversation is of home and the friends she left
there. She has a sad cold, but she says she is always happy.
Farewell, dear mother. God bless you all."
March, 1803. From the same:--
"We are still in Guildford Street, but think of going into the
country, where Mary may have more field for exercise. She is
pretty well, but wants a little country air. I wish you knew
all her little chat about you, so pleasing to hear, but so
foolish to write. She is very tall and lively.... Mr. P. is
even more anxious than I to go home. Mary is the only contented
one. She is happy all the time. She has a very sweet
disposition, and I hope will one day be as great a comfort to
you as she is to me. She is telling me a thousand little
affectionate things to say to you."
In the fall of this year the family returned to Boston, and lived with
Mrs. Lovell in Pearl Street; and there, with parents and grandparents,
Mary found a home, whose blessing filled her heart, and never left her
to the day of her death. The home of her childhood,--how reverently and
tenderly did she revert to it, through all the scenes of a changing and
eventful life! Often has she said, that she was continually carried
back, not only in her waking, but her sleeping hours, "to the old Pearl
Street house and garden; assembling the various friends of all the
different periods of her life, in dream-like incongruity, in the little
parlor, with its black-oak wainscoting." There also were formed some of
those first friendships, which do not cease with childhood, but affect
the happiness of a lifetime. The other half of the block in which they
lived was occupied by Colonel T. H. Perkins, and with his children, of
whom some were near her own age, she grew up in terms of daily intimacy.
In the partition between the two houses there were doors which were
entirely closed, except their keyholes; and through these, Mary and her
favorite companion used to sing to each other "all the songs we could
muster," and exchange notes and experiences, the pleasure enhanced, no
doubt, by the excitement of the little mystery occasioned by so peculiar
a mode of communication.
So far as our scanty materials of this period enable us to judge, we
infer that in the training of this favorite child there was a singularly
wise union of control and indulgence. Mrs. Pickard seems not to have
been one of the parents who think control and indulgence incompatible;
nor does it appear that Mary was inclined to refuse the one, or abuse
the other. The true training, we suppose,--if there be any rule for
all,--is that which allows to children all the freedom and enjoyment
consistent with deference to authority, refined manners, and fixed
principles of truth, gentleness, and unselfishness. That these
principles may be inculcated without sternness or perpetual restraint,
indeed with a large allowance for the necessary activity and often
irrepressible exuberance of childhood's spirit, few can doubt, though so
many deny or forget it in practice. From the views which Mrs. Ware
herself always expressed on this subject, and the reverence and
gratitude with which she adverted to her own childhood, we are confirmed
in the impression, that such was her uniform experience at home, and
with the happiest effect. "It has been said," writes a friend of her
mother, "that she was much indulged; and I believe it may be said so
with truth. But she was not indulged in idleness, selfishness, and
rudeness; she was indulged in healthful sports, in abundance of
playthings, in pleasant excursions, and in companionship with other
children, as much as might be convenient. I never knew her to be teasing
and importunate, obstinate or contradictory." Nor is this to be
ascribed, as many will be ready to ascribe it, to natural temperament
and a peculiar exemption from ordinary temptations and trials. Of few
persons, perhaps, would this be more generally inferred or confidently
asserted, from a knowledge merely of her subsequent character. It is on
this account that we refer to it particularly, and for this not least
that we value the example. For we know it was _not_ a case of peculiar
exemption and easy control, but rather a remarkable instance of early
conflict, the power of principle, and perpetual self-discipline. This we
gather from occasional hints in conversation, and from letters to her
own children, some of which will appear in their proper place. At
present, we only adduce, for the right understanding both of this and
later periods of her life, one or two short passages, like the
following, from a letter to a daughter. "The tendency to self-indulgence
was also one of my trials, in early life, when I grew rapidly and had
poor health." "My trials of temper were different from yours, but they
were very great." "What a comfort it is, that, although those who see
only the outside can never compute _what is resisted_, all our struggles
are known and appreciated by Him who looketh on the heart as it is; and
that He who alone can give us strength is thus enabled to know when and
how it is needed."
To this brief sketch of her childhood we venture to add an extract from
a letter just written us, by a gentleman than whom no one living,
probably, was more intimate with Mary and her home, at that early
period. After a warm tribute to the character of the mother, confirming
all we have said of her, he speaks thus of the daughter:--
"When I first remember her, it is as a gentle, loving, active
child, always doing some little useful thing, and the darling
of her parents' hearts. When her character first shone on me
in its higher attributes, I do not know. But I seem to myself
to remember, that there never was a time when I could have
supposed it possible that she would do any thing that was not
exactly right; when I had not perfect confidence in her tact
and judgment to discern duty, and the prompt and unhesitating
determination to do it, as _the only thing to be done_."
III.
MENTAL AND MORAL CULTURE.
Remaining in Boston, with little change, until she was thirteen years of
age, Mary Pickard was then taken by her parents to Hingham,
Massachusetts, to be under the care of the Misses Cushing, whose school
for girls enjoyed at that time, and as long as it continued, a very high
reputation. Her instructors there, who still live, seem to have regarded
her as a friend and companion, rather than a child and pupil; and the
fresh recollections and tender love with which they always speak of her,
and delight to dwell upon her early and mature character, give us an
impression of more than common excellence. This will best be shown by an
extract from a letter written since her death to one of her children.
"Your dear mother came to us first in June, 1811; a sweet,
interesting girl, thirteen years old, tall for that age, and
with the same sweet expression of countenance she ever
retained; remarkable even then for her disinterestedness and
forgetfulness of self, and her power of gaining the love of all
around her. She went home in November of the same year, and
returned to us again in 1814.... She was with us but little
more than one year in the whole, and in that short period
endeared herself to us in a remarkable manner. For with the
love which we could not but feel for her was mingled a respect
and admiration for her high principles, and the piety which
shone through all her conduct, in a degree very uncommon for a
girl of her age. As a scholar she was exceedingly bright, and
quick to comprehend, and would, I always thought, have made an
excellent mathematical scholar, had she pursued the study of
that branch. Her capacity for accomplishing a great deal in a
short time was always remarkable, and I believe she never
undertook any thing that she thought worth her attention, that
she did not go through to the satisfaction of others, if not of
herself. Her chief object, even when a young girl, seemed to be
to do good, in some way or other, to her fellow-beings, and she
considered nothing too difficult for her to undertake, if it
could benefit another person either in a temporal or moral
view. You have had sufficient evidence of this, since you have
been old enough to judge for yourself, and I can only tell you
that it seemed to be, at an early period of her life, a living
principle with her. Yet, with all this devotedness to the
highest objects and purposes of our existence, she was one of
the most lively and playful girls among her companions, and a
very great favorite with them all."
Mary had been but five or six months in the school at Hingham, when she
was called back to Boston by the threatening illness of her mother, who
continued feeble through the winter, and died in the month of May
following. That winter must have been one of peculiar experience to
Mary. It was her first great trial. She loved her mother, not only as
every true child must, but with a reverence and affection heightened by
the unusual circumstance of having been always the pupil of that mother
alone, regarded as a companion also, and called now to the tender
offices of a nurse, at an age when most children can ill bear
confinement and devotion to the sick. Mary was never happier than when
thus occupied, as her whole life has shown. To her it was no task, but a
grateful privilege, to spend all her time at the side of a revered and
departing mother. For six months was she allowed to give herself to this
blessed ministry; and when it closed, she was left, a girl of thirteen,
the sole comfort and chief companion of her father, now past the prime
of life, broken in spirits and in fortune, clinging to this only child
with doating and dependent affection. She now became an important member
of the family in Pearl Street, with her desolate father, and her
venerable grandparents, who were still living, depending themselves more
upon her for their comfort than upon the only son that remained with
them, a young man whose fine talents and affectionate disposition were
perverted and ruined by sad habits. These were circumstances to call out
all her energy, and make full proof of her judgment and gentleness. Mr.
Pickard had for some time been embarrassed in business, and, from a
state of easy competence, was then and afterwards reduced to the
necessity of the strictest economy. Of his daughter's essential service
to him in this respect, we have frequent intimations in his own letters;
and not only by her prudent management, but also by her generous and
active aid, as will be seen still more a few years later. For her father
survived her mother eleven years, and during the whole of that period,
though not always together, Mary was his efficient helper, and his
devoted nurse in sickness, of which he had a large share.
For two years after her mother's death, she remained wholly in Boston,
enjoying part of the time a new privilege, which she greatly
prized,--admission to the best school for young ladies then in New
England, or the country,--Dr. Park's. That she would improve such an
opportunity to the best of her ability, we need not say. Of her
proficiency as a scholar, there are no particular proofs. She was never
a prodigy, but she never slighted opportunity or duty. She appeared
always well, distinguished at least for faithful preparation and uniform
accuracy. And especially was she distinguished for moral excellence. She
was the friend and favorite of all. If petty difficulties occurred, Mary
Pickard was the peacemaker. Her impartiality, amiableness, kindness to
all, and perfect truthfulness, endeared her to the teacher and all the
pupils; from several of whom we have had the testimony, that no one ever
exerted a better influence upon any school.
The earliest letters we have from Mary were written in 1813, the year
after her mother's death, and about the time of her first going to
school in Boston. They are the letters of a school-girl, but not of a
child. While there is in them no indication of remarkable powers, to
which she did not pretend, nor her friends for her, they show a habit of
reflection and power of discrimination, with a choice of topics not
usual at that age. A few passages may be given, very simple and
juvenile, but indicative of character.
"_Boston, February 27, 1813._
"MY DEAR N----:
"I am determined another day shall not pass before I answer
your letter. I think it is the best way, when we receive a
letter, to sit down immediately and answer it; at least I find
it so, though I do not always practise it.... We talk so much
when we meet, that there is little left to write, and I am now
at a loss what to say. The folly of the fashionable world is an
old story, and if not, is too _vast_ a subject for our limited
views of it. Of our school plan we have said much, but we can
say more. I had no idea that such insignificant beings as we
are, in comparison, could ever afford matter for so much
conversation as there has been on this subject. Although
opinions could not alter the case, yet it is certainly very
satisfactory to know that our doings are approved by those
whose good opinion we value. I look forward with much pleasure
to the day on which we shall commence our studies. We shall
feel very awkward at first, but it will soon be over, and then
we must endeavor to keep ourselves exempt from the condemnation
that falls on the whole school for the faults of two or
three....
"I am reading 'Temper,' and like it much better than I expected
to, having heard nothing in its favor, and, besides that, being
_prejudiced_ against it. I have condemned prejudice in others,
but never felt the effects of it before; I dislike it now more
than ever,--it is certainly a most unreasonable thing. I like
some of the characters very much, and it is not as yet very
tedious, but contains many good lessons. I find many that I can
apply to myself, and (as usual) some to other people. It
cannot, however, be compared to 'The Absentee' or 'Vivian.'
Novels are generally said to be improper books for young
people, as they take up the time which ought to be employed in
more useful pursuits; which is certainly very true; but as a
recreation to the mind, such books as these cannot possibly do
any hurt, as they are good moral lessons. Indeed, I think there
is scarcely any book from which some good may not be derived;
though it cannot be expected that any young person has judgment
enough to leave all the bad and take only the good, when there
is a great proportion of the former. I know we are too young to
hold up an opinion of our own, independent of the superior
judgment of those older, and this I would not do. I have
collected mine from observation, and, if it is not right, would
thank any one to correct it; nor would I offer it at all to any
one but you, or those of my own age."
That last sentiment will seem _very_ juvenile to many young people of
the present day, but it is none the worse for that. Nor by this writer
was the expression of such sentiments restricted to that age; for
modesty and deference, combined with self-respect and decision, were
marked features and peculiar graces of the character we are presenting.
They are features and graces of a strong mind. Superciliousness, in
youth or maturity, is a sign of weakness. And it says little for the
improvement or the promise of the present, if it be true that respect
for experience, reverence for age, and meekness of expression, are rare
qualities in the young. Mary was still young, when she wrote to her
father,--"I am no advocate for destroying that delicacy which forms, or
ought to form, so great a part of the female character. But such a
degree of it as is not compatible with sufficient firmness to command
one's self in danger, appears to me to be false modesty, or 'sickly
sensibility of soul,'--beneath the dignity of beings endowed with power
for higher feelings." Here is that union of humility and courage which
marked her whole course.
In all her early letters there is an entire absence of that trivial talk
about dress, parties, and the gossip of the day, so common at her age.
Instead of it, we find remarks either upon moral and religious themes,
or upon her reading and studies. In the very earliest letter we have,
written in a child's hand, she speaks of her interest in the "Life of
Washington, in five large octavo volumes," and expresses the opinion,
that "the history of one's country ought to be the first historical
lesson of a child." About the same time, we find her deeply engaged in
an argument upon the moral influence of the study of astronomy; and her
mind rises to the highest and the largest views.
"The hand of Almighty God certainly should raise in our souls
such unbounded adoration and love, that our only object would
be, to be worthy to appear before the presence of such
excellent goodness, and partake of the joys of heaven. It seems
unaccountable, that any one could for a moment raise his eyes
to the sky and not be convinced of the being of some superior
power, who rules and directs the paths of the planets and the
ways of the children of men. If we for a moment transport
ourselves to another part of the universe, and behold our
little insignificant Earth in comparison with the rest, or with
any other planet, and consider how highly favored it has been
with the presence of the Son of its Creator, are we to think
that we alone are thus honored, and that superior worlds are
not endowed in the same manner with a knowledge of heavenly
things? But I find myself getting into an argument, on which,
though the subject may be interesting, the style of the writer
must be tedious."
These extracts are from letters written to a friend near her own age,
with whom there began at this time the longest and most confiding
intimacy of her life, out of the circle of immediate connections, if
indeed any exception need be made. To this friend are addressed some of
the first and last letters that Mary ever wrote, and by far the larger
number of all which we use for this sketch. It is an evidence of the
faithfulness of her friendships, that from the date of the earliest
letter we have, through nearly forty years, she wrote to that same
friend, beside other occasional letters, "a New Year's epistle," every
year, to the last in her life. And to her were confided her first and
deepest trials, disclosed to no one else, and beginning while at school.
There is something both ingenuous and magnanimous in such sentiments as
the following, from a girl of fifteen, whom the death of a mother had
placed in circumstances of peculiar responsibility, and often painful
perplexity.
"I expose to you my weaknesses, my faults, my passions. There
is but one thing of which I have the slightest apprehension.
You may sometimes hear me blamed for deeds which you know are
right. You will hear my lot in life envied, as apparently all
that the reasonable wishes of any being could desire. And
sometimes, too, busy Scandal, which honors even the most
insignificant with her notice, will glance at me. Your
generous, affectionate heart will prompt, I well know, on
those occasions, some defence of your friend. But never give
way to it; never whisper to the winds that she has any trials.
It will necessarily involve the question, What are they? You
are the only person to whom I ever communicated them, and my
conscience almost reproaches me for it. I try to think my
peculiar loneliness sanctions it, but my very uneasiness proves
it was not strictly right, and I would not for worlds sin
farther. You will bear with me. All this is foolish, but I must
say it. I defy any one to tell from my appearance that I have
not every thing to make me happy. I have much, and I am happy.
My little trials are essential to my happiness. They teach me
to value the only true sources of enjoyment this life can
afford,--the affection of the good, the cultivation of the
better feelings of the soul in the service of their Creator,
and the joyful hope of a better, purer state of existence.
Blessings and peace go with you, and pure, unalloyed felicity
be your portion for ever.
"MARY."
In the latter part of the year 1814, Mary left Boston for Hingham, to be
again in the family and under the tuition of the Misses Cushing. Of her
character then, and the renewed impression made upon her instructors, a
letter which we have recently received from one of them will give the
best idea; though, from regard to the writer's wishes, we quote but a
small part.
"I can hardly give you an idea of my feelings towards her,
during the whole of her residence with us, without seeming to
speak extravagantly. Every day's experience confirmed our first
impressions of her, and showed in some form the sweetness of
her disposition, her self-sacrificing spirit, and untiring
devotion to the claims of those about her. She possessed such
purity of heart, and elevation of principle, as were certainly
uncommon at such an early period of life, and which, it seemed
to me then, could only arise from a constant sense of the
Divine presence, and an habitual communion with the Source of
all good. Love was always, with her, the predominant feeling in
her thought of God, and I have heard her say she never
remembered the time when she did not feel that she loved God.
This was said, you may be sure, not boastingly, but from
surprise at hearing some one speak of the difficulty of giving
the heart to God."
And now came a crisis in that inner life, which was always greater to
Mary Pickard than the outward. Always thoughtful as well as cheerful,
her interest in religion, and her wish to be wholly a follower of
Christ, led her to an act, too rare with the young, and requiring, in
school and college particularly, courage as well as principle. She
desired to connect herself publicly with the Church. And the convictions
by which she was brought to this purpose, with the views she entertained
of the nature and importance of the act, we make no apology for giving,
as fully as we find them expressed in her own letters; for there are
older minds that might be instructed, and doubters who might be
admonished and aided, even by so youthful a believer. Mary had received
baptism in Trinity Church, Boston, but it is evident that in her moral
training more heed had been given to the cultivation of piety than to
adherence to forms and special doctrines. The preaching that she usually
heard, in the church of her parents, did not edify or satisfy her; a
fact which we give, without comment, as part of a faithful record, and
as we find it in her own account to a son, in one of the last years of
her life. The language in which she there describes her early religious
wants is unusually strong for her, and might seem extravagant. We give
only the result of her dissatisfaction with what she heard from the
pulpit. "The final effect upon me was, by throwing me more upon myself,
to open a new source of religious instruction to my mind; and I can now
remember with great pleasure, and a longing desire for the same vivid
enjoyment, the hours I passed in 'my little room,' in striving, by
reading, meditation, and prayer, to find that knowledge and stimulus to
virtue which I failed to find in the ministrations of the Sabbath." And
then most earnestly does she exhort her son not to let these things, or
any thing, tempt him "to treat sacred things with levity and
disrespect."
Few minds have kept themselves, through life, more free both from levity
and bigotry. At the time of which we speak, she seems to have thought
only of her own unworthiness, her need of religion, and the greatness of
the privilege offered her. A long note which she wrote to one of the
teachers with whom she was living, and to whom she confided all her
feelings, will explain the whole. It bears no date, but must have been
written in the autumn of 1814, when she was about sixteen.
"_Saturday Morning._
"Will you, my dear Miss C., pardon my addressing you in this
way, when under the same roof; but as I could not speak on the
subject I have now most at heart, in the presence of any one, I
did not think it right to engross exclusively so much of your
valuable time as would be necessary to say all I wish to. I
could not feel satisfied with my own conclusions, until I had
appealed to you, and I hope this will excuse the liberty I
take. Though still young, I have tasted the bitter cup of
affliction and disappointment, and have found thus early that
all worldly enjoyments are incapable of promoting happiness, or
even of securing present gratifications; and in every
deprivation have felt the healing balm of religion to be the
only source of consolation to the wounded spirit and afflicted
mind. But I may, indeed, say with sincerity, 'It is good for me
that I have been afflicted,' for it led me to reflect on the
end for which I was created, to examine my own heart, and, by
comparing it with the Christian standard, to prove its weakness
and awake to a sense of my danger. A very little reflection
convinced me I had been leading a very different life from that
which was requisite to form the character of a true Christian,
and that I must exercise my utmost powers to redeem the time
which I had lost, and which could never be recalled. Though I
cannot think the observance of any religious ceremonies
sufficient to secure future happiness, unless the motive for
their performance is founded on faith in the word of God, as
revealed to us by his Son, yet they seem to me necessary, not
only in a moral, but religious point of view, to the attainment
of that degree of perfection which we are taught it is in the
power of every one to attain.
"Ever since I have thought at all on the subject, it has been
my earnest wish to be admitted a member of the Church of
Christ. It is a duty which I cannot but think is of the highest
importance, both as it is fulfilling the last request of one to
whom we owe all we enjoy here or hope for hereafter, and as it
continually reminds us of our obligations to obey his
precepts, tends to make us better, and more worthy our high
calling. If we assume the name of Christians, and obey not
those positive commands of our Saviour which are in the power
of every one who is sincere, how can we expect to receive a
continuance of his favors? Fearing I was too young fully to
comprehend the use and importance of so solemn a rite, I have
delayed saying or doing any thing about it. I have thought much
on it, and summed up all the reasons which appeared to me to
prove it absolutely necessary to our happiness and well-being,
and all the objections that arose in my mind against the
propriety of young persons joining in it. I then read every
book on the subject I could meet with, and found in none of
them half as many objections as I had raised, and very few
arguments in its favor which I had not thought of. Do not think
it has made me think better of myself than I deserve,--far from
it; it made me feel more sensibly my own unworthiness, when
compared with what I continually saw I ought to be. Still, as I
could not give up all thoughts of it, I determined to appeal to
you. Tell me, my dear Miss C., if you should consider it a
violation of the sacredness of the institution, to think I
might with impunity be a member? I am well aware of the
condemnation denounced on those who partake unworthily, and I
tremble to think how liable I shall be to fall into error and
sin, and how much greater will be my responsibility. These
reflections have hitherto prevented my proposing it to my
father or any one, and now almost make me fear I am doing wrong
in writing to you. I am afraid I am presumptuous, and, did I
not view it rather as a means of religion than the end, I
should hardly suppose there were many who could say they were
worthy of it. I cannot think there is any _mystery_ connected
with it, as some are so eager to prove, and its very simplicity
renders it the more interesting and useful, and increases the
obligation to perform it.
"Forgive me, my dear Miss C., if I have said any thing wrong,
and correct me if you see any seeds of vice in me. Recollect I
have been the guardian of myself too long not to have erred
very much in my ideas of every thing; pity, and make me better,
if the task is not too discouraging; and be assured, the purest
love and gratitude of which I am capable will be the sincere
offering of your affectionate young friend,
"MARY."
The self-scrutiny and humility evinced in this note prevented any hasty
action. Mary seems still to have deliberated, and sought all the light
and direction she could obtain. A long letter, of which we give a
portion, to her true friend, N. C. S., in Boston, shows her state of
inquiry and progress.
"_Hingham, January 13th, 1815._
"You could not possibly have received more pleasure from
hearing Mr. Thacher's sermon, than I did from reading your
abstract of it. Nothing could be more satisfactory to me, who
still doubted whether it would not be a violation of the
sacredness of the institution, for any one so thoughtless and
liable to fall into sin and folly to join in such a holy
offering, with the good and faithful of the earth. But that was
enough to convince any one who believed the obligation in any
degree to be great, that it extended to young as well as old,
and would be an effectual means of turning them from error to a
knowledge of truth, would make them happy here, and be almost a
security of it hereafter. And though the punishment of those
who outwardly profess themselves disciples of Christ, and yet
devote their time and thoughts to the world, is inevitable, I
cannot but think it will be in a much greater degree inflicted
on those who wholly neglect it, particularly when once
convinced of its importance. We have both felt the power which
only the sight of others performing this duty has had on our
minds; what then will it be, when we join in it ourselves, and
feel the direct influence of those heavenly rays, which
enlighten the Christian at the altar of his God, and guide him
in his dreary progress through the world to heaven! Surely then
we should not hesitate; now, while it is in our power, it would
be absolute wickedness to neglect the performance of such a
reasonable and delightful act of duty.
"MARY."
But one doubt now remained in her mind; that caused by the many
differences among believers, and the numerous branches of the Christian
Church. But this she soon answered for herself, with her usual
simplicity and largeness of view. "I have considered the Church of
Christ to be one body diffused through the whole world, and that sects,
form, and opinion made in truth no essential difference;--that all the
various denominations of Christians on the earth were united in one
spirit and one mind, in all the important doctrines of religion." Not
long after, she received from her confiding friend an account of similar
feelings in herself, together with an excellent note from the Rev. John
E. Abbot, encouraging their serious purpose. Mary's reply follows.
"_Hingham, April 1st, 1815._
"I do, indeed, my dear friend, rejoice with you in the
unexpected and happy event your last letter informed me of. I
had felt all your doubts and fears as though they were my own,
and, I do assure you, participated in your joy with the same
sincerity. How much reason have we to be grateful for this
instance of the overruling Providence! Does it not sufficiently
prove, that, if with sincerity and pureness of heart we
undertake to perform any duty, we may rely on the assistance of
the Holy Spirit to guide our steps, and to cause all things to
concur to render it easy and delightful?
"I cannot tell you how much it increased my own happiness to
know that you, too, felt happy; for there is in the sympathy of
friends something that increases all our pleasures and
alleviates all our pains. It is to this I owe half that I enjoy
in this life, and without it wretched must be existence, even
in prosperity, and all other earthly blessings.
"I believe I have mentioned often to you the desire I had of
becoming one of the church here, if I could be sure of
remaining here this summer. When I found there was no doubt of
that, I had only to overcome the fears which a consciousness of
weakness and liability to relapse into former coldness still
kept alive in my mind. Now all have subsided, and I am
convinced that it is dangerous to delay so important a service.
From the moment I had decided what to do, not a feeling arose
which I could wish to suppress; conscious of pure motives, all
within was calm, and I wondered how I could for a moment
hesitate. They were feelings I never before experienced, and
for once I _realized_ that it is only when we are at peace with
ourselves that we can enjoy true happiness.
"... I think, all things considered, I was never more happy in
my life. It was a bright, clear night, and the moon which rose
just as I went to bed, shining full on me, seemed to reflect
the tranquillity of my soul, and appeared to me an emblem of
the mild light that was just dawning on my soul. I could not
sleep, and actually laid awake all night out of pure happiness.
"I will not trouble you with any more of my feelings at
present. On Sunday we were proposed, and the next Sabbath will
see the completion of all my hopes and wishes relating to
myself for two years past.
"I cannot at present write more, but will finish this next
week.
"MARY."
The church with which Mary connected herself was the Third Church in
Hingham, under the pastoral care of the Rev. Henry Coleman, with whom
she speaks of delightful interviews, receiving from him the best
instruction and counsel at that important period. She shows at the same
time her habit of thinking for herself, as well as her liberal and
humble spirit, in the casual remark, "Though I could not agree exactly
with him in every thing he said, as they were not essential points I
thought nothing of it, and received his advice with as much pleasure and
satisfaction as could possibly be." The same month she records the
completion of her wishes and her happiness.
"Last Sunday witnessed the accomplishment of my highest
desires; for I joined for the first time with those who compose
the church here, in commemorating the death of our blessed
Saviour. The feelings it excited are not easily described, and
as you will so soon experience them, you will thus be able more
fully to conceive of them than by any thing I could say. I know
you will derive much, very much satisfaction and happiness from
it; and I sincerely pray that it may be to us both a means of
becoming more like its heavenly Founder, and finding acceptance
with God through his intercession. I wish you could have heard
our dear Mr. C----. He was particularly interesting and
affecting; his prayers, too, are better than any I ever heard
(always excepting Mr. Channing); they breathe more of the true
spirit of Christian humility than is commonly to be found in
these days of pride.
"MARY."
About this time we find mention of an incident which appeared then of
little importance, but to which subsequent events, though quite remote,
have given so peculiar an interest, that it seems not right to omit it.
Mary Pickard, still a school-girl, saw for the first time the individual
with whom, twelve years after, her fortunes were to be connected for
life, but with whom, during that interval, she had no intercourse. HENRY
WARE, then a theological student at Cambridge, was on a visit to
Hingham, his native town, and passed an evening at Miss Cushing's. Mary
does not appear to have had any conversation with him, but simply saw
and heard him, and wrote to her friend in Boston a frank account of the
opinion she formed of him.
"_Hingham, April 9th, 1815._
"Again, my dear N----, I resume the delightful task of writing
to you, which, I assure you, gives me a degree of pleasure next
to that of talking with you, however you may judge from my
writing so seldom. Since Saturday I have experienced a pleasure
I never expected, the desire of which I have often expressed to
you. I have seen, heard, and consequently admired, your Exeter
friend, _H. Ware_;[1] and though his errand took something from
the delight his presence would otherwise have completed, it was
sufficiently great for the safety of so large an assembly of
young ladies. He was as agreeable as he could possibly be, and
fully satisfied all the expectations you had raised in my mind.
He spent Sunday evening here, and as he is very fond of music,
and it is usual for us to spend a part of this evening in
singing, we sung psalms from dusk until eight, when he was
obliged to leave us. He joined in all, and added very much to
the harmony and melody of our little choir. On Monday evening,
too, he was here, and much increased the good opinion that had
been formed of him. I thought his face indicated the greatest
purity and goodness; I never saw a more benign, delightful
expression on any face before, and much less any thing like it
in a gentleman. I will not, however, judge any one by their
face, particularly as I have not proved myself a good
physiognomist. Yet I cannot help being in some measure
influenced by it. How can I look at such a countenance as his,
and not be confident that there is a mind within correspondent
to it? There is, though, a want of energy in it, which I hope
is not in his character; but it is sometimes the case, that a
love of poetry, and habit of writing it, effeminate the mind of
man, while they only render more attractive and interesting
that of woman.
"He came for his sister Harriet, who has left us, very much to
my sorrow as well as that of all the family. She has an
uncommon mind, and possesses much original genius: it is very
seldom you see such proofs of it in one so young, as to put it
beyond doubt, that, under any circumstances, love of literature
would have been predominant. She is a great loss to us, and to
myself particularly so, as I can never hope to have it in my
power to cultivate her acquaintance as I should wish. But I
must be content, and if I can only have the power of
appreciating as they deserve those friends I now have, I think
it will be my own fault if I am not happy.
"With love to all friends, I must conclude by assuring you of
the firm affection of your friend,
"M. PICKARD."
[Footnote 1: He spent two years at Exeter, as teacher in the Academy.]
This was written the same month, and within a few days of the date of
that remarkable religious paper, which Henry Ware wrote for his own
sacred use,--"To be opened and read for improvement, once a
month,"[2]--seen by no other eye, probably, until Mary herself opened
it, as his widow! From this time they did not meet, as personal
acquaintance, until the year of their marriage.
[Footnote 2: Memoir of Henry Ware, p. 83.]
IV.
DISCIPLINE AND CHARACTER.
With all her deep happiness and cheerful aspect, Mary had many anxieties
and trials at this time. These were caused by her father's loss of
property and depression of spirits. Mr. Pickard seems never to have had
a large property, but was connected with one of the best firms in
Boston, and enjoyed a good reputation as a merchant and a man. In what
way reverses came upon him, we are not informed; but the period of which
we speak, just at the close of the war with Great Britain, may be a
sufficient explanation. Either from his own letters, or through others,
his daughter heard of his losses, and had written him a letter which we
do not find, but of which the following reply indicates the character.
"_Boston, April 17, 1815._
"I have just opened your letter. You are every thing that is
amiable and good; it is not possible to have a better child.
But you cannot enter into my feelings, because you know not my
situation. I will not trouble you with any more complaints, if
I can help it; I will only tell you that I have done nothing
that should make you ashamed of your father. If I have not
enough to pay every one their just dues, it is owing to
misfortune and events that I could not control. No one,
however, except the estate, is likely to suffer by me, and you
of course will be a joint loser; the whole, I hope, will not be
much. My anxiety is, how I shall get a living,--what I shall
subsist on. Without any capital, I can do no business. I long
for the time to come when I shall see you here.... I am about
making inquiry amongst my acquaintance for employment. If I
succeed, my mind will be easier; if not, what shall I do? I
know not. I had a long talk alone with cousin N---- last
evening. She tried to encourage me with the hope of being able
to support myself, as we calculated you would, after some time,
have enough to support yourself without mental or bodily
exertion. Yet I know, my dear child, that you would exert both
for me; but how much more satisfactory would it be to me to
support myself while I am able. It is not the change of
circumstances, but the dread of want, that depresses me. I did
hope, too, that you would have been in a better situation; but
you have a mind and spirits, I hope, to keep your heart at
ease; for you will be esteemed for your virtues. You see I
cannot help writing what is uppermost in my thoughts.
"Your very affectionate father,
"M. P."
We have not many of Mr. Pickard's letters, but all we have, even those
in which he writes in rather an unreasonable mood, as if expecting too
much of this endeared and devoted daughter, yet contain incidental
expressions which show his exalted opinion and almost respectful regard
for her, as well as a tender and grateful affection. He speaks of having
shown one of her letters to a friend, who was "highly gratified with the
seriousness and piety of your disposition; but she did not need that
proof of it; and in the troubles and vexations of this world, it is a
great consolation to me to have so good a child, whom I look forward to
as the comfort of my declining years; you know how much your letters
please me, and console me for your absence." This we can understand when
we read the letter which follows, probably in reply to that which we
have given above.
"_Hingham, April 22, 1815._
"I did not receive your letter, my dear father, until Thursday
afternoon, and cannot delay for a moment answering it. I should
be sorry to think you considered me so weak as to bend under a
change of fortune to which all are liable, and which does not
affect the interest of my friends or myself, while a
self-approving conscience is their support. I trust nothing
which can befall them with respect to the world will wholly
overcome their fortitude and confidence in the protection and
care of a Supreme Being. I can, I think, enter in some measure
into your feelings, and believe I can feel as you do with
regard to being dependent on others. I am prepared for almost
any trial; if my ability is equal to my desire of being of
service to you in misfortune, I do not fear but that I shall be
able to support myself, and at least not be a burden to you. I
am sorry you think so much of my situation. I shall never
regret the loss of indulgences which I have never been taught
to consider as essential to my happiness, and which do not in
any great degree conduce to it. I shall be content in any
circumstances, while I know you have not brought on yourself
calamity. I am not so proud that I should feel the least
repugnance to gaining a living in any useful employment
whatever; I feel that kind of pride which assures me that local
situation will not disturb my peace within, and with that I
could combat almost any thing. I can only regret the loss of
property, when it makes me an encumbrance to my friends, and
limits my power of communicating good. As to the former, I
think, while I can possibly do it, I had better remain here,
rather than burden any of my friends with my company, and I
will retrench other expenses for the sake of being independent;
for I do not think that any service I could do would compensate
for the trouble I should give; and with regard to the latter,
the _will_ will be present with me, and though the money means
were denied me, I do not despair of doing good in some way or
other. I shall do very well; my only anxiety is for you, lest
you give up hope of better times, and thus put a stop to the
mainspring of human action. I cannot but regret that what
belongs to the estate should be lost, for the obligations we
are under already to the family are more than can ever be
repaid, and obligations are to some people oppressive. I shall
see you soon, and will then make some arrangements. Till then,
I know not what to propose. I hope to hear from you soon. And
do write in better spirits; it will do no good to be
discouraged. With love to all, I remain your affectionate
daughter,
"MARY."
Those only who have experienced reverses, or have seen parents suffer
from them undeservedly, know how hard it is to sustain, beneath their
pressure, a cheerful and buoyant spirit. We can moralize upon the
comparative worthlessness of this world's goods, and call poverty and
pain light evils. It is a false view. Poverty and pain are positive and
great evils. Sin only is greater, and sin, it may be, is as often
engendered by these as by the opposite state of health and affluence. In
setting forth the dangers of prosperity, we are not to forget the
temptations and conflicts of adversity. Honor to the man or woman, who
maintains integrity and serenity in the hour of misfortune!
We mean not to intimate that the pecuniary perplexities of Mr. Pickard
and his daughter were extreme. But we believe them to have been enough
to test the power of character, and to throw a delicate and difficult
duty upon a daughter, so young, and so connected with friends who were
able and willing to help, but on whom she was not willing to lean. She
preferred to lean upon herself, though not in unaided strength. Seldom
do we find such evidence of early and entire reliance on a higher Power.
She had made her election. With the deliberation and firmness of mature
conviction, she had given herself to God, and was at peace. How
complete, though quiet, was that surrender, and how full and permanent
the peace, every subsequent year of her life bore witness. And there
were those who saw this in the beginning, and predicted its future
power. We are struck with the confidence expressed by judicious friends
in Mary's "piety,"--a word of deeper and larger import than belongs to
many beginners in the school of religion and life. It is an incomparable
blessing, when a faithful and experienced teacher can write to a pupil
thus:--
"Could I in any way serve you, how gladly would I do it! But
when I take my pen to write you, and my heart would dictate
something, which, to most of your age (particularly when so
early deprived of a mother's care), might be useful, I am
deterred by the thought of your maturity of mind, your
well-regulated affections, and correct and dignified
deportment. This is not flattery; you know me too well, I hope,
to believe me capable of that, where my heart is interested. It
is an opinion founded on a long, and for some time close
observation. May you feel in your own bosom the reward you so
richly deserve, and be sensible of those joys with which 'a
stranger intermeddleth not.' So early disciplined in the school
of affliction, your heart has felt the need of consolation
which the world has not to bestow; and at a period of life when
the follies and vanities of the world most commonly engross us,
you have been led to an attention to those things which are
unseen and eternal. God grant that you may be induced to
persevere in the path of _piety_, to reach forward continually
to higher attainments, nor ever rest satisfied till you have
attained the glorious prize which is reserved for the followers
of the blessed Jesus.... I should not, to many of your age,
write so much on so serious a subject; but I believe you have a
feeling persuasion of its reality and importance, and therefore
will not deem me intrusive."
In the summer of 1815, Mary left Hingham, and returned to her home in
Pearl Street, Boston, where another change had just occurred in the
death of her grandfather, James Lovell. This left her grandmother very
lonely, and for the remaining two years of her life Mary devoted herself
to her care, and ministered to her wants, with the same assiduity and
affection that marked her devotion in her mother's sickness. Not that
she was wholly confined to the sick-room, or the house. Mrs. Lovell's
health varied, and allowed occasional visits to friends in and near
Boston, for several weeks together. One of these visits took Mary as far
as Northampton; and in a pleasant letter to her father she gives a full
account of her journey thither, a very different matter then from what
it now is. Going from the presence of sickness and sorrow into that
beautiful region, her heart expanded with joy and gratitude,--gratitude
to God, and to those generous friends whose guest she was, and whose
hospitality she describes in a way that would leave no doubt to what
family she refers, even if there were not a direct mention of one whom
so many love to recall. "Mr. Lyman is, without exception, the most
agreeable man I ever met with; and if I could only overcome feelings of
restraint which his infinite superiority makes me have before him, I
might be able to enjoy his conversation more. I may overcome it, but as
yet I cannot, and therefore fear I appear stupid." This diffidence she
never did wholly overcome, and we can conceive of its having been very
great, at that age. Yet it seems never to have prevented her from going
forward to the performance of any duty, or appearing with propriety and
dignity in any position. She had a keen relish for all the beauties of
nature, and no less for the refinements and pleasures of society. But
her highest enjoyment, even at that age, was evidently sought and found
in the company of the devout, and the joys of religion. Her father
gently reproves her, in one of his letters, for indulging too much in
"sombre" thoughts, and talking of "trials presenting themselves
everywhere." But it is evident that it was to his own trials that she
referred, and his depression may have extended sometimes, though very
seldom, to her. He himself says of this state of feeling, "I was not
without fear that I had imparted it to you, which would grieve me much."
During the long period of her grandmother's sickness, Mary formed a new
attachment, opening to her a fountain of the purest enjoyment. She was a
constant attendant on the preaching of Dr. Channing. When a child, she
loved to go to his church with that relative and devoted friend of the
family, who, though of the same age as her mother, still lives to mourn
the loss of all of them. Led by that hand, which was to her as the hand
of a mother to the very end of life, (may we not so far depart from our
rule, in regard to the living, as to give the venerable name of Ann
Bent?) Mary listened very early and intently to the man who has moved
multitudes of every age. As she grew up, her evident and strong
preference for his preaching over all other is said to have been the
subject of "a little affectionate bantering on her mother's part," while
to her more rigid father it was so little agreeable as to cause at times
some trial of feeling and a conflict of duty. But where duty pertained
to God and the whole existence, she never doubted long. Her decision was
taken deliberately, with respect and gentleness, but with a force and
faith that never wavered, and never failed to supply strength and
consolation in her varied trials. Indeed, it was amid trials, as we have
seen, that she first consecrated herself to Christ, soon after her
mother's death. And now that she was daily watching the decline of
another life very dear to her, at the bedside of her aged grandmother,
her letters are chiefly filled with accounts of her vivid interest in
the _preaching_ she hears, and the effect it has upon her character. Two
of these letters we give together, as relating to the same subject,
though written several months apart.
"_Boston, Sunday Evening, Sept 15, 1816._
"How frequently have I heard it said, that we never feel the
true happiness of having a friend more than when, overwhelmed
with feelings it cannot control, the heart seeks relief in the
sympathizing bosom of that Being who alone can comprehend them;
and never, my dear N----, did I feel this truth more than at
the present moment, never did I feel more eager to open to your
view my whole heart, to _show_ you the emotions excited in it,
for I feel sensible that I cannot describe them. It will not
surprise you that Mr. Channing's sermons are the cause; but no
account that I can give could convey any idea of them. You have
heard some of the same class; they so entirely absorb the
feelings as to render the mind incapable of action, and
consequently leave on the memory at times no distinct
impression. That in the morning from this text, 'He that
forsaketh not all that he hath, cannot be my disciple,' was
calculated more than any thing I had _then_ heard, to exalt the
Christian character; but that this afternoon was as if an angel
spoke,--'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest. Learn of me, for I am meek and lowly
of heart, and ye shall find rest to your souls.' Happiness, or,
as it is here expressed, 'rest to the soul,' does not, it is
evident, depend on our situation, as may be proved by a slight
view of the condition of mankind in general. We see them
constantly aspiring to something beyond what they possess, but
which, when attained, adds not to their peace, but rather
increases their discontent....
"I doubt whether I have succeeded in giving you any idea of
what Mr. Channing's sermon really contained, as I cannot
remember any thing of it but the impression it made on my
feelings, and I have, I find, given you rather a transcript of
them than any of his original ideas, as you will readily
perceive. The object of it, however, was to prove that the only
real happiness to be enjoyed in the world was to be found in
that peace of mind which a true and lively faith in the wisdom
and mercy of God necessarily inspires in the Christian, and
without which all the pleasures this world can give will fail
to convey to the heart even one transient gleam of real
enjoyment. Could you only have been here, you would, I know,
have been much benefited by it; but you could not feel it as I
did, for you do not so much require it. My reason and
conscience have always told me that it was not right to let any
of the trials I have met, and still meet with, destroy for a
moment my peace; and though they have sometimes conquered my
weaker feelings, yet there are times when I find my own
strength so insufficient that I am almost tempted to doubt
whether it be in my power to attain. This morning, I felt more
than ever my weakness, from having had a long and unsuccessful
struggle the whole of yesterday with myself. That the precious
privileges this day has afforded me are not lost upon me, I
hope to prove in the day of future trial. Forgive my egotism,
but I know to whom I write.
"MARY."
* * * * *
"You said to me, as we were returning from meeting to-day, in
answer to my observation that 'I had been depending on this day
during the whole week, and had unexpectedly realized all the
feelings I anticipated,' that you, too, had expected much,
thinking that Mr. Channing would give us the sermon he did. I
have often thought that the very great pleasure we take in
hearing him preach has given us other feelings and motives in
our attendance on church than ought to be allowed by the devout
Christian. The good which is to be obtained from one of _his_
sermons particularly is indeed a great object, and sufficient
to induce us to attend the hearing of them whenever there is an
opportunity; but in our eagerness to hear the sermon, to admire
it, and endeavor to improve by it, the original intention of
public worship, I fear, is in a manner lost on us. Do we, when
we go to the house of God, feel that we are as it were entering
his more immediate presence? He is, it is true, present with us
in all places, and at all times; but in the world it is not
required, neither is it practicable, that our whole thoughts
should be devoted to any one subject; but when we go to the
house of worship, is it not that we may, by shutting out of our
minds the world and all that it contains, give to the Lord of
the Sabbath every thought? Was it not for this end he gave us
the day, and renews our strength every week? We are called
together to worship, not merely with our lips, but to unite
every thought and feeling in adoration. It is a privilege thus
to be enabled to call our minds entirely from the cares and
troubles of life; it gives to those who are oppressed by them
some idea of heaven, when all the trials which now torture them
will be for ever forgotten; and to all it should be esteemed a
high and holy privilege, setting aside the delightful
instruction we receive, thus to hold communion with Heaven, for
I can compare it to nothing else. It seems often to me, while
in the hour of prayer I give myself up to the thought of
heaven, as though I had in reality left the world, and was
enjoying that which is promised to the Christian. I fear,
however, these feelings are too often delusive; we substitute
the love of holiness for the actual possession, and often
deceive ourselves. But if we can keep our reason unclouded, we
have nothing to fear from feeling too much. I would not be
understood to mean, that the delightful, improving preaching we
are in the habit of hearing is not a good motive for carrying
us to meeting; but it is not enough, if it be the only one; if
the happiness of an unreserved devotion of thought to God is
not sufficiently great to induce us to seek every opportunity
of enjoying it, I fear the true, vital piety, which is the only
support of religion, is imperfectly gained by us.
"I have not time to write more. I doubt if I have explained
myself intelligibly, but more of this at some future period. I
presume there is an appearance of vanity in one paragraph,
which I will some time explain.
"MARY."
This fervid religious interest and enjoyment seems to have filled her
heart, and absorbed her thoughts, more and more, until, in the following
summer, it led to a personal interview with Dr. Channing, of the most
interesting kind, to be described only in her own words.
"_Boston, July 10, 1817._
"There is a certain state of feeling, or I may now say passion,
in which the heart must either find relief in utterance, or
burst; when all the powers of mind and body are suspended, and
thought, feeling, sensation, are all centred in one sole
object. It is at such moments as these that we feel the true
value of a friend who will submit patiently to our detail, and
sympathize in all. I have just had a long--(I do not know what
to call it)--with our dear minister. You know how long I have
wished, yet dreaded it. That I should ever have _dreaded_ it
appears now a most astonishing fact, except that I knew it
would humble me to the dust. And why should I not be so
humbled?
"It chanced that grandma was too unwell to see him; and I,
though not in the most composed state of mind that can be
imagined, was to sit down alone with him, fully determined to
improve the opportunity and say all that I had so long wished.
I put on as collected an appearance as could possibly be
required, and, trembling at the very centre of my heart, met
him with a smile of joy. Indifferent subjects soon entirely
subdued all kind of internal embarrassment, (external, I did
not permit,) when, to my great annoyance, C---- walked in! O
that I could have rendered him invisible,--deaf, dumb,--any
thing, for the time being! But patience triumphed; I contrived
at last to let him understand that I wished him far away. He
took the hint, but when he rose to go, Mr. Channing did so
also! I could not but detain him. How I did it, or what
followed on my part, I know not; I heard all he said, I laid
every word carefully aside in my mind to be enjoyed at some
future period, but how foolish, how weak, how every thing
irrational _I_ was, I cannot, dare not, think. I told him as
well as I could, with what views and feelings I presumed to
deviate from the path in which I had been led by my parents,
what he had done for me, and what I hoped to do for myself. I
could not have been intelligible, but I will not regret that I
attempted, though I could not succeed. I am relieved by what he
said of many unpleasant, oppressive feelings. I felt that I was
detaining him, or I might have been rather more collected. What
a state has he left me in! O, could I for ever preserve the
remembrance of what now fills my heart, could I ever feel as I
now do, that I am one of the least of all beings, capable of
being better but shamefully neglecting my best interests,
awfully responsible for the inestimable privileges I enjoy, but
wholly unmindful of them.
"Dearest N----, I am wrong to impose on your patience, but I
am too selfish to resist. Forgive this sentence. I do not doubt
your interest, but I may talk too long. This is not the fervor
of sudden enthusiasm; no, I have long felt my sinfulness, but
the excitement of talking to Mr. Channing has made me now utter
it. Give me your prayers, give me your advice, assist me in
elevating my heart to higher objects, purer joys, than this
world can give. I love it too well; I want the severing hand of
trial to rend asunder the thousand evil passions which connect
me with it.
"I have scribbled this at your desk; this quiet retreat has
calmed me. It is, perhaps, fortunate that you were not at home,
except that you would have been saved this fine specimen of
what an egotist can write. O dear, how weak I am! excitement is
so new to me, that it almost deprives me of the use of my
understanding, or I should not thus betray myself. I know not
what I am coming to; I was very foolish yesterday; I have been
worse to-day. Do come and see me to-morrow and lend me a little
sense, or if you cannot spare it, exercise it yourself over the
mind of your senseless friend,
"MARY."
During this season of peculiar experience, Mary sought the confidence,
and enjoyed the sympathy, not only of the one friend to whom the last
letters were written, but also of her late instructors in Hingham. The
correspondence between them is of the most confiding character, and
shows a mutual respect and sense of obligation in pupil and teacher.
"Talk not of gratitude, my dear Mary," the latter writes; "has not every
kindness we have ever had it in our power to show you been more than
cancelled by your unremitting assiduities to serve and please us? The
uniform disposition you have ever shown to promote the ease and
happiness of all around you, will long remain a sweet remembrance of one
whose image is connected in my mind with every softer virtue,
accompanied by that strength of mind which would enable you, if called
upon, to sustain uncommon trials. No, I shall not, I cannot, be
disappointed in you, my dear young friend; you will be all that your
opening character now promises, because you have built on a sure
foundation. If my life is spared, I anticipate much pleasure from the
continuation of a friendship thus commenced. May it be increased and
strengthened while we sojourn together on earth, and may we have the
happiness of exciting each other to a higher standard of excellence than
is generally adopted by the world, and thus be prepared for the society
of those pure and holy beings we hope hereafter to join." These
expressions of confidence and encouragement were probably induced by the
trying circumstances in which Mary was then placed, partly from her
father's misfortunes and feeble health, and partly from the weight of
her responsibilities in a household where there was not only sickness,
but other and sorer trials. She went very little into society, and was
thrown entirely upon her own resources, in the midst of arduous and
delicate duties. Some of her struggles, and the sources of her peace,
are intimated in the following letters to Miss Cushing.
"_Boston, June 19, 1817._
"As I can neither see you nor hear from you, my dear Miss
Cushing, I must write you, if it be only to say how much I
think of and desire to see you. I know too well that I do not
deserve any indulgence from you, but there is something so
solitary, and at times almost overpowering, in the idea that
those whom we have best loved, with whom we have passed happy
hours of intercourse and sympathy, are, though still dear,
divided from us, not perhaps by distance, but by circumstances
which we cannot control, that I am almost tempted to repine
that such must be our situation. You will, I know, be ready to
ask why I have so neglected the only means in my power of
continuing that intercourse? I would not complain of it, but I
have little time, and so many occupations which the call of
duty bids me not neglect, that I seldom write to any one, and
always in so much haste that I should be ashamed to send such
epistles to you. Beside all this, I have so little intercourse
with the world, or those in it in whom I think you would be
interested, that I must, from a dearth of ideas in this poor
brain, write almost wholly of self, the most odious and
wearisome of all topics. But this very isolation makes me
depend so much on every little iota of external excitement,
that I should be satisfied, or rather content, with any thing
in the form of a letter you would find time to give me....
"I have felt, and I believe have expressed to you, or Miss
P----, a kind of discontent sometimes operating on my mind at
the want of opportunity to become what I have vainly thought I
might be. But this is all over, and I am satisfied that I must
be content with a very low degree in the scale of knowledge.
But I trust I may be good, though never great, and am confident
that the peculiar situation in which I am placed is one more
calculated for me than any I could choose for myself. Trial is
necessary to me, and I am happy in it, except when I am
conscious it is not improved as it should be. It is not for us,
who have so many blessings, to murmur if our faith is sometimes
put to the test; did we view things aright, what now seems
judgment is in truth mercy. What should we be, were we not
sometimes reminded of our sins and the weakness of our minds?
Surely, then, whatever may be the trials which bring us to a
true sense of our accountability to our Father in heaven, they
are the kindest expressions of his goodness. I never could have
any gloomy views of religion, and the more experience I have of
its cheering influences in the hearts of its votaries, the more
I am convinced that it is the only sure guide to happiness even
in this world; how much more in another!
"You will forgive me for writing you just what happened to
occupy my mind. It is an indulgence that I cannot resist, to be
able to communicate a few of my feelings and thoughts. I fear
you will think I impose too much on your goodness.
"MARY."
* * * * *
"_Boston, August 20, 1817._
"MY DEAR MISS CUSHING:--
"There are, I believe, moments in the lives of all human
beings, when, from some cause or other, the heart is saddened
by a feeling of peculiar loneliness, which, though perhaps
rather a disease of the imagination than the effect of real
circumstances, is nevertheless irresistible. I have felt this
in the gayest period of my life, and it is not strange that I
should now often experience it. Leading a perfectly monotonous
existence, my resources of animal spirits are not entirely
sufficient to supply the call of duty and the hour of solitude
too. And when evening closes, and my beloved charge is laid
peacefully to rest, excitement ceases, and I am thrown on
myself for pleasure. Then it is that I long to be with friends,
whom I can only visit in imagination; then I long to annihilate
distance, and talk with you. It is, I know, imposing on your
goodness to attempt to write you under the influence of such
feelings, but it is an indulgence I can hardly resist,
convinced as I am that, when you are assured it is a relief to
a poor solitary, your benevolent heart will pardon me. I would
not convey that I am unhappy in this situation. O, no!--there
is such a thing as being 'pleased, and yet sad'; and though
sometimes
'The heart will feel, the tear will steal,
For auld lang syne sae dear,'
yet I rejoice with joy unspeakable that the present is still
filled with many privileges and pleasures, and that I can with
perfect trust refer the future to Him who appointeth all things
in mercy. I wish most sincerely I could communicate something
interesting to you, to redeem my miserable letters from the
charge of perfect egotism, but I live so wholly out of the
sphere of the interesting part of the world, that I am as
ignorant of all that passes within it as those who know not
that it exists. It is this reason which has often withheld me
from writing you when indeed I wished for my own sake to
indulge in it, and I think you will be fully convinced of the
wisdom of my forbearance after the perusal of this.
"M.L.P."
And now another trial impended, to be followed by other and important
changes in her condition of life. In the autumn of this year her
grandmother died. For the event itself, so long expected and not to be
lamented, she was prepared. But some of its circumstances were unusually
trying, and she well knew that its consequences might be still more sad.
Yet how little these considerations affected her, in comparison with the
moral aspects and spiritual lessons of the change, may be seen in her
own account of the last sickness, to N. C. S.
"_Boston, Sunday Night, October 12, 1817._
"You have so long indulged my selfish propensity of
communicating to you every feeling that chances to be excited
in my heart, that I find it difficult, when under the influence
of any peculiar emotion, to resist the ever-present desire to
impart all to you. But this would be the height of folly and
weakness, and I therefore contend against it with all my
powers. There are, however, certain kinds of feeling of such a
doubtful nature, that the agency of some external power is
absolutely necessary for the proper management of them. Of this
nature, I am persuaded, are those by which I am now
overpowered; and lest I should be too much led away by them, I
must beg your assistance in ascertaining their origin and
tendency. This may seem too systematic for any one who feels
_much_, but the violence of the tempest has passed, and that
deadly calm which always succeeds the raging of the elements
naturally inclines the mind to thought and reflection.
"I have lived for the last few months in the hourly
contemplation of a most striking picture of the end of human
life, the termination of all its joys and sorrows, the
annihilation of its hopes and wishes. This could not fail to
impress with sadness a mind in full possession of its powers of
enjoyment, and for a time to give it almost a disgust of all
those pleasures and pursuits which must so soon fail before the
dim eye and feeble energies of approaching age. It had, in a
great degree, this effect on me; for the moments have been when
I would willingly have surrendered life rather than live in the
expectation of such an end,--to outlive the ability to engage
in its duties. I now tremble at the thought of ever having
suffered such feelings for a moment, to possess my mind.
Continued and deep reflection on the object of all this, the
comparative nothingness of every thing in this world, the hopes
and prospects of another and better, meditation on the
spiritual life, and occasional experience of the real happiness
of that elevation of soul above earthly things which religion
alone can impart, have overcome this melancholy, and sometimes
produced almost a feeling of triumph. I have this evening been
almost overwhelmed with a variety of emotions, of which this
was the most prominent. Grandma has thought herself dying, and
has been conversing with me on her approaching change with that
most heavenly calmness which those only who rely on the mercy
of God, through the merits of his Son, can experience at this
trying hour. This, together with joining in prayer with her
that we might all welcome this hour as she did, and her final
parting with all in the house, has elevated my mind so much
above this transitory scene, that I can scarcely believe I
shall ever be so weak as again to be engrossed by it. I cannot
describe the state of my mind. I never _felt_ so before, though
I have often imagined that others have. It is almost a kind of
transport at the thought that this mortal shall put on
immortality, that there is within us an ethereal spark which
can never be extinguished or grow dim, capable of rising
superior to the pains and weakness which bend these frail
bodies to the ground. O, it is a joy unspeakable! Viewed
through this medium, death loses its sting, and the idea of a
glorious immortality alone presents itself with the view of its
approach.
"But alas! I can place no dependence on the continuance of my
feelings beyond the moment that excites them. My life is a mere
vision; the world in which I act has no connection with that in
which I think. My pleasure, my happiness, is so far independent
of the objects around me, that I can hardly associate them
together. Having little else to do than meditate, I exist
almost in imagination, and communicate so little with others on
the subject of my thoughts, that it seems like living two
beings; the greater part of my time is passed in this ideal
world, and I am consequently unfitted to mix in the real one in
which I am placed. This is a misfortune and a fault. Which has
the greatest share of blame? It is most unfavorable to true
Christian humility; for, as Mr. Channing says of the effects of
a diseased imagination, 'We feel superiority to the world in
ascending the airy height, and pride ourselves in this
refinement of the mind. After arraying ourselves in the robes
of glory, we cannot take the lowly seat which Christianity
assigns us.' Thus, then, although this elevation above the
objects of this vain world may be a right spirit when it rises
from the pure flow of real piety, if it be only the enthusiasm
of the moment, which rises for a time and then vanishes away,
an abstract theory which would not be practised upon in the
hour of temptation, it had better never have been. When we have
once been imposed on, we know not what to trust. All my
purposes of goodness and high resolves are as yet but theories,
which I fear I should never put in practice should temptation
assail me. O, I dare not be thus happy!
"MARY."
V.
CHANGES AT HOME.
The first change consequent upon the death of old Mrs. Lovell, was the
leaving of the house in Pearl Street. This, to Mary, was not a small
matter. It was not the mere moving of furniture, nor the living in one
street rather than another, of the same town. It was the loss of the
earliest and only HOME that she had ever known; and none are to be
envied who cannot enter into the feelings which such an event must
awaken in a heart like hers. With little of the romantic in her nature,
and as great independence of the merely local and external as is often
seen, her love of family and early friends, her memory of childhood and
all its associations, the very changes and sufferings which had made so
large a part of her life, were all identified with "that house" as the
place of their birth, and bound her to it by the strongest chords.
Within a month of the day of her grandmother's death, she wrote her last
letter there, which, with the first that was written out of the house,
will show what she felt, and why.
"_Boston, November, 1817._
"It is with many new and peculiar feelings that I attempt to
write you for the last time from this blessed spot, rendered
doubly sacred to me from having been the scene of that intimacy
which ever has been, and I trust ever will be, one of the
purest sources of happiness which it has pleased my Heavenly
Father to bestow on me.... It has been _one_ of the happy
effects of the trials which, during the last few years, have
fallen to my lot, to produce a more unreserved acquaintance
between us than under any other circumstances could have been
effected. I bless them in all their influences, but
particularly in this, that they have brought me the knowledge
and affection of such a friend. I should blush at the
recollection of the numberless follies, weaknesses, and sins
which this frail heart has discovered to you, but I wish you to
know me entirely; the candid confession of faults is the
greatest proof of confidence I could give. But that delightful
intercourse which has so much conduced to this must for a time
be broken off, perhaps never again to be renewed in this
changing world. Change of situation will necessarily preclude
the possibility of that continued intercourse of thought and
feeling, which has been the joy of the past. I cannot admit the
idea that this will weaken the bonds that unite us, much less
can I think it will break them. But I have been the creature of
situation; my character (if any thing I possess can be entitled
to the name) has been moulded by circumstances peculiar in
their nature, and which will soon cease to exist. What I shall
be in the wide world into which I am going to enter, I know
not. I hope, yet fear to change. Without a guide to lead me in
the right path, I fear my inexperienced steps will stray into
some of the many fascinating, delusive snares which are found
in every direction. My course has hitherto been over an old and
beaten track, secure by its remoteness from all temptation.
What, then, shall I do, when the whole host of the world's
allurements are presented at once to my weakness?
"I wish I could describe to you the feelings which the very
prospect of leaving this house excites in this poor, weak
heart,--so weak that it cannot subdue or control its emotions.
It would seem romantic and visionary to any one who had been
accustomed to change; but this house supplied in a great
measure the relation of instructor, parent, and friend. And it
is true, that in every part are recorded by association the
admonitions of those friends I have known in it, or lessons
which the experience of repeated trials has impressed in
indelible characters on these scenes. Here, when temptation
assailed, and this frail heart was on the point of surrendering
to it, would the remembrance of former good resolutions,
presented by the very walls around me, recall my wandering
virtue, and strengthen me to new exertions. And to that sacred
retreat, that sanctuary of all my joys and sorrows, I owe, if
not the creation, at least the preservation of the best
feelings I possess. There I find the history of the most
important moments of my life, for in that spot did the first
sincere and heartfelt aspirations of my soul to its Creator
find utterance; and there, too, have I always found support
under trial, in prayer. It were an endless work to recount all
the associations which attach me to this only home I have ever
known; it would be to give you a minute account of every
transaction which has taken place since I lived here.
"MARY."
* * * * *
"_Boston, December, 1817._
"For the first time since I left that loved spot in Pearl
Street have I seated myself at my _desk_; and, although my
object in now doing so was a very different one, I cannot
resist the impulse which the sight of it gives, to renew the
employment, so wont to be pursued at it, of pouring forth a few
of my feelings to my friend. It is so long since I have had an
opportunity to do so, and so various have been the
occurrences, and still more various the feelings which it has
been my lot to experience in the course of the last two months,
that, though my mind is full of what I wish to communicate, I
am as much at a loss what to write as if all was vacancy. This
poor little, unconscious desk has carried me back, against my
will, to scenes which it were wise seldom to think of. The last
time I wrote at it was the last evening I spent in the I 'oaken
parlor,' when all was sad and solitary. But I cannot dwell on
it. I find in the record of that evening prophecies which are
hourly fulfilling. I felt deeply impressed with a sense of
insufficiency to meet with, and bear aright, the temptations
which a life of indulgence would present. I felt that I was not
fit for society, and I feel so still, but more sensibly, more
truly, for it is now the lesson of experience, sad indeed. But
a truce with such feelings;--it is not of them I wish to write.
This wicked desk has conjured up the old complaining spirit
which so used to haunt me whenever I attempted scribbling to
you. I am happy, contented with any change that has or may take
place. I only ask a less selfish, more disinterested frame of
mind,--to be more independent of the opinion of others, when a
consciousness of sincere endeavor to do right acquits me of
actual transgression. Selfish are all my regrets, all my
trials, and wherefore, then, trouble another with a detail of
what self alone can sympathize in, or ameliorate, or cure? I
will not;--for once, I will follow reason rather than
inclination.
"The more I know of the world, the more I see of the beings who
constitute what is so called, the more the hopes and wishes
which excite and keep alive their energies sink into
insignificance, and the more my own restlessness and anxiety
about the cares and pursuits of life excite my astonishment and
contempt. We surely were not placed in this world solely to be
occupied by its allurements, or, without reference to the
design of our Creator in placing us here, to pursue that which
seems to us the most easy and pleasant path. And with our
reasons convinced, how can we so unweariedly pursue that
phantom happiness which has here no fixed abode? We acknowledge
that nothing here can satisfy us, and yet vainly delude
ourselves with the hope of soon attaining some ideal joy which,
like the philosopher's stone, will convert all into solid
happiness. One would think I had been disappointed in some fond
hope, or found too late _my_ fancied joy a dream. But no, I am
not disappointed, for I have never anticipated; and if aught I
have said savors of this temper of mind, I would recall it.
"Mr. Colman advised me never to write in the evening, lest I
should deceive myself and my friend with an exaggerated account
of what in the light of day would prove false. I am half
asleep, and therefore will take his advice, and I already find
myself on the verge of the gulf,--self-deception.
"M. L. P."
To some it will seem strange, that one of such faith and principle, with
no proneness or taste for the follies of the world, should express fear
of "fascinating, delusive snares," or think for a moment of the "whole
host of the world's allurements." But this will be understood by those
who remember that strength does not lie in a sense of security, nor
wisdom in assurance. It seems to have been ever a part of Mary Pickard's
wisdom, to own her weakness. And more than this, the evil that she
feared was not that coarse, palpable thing usually called "vice," but
the invisible, subtle evil, so serious to the sensitive and pure mind,
though by the many lightly regarded. "I fear not actual vice," she said
at this very time, "but to become thoughtless, forgetful of duty,
unmindful of my highest interests, is to my mind a more deadly sin than
many which are accounted by the world _crimes_. It is this I most dread.
My conscience, or, should that fail, my friends, would save me from the
first, but who can control the thoughts of my heart?" Thus fearing, thus
armed, she went out into the world, beginning at this point her life of
self-guidance. Of her means of support we know little. She was not
dependent. From her grandparents, to whom she had been so true a child,
she received enough to enable her to assist her father in his
depression, though it is evident that he took no more than was
absolutely necessary, and that she retained enough for her wants, more
than she used to the time of her marriage. This could have been
accomplished, however, only by a uniform and strict economy, whose
necessity she never regretted, except as it curtailed her charities.
And now began a life of business and of motion. Since her return from
England, at the age of five, Mary had been from home very little, and
only for her schooling. Hereafter she is to become a traveller, to a
greater degree than was then common for a lady, and greater than she
desired. Her journeyings, we infer, were always more for others than
herself; either for the gratification of friends, or in aid of her
father. For she seems to have become, in various ways, his active as
well as domestic helper, and was intrusted by him, we should judge from
their letters, with important business. For some purpose of this kind,
in the year following our last date, she went, for the first time, to
New York. And the account she gives of the preparations and the journey,
while it shows what changes there have been since, shows also how much
there was on her mind and her hands. She speaks of getting but four
hours for sleep from having "so great a variety of occupation,--so much
for my poor, weak head to think of." And then, half playfully, half in
earnest, she writes of being "at last equipped for a journey probably of
two months." But we must give a part of the letter itself; showing, as
it does, how near to her, even in her busiest moments and most fatiguing
labors, were the higher cares of the mind and the soul.
"I am glad of having a great deal to do; any thing that will
call my little powers into exercise gives me a transient
feeling of consequence, which, as it is highly flattering to
vanity, produces rather pleasant sensations. I will not enter
on the subject of leaving home, and setting out on an
expedition fraught with untried temptations, and presenting
even in the most favorable view a scene of life little
calculated to satisfy my taste or warm my heart. But I believe
there may be instruction found in every situation, and I hope
that seeing eyes and an understanding heart will be given me,
to discern and improve it. I cannot tell you how much more I
feel than I ever did before, at leaving home;--I cannot; it is
in vain to attempt so vast a subject at such a time. I have
been highly favored the last two Sundays in hearing two of Mr.
Channing's most delightful sermons, which I hope will not be
soon forgotten. Last Sunday was the anniversary of many
eventful days to me. The first Sabbath in September has for
many years been a memorable day to me, and this last, I think,
exceeds them all. It is three months since I have been at home
on Communion-day, and the coldness which I had felt creeping
through my very soul gave me a feeling of hope that I should
find something to excite and elevate my affections. I never
felt more entirely humbled to the dust, or more sensible of the
immense privilege we enjoy, in having such a man to guide us on
our way. But I am so excessively weary that I cannot write
more,--scarcely to assure you of the warm affection of your
"M. L. P."
The journey to New York, by way of Providence and Norwich, was "a week's
work," though it seems to have been all used in travelling, but with
many "adventures" and delays incident to the beginning of
steamboats,--against which, notwithstanding the discomforts and perils,
Mary expresses herself "not so prejudiced that I should be unwilling to
step on board one again." The letters she writes from the great city, so
new and strange, are almost exclusively business letters to her father,
and his replies show that he had given her important commissions, to be
discharged in person, and in her own discretion. Directions are given
for the sale or purchase, not only of muslins and moreens, but also of
skins, saltpetre, and the like. And at the end of several weeks, in
which she seems not to have indulged herself in much recreation, she
speaks of returning as soon as she "has seen the city."
But instead of returning, she was induced by a tempting opportunity to
go still farther from home, and with no time to get her father's
permission,--a liberty evidently new on her part, and receiving at first
severe reproof from him. The incident is not important, except as
showing their relation to each other, and the manner in which she
incurred and endured (being now a woman) the only harsh language that we
find addressed to her by her father,--though it is clear that he always
inclined to be exacting. The trouble in this case was, that he first
heard from another of her being seen on her way to Baltimore, when he
thought her safe with friends in New York, if not on her way home. The
fact was easily explained. A gentleman with whom she was intimate
invited her to accompany him to Baltimore, where she had long wished to
visit a cousin newly married and settled there; and, with the approval
of those with whom she was staying, she accepted the invitation as
suddenly as she received it, "and in two hours was in the stage for
Baltimore," to ride night and day till she arrived there. As soon as
possible after her arrival, she wrote to her father all the
circumstances, giving her reasons in a way that should and did avert his
displeasure entirely. But unfortunately he had already heard of the
runaway by accident, and one is forced to smile at the manner in which
it affected him. Not waiting to hear from Mary, he instantly wrote to
the lady in New York with whom she had staid,--"I am exceedingly vexed
and mortified that she should do any thing so foolish, and cannot
conceive how she will be able to justify herself; had I had any idea she
would have been so indiscreet, I would not have consented to her
leaving Boston. I have been expecting daily to hear what was likely to
be done with some muslins she had the charge of; but instead of
attending to that, she is flying like a wild goose about the country.
These girls in their teens [Mary was just twenty] should not be let out
of their leading-strings; nor would her's have been let loose, but from
confidence in her discretion." Yet in company with this letter he sent a
note for his daughter, which begins with saying he can hardly call her
"dear," but ends in a very different tone; and the first letter he
receives sets all right. His only anxiety now is to have her with him,
coupled, however, with a fear as to her companion home, and again making
us smile by a prediction which has been singularly reversed in the
fulfilment. "If you are well, pray come by the first _good_ opportunity.
I am afraid you will wait till the end of the month for the parson; your
being so fond of parsons is rather ominous, and you had better almost be
any man's wife than a parson's." The parson referred to was Mr. Colman
of Hingham, now returning from a visit to Baltimore. It is a pleasant
conclusion of this little episode, and offers a hint to children as well
as parents, that, when Mary found how much her father had felt, without
blaming herself for doing what seemed right and a duty, she expressed
such sorrow for the pain she had given him, in terms so respectful and
filial, as to turn all his severity against himself, and increase his
admiration and love for her. The next time he refers to her fondness for
the "clergy," it is in a vein of pleasantry which seldom relieves his
merchant-like letters. "Could you not, my dear, enliven your letters by
writing of persons and things which you have seen? I think your letters
are too much tinctured with what may be called moral philosophy, for so
young a person. You are so fond of the clergy, you will get into a habit
of writing like one of them, and if you were to turn Quaker, I have no
doubt but you would preach yourself. Tell us something of Baltimore, how
it is situated, &c.; and, as Mrs. Slipslop says, something of the
'contagious country.' Pray take care of your own health, and get the
family well soon."
The last words refer to the actual cause of Mary's protracted absence.
On returning to New York, intending to go home by the first opportunity,
she found her good friend, Mrs. Harman, whom she was visiting before,
dangerously ill, the husband absent, and the family in great confusion
and trouble. At once she became the director and nurse,--offices which
she seemed destined to fill wherever she went, as her subsequent life
will show. All thought now of herself and her plans yielded to the
present duty. And not an easy duty could it have been, as she describes
the severity of the mother's sickness, the care of difficult children,
and her responsibility in another's house and a strange city. As soon as
they were in a condition to be left, she returned to Boston, though Mr.
Pickard even urged her to stay longer, for rest and her own
gratification.
For a year or more Mary and her father remained together in Boston, with
no change or incident to be noticed. They were living at board, so far
as we find, though they may have taken a house, as he seemed very
anxious before her return to be alone with her, having an aversion to
company, and preferring her society and care to all other.
In her correspondence at this time, the prevailing theme and object, as
usual, were religion and its influences, for herself and others. We
cannot but observe the preponderance of this theme, and yet its
perfectly natural and healthy tone. With nothing dark or melancholy in
her religious views, with an habitual horror of ostentation and cant,
she lost no opportunity to cherish and diffuse an all-comprehending
faith. The letters which follow, addressed to her constant friend,
declare their own occasion and design.
"_Boston, August 12, 1819._
"There was something in the strain of your last letter to me
which has given me some feelings of anxiety. You refer to the
course of medical discipline which has been pursued with
Mr. ---- with expressions of regret, which, though natural, must
add greatly to every other painful feeling that his present
situation, and perhaps loss, must inevitably excite. I cannot
reprehend you for what I know but too well is the natural
impulse under such circumstances; but I would, if it were
possible, point to a healing balm for that worst of all
wounds,--fruitless regret.
"I am no fatalist, but the continual influence of an unerring
Providence is a truth which was early impressed on my heart,
and which daily observation has confirmed and strengthened. The
simple order of nature speaks it with a powerful voice; the
sacred pages of God's own book proclaim it in terms which
cannot be misconstrued; and would we impartially review our
own lives, should we not see in them incontrovertible proofs of
an unseen power, that guided and directed many things for our
happiness which our blindness would have wished otherwise? And
are we to assent to this truth only when our minds can clearly
see its reality? Are we to withhold our confidence in Him whom
we have always found mighty to save, because we cannot in a
single instance see its practicability? O, no! far be it from
us, who profess to acknowledge the being and attributes of a
merciful God, to shrink when he puts our faith to the test. Are
his so often repeated expressions of love towards his creatures
mere empty sounds to deceive the credulous, or assist the
imagination in forming a perfect model of moral sublimity, but
to wither into airy nothing when we dwell on them for support?
This we would not, most certainly, admit in our actions, and
why should we even in our thoughts? Surely, believing, as we
do, that his promises are sure and steadfast, we may in the
darkest hours of adversity find consolation in the thought,
that, however mysterious may be his decrees, there _must_ be
some good result, some benevolent design, concealed beneath the
most doubtful appearances.
"Cowper has beautifully versified this idea in his hymn,
beginning
'God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform';
you will find it in Belknap. Read it for the sake of one whom
in all trials it has animated and consoled. Forgive me for
dwelling so long on this subject. Do not infer that I think it
new to you, but it is one in which I have felt most deeply, on
which, too, I have had the most severe contentions with the
spirit that warreth within, and one which, of all others, it is
necessary for our happiness and goodness to establish in our
hearts, that it may effectually influence our lives.
"MARY."
* * * * *
"_Brush Hill, September 22, 1819._
"It is now a month since the date of your last letter, during
which time I think I have at least once written you; but our
intercourse is now so different from what I would desire at
this peculiarly eventful period, that it seems as if I did
nothing, if I do not tell you every day how much depends on its
events. I have been with you in a happy vision, and awake to
the sad disappointment that it is but a dream, and to the
consciousness that for a long time my unfruitful pen will be my
only means of communication. It would be weak to repine at what
is inevitable; I will not give way to it. How often have you
told me that you were almost tempted to pray for trial, that
you might know the true state of your religious life, that you
might have your faith put to the test, and the veil of
self-deception taken from your eyes! Often have I prayed that,
whenever it should please the Disposer of all things to send to
you sorrow and affliction, you might find strength and support
where least expected, not from your own resources, but in that
arm which is mighty to save to the uttermost all who seek. It
is not, however, simply in the belief that whatever He appoints
is right, that you are to receive his dispensations; difficult
as is the task, we must not rest satisfied with ourselves until
we have learned to receive with cheerful acquiescence what the
world calls trials; until we have learned to view all events as
tending to the same great end, and be thankful for what is
denied, as well as what is received; knowing that there is but
one great object in each. This may at first seem too high an
aim, even above human powers to attain. But it calls not on us
to give up natural feeling, only to guide it aright, and the
higher our standard of excellence is fixed, the greater will be
our efforts to attain it, and our success unquestionably
proportioned to it.
"But why talk to you of what you have already more knowledge?
Forgive me; I lost, in the interest I felt in your present
happiness, the remembrance that you were not in want of counsel
on a subject on which you have already experienced enough to
feel its importance. But do not, my dear friend, look only on
the dark side of the picture; do not suffer your mind to lose
its activity, because confined at present to one subject. It is
not to contract our feelings, but to expand and teach them to
enter into the feelings of others, that we are made thus to
experience what it is to suffer. Should it not quicken our
efforts to alleviate, to our utmost endeavor, those who are
tried also, and by a cheerful example lighten the hearts of
fellow-sufferers? I have felt, and _know_ therefore too well,
the tendency of severe trial to enervate the mind, and lead us
insensibly to give up our ambition to act on any other subject;
but our general duties are not the less imposing, because a
particular one requires more attention, nor are we to give way
for a moment to the impulse of self-indulgence, because we feel
any peculiar right to it.... All this is unnecessary, but you
can conceive how deeply I feel interested in the result of this
great trial of your Christian faith. I know its difficulties,
therefore can appreciate its triumphs.
"MARY."
* * * * *
"_Boston, 1819._
"I leave the dismal beginning of a letter, intended to excite
your compassion for my suffering under the confinement of a
cold, and it would be rather _mal apropos_, after what has
passed, to proceed in due form to give an account of myself
during the long period since I last saw you. But in order to
preserve the unity of time and place, I must first revert to
the accident which brought us together so opportunely. I will
not pretend to defend the prudence of the action, but
acknowledge it was rather the impulse of strong desire to give
some one a little pleasure, than the sober dictate of reason,
and I felt that, in M----'s solitary state, she would be glad
to see any one. I know it was wrong in one point of view, but
right in another. I was rewarded for a severe sickness, as far
as regarded my own sufferings, should one have ensued. I had a
very pleasant ride, and became more acquainted with J---- than
I could in any other way. I was agreeably surprised to find in
his conversation so much depth of thought and knowledge of
mankind. I am glad of any opportunity to extend my acquaintance
with character, in its infinite variety. There is no human
knowledge, I am persuaded, which has so great an influence on
our happiness. We learn to estimate ourselves more justly, and
in the formation of our own characters we are enabled to
discriminate between right and wrong more accurately; for in
nothing are we more liable to confound them, than as respects
our own feelings and motives. Is it not wilful blindness that
leads us so often to ridicule in others what we unconsciously
practise ourselves? Why are we not as cautious to ascertain the
motives of the conduct of others as of our own? We console
ourselves, when we have done any thing which to the eyes of the
world appears weak and foolish, with the thought that our
motives are good, and with a consciousness of having done what
was right. All else is of little importance; but did we believe
that our friends were as much influenced by appearances, in
their judgment of us, as we are in ours of them, I doubt if the
approving smile of conscience would always compensate for the
loss of the good opinion of those we love. Let us not, then,
judge solely by the conduct of any what are their real
characters; peculiar circumstances may prevent even our most
intimate friends from disclosing to us their particular reasons
for every action; but in that case, if it be a tried friend,
it were surely a proof of friendship to believe that it is at
least felt by him to be right. And with regard to people in
general, let charity have its perfect work, and let us think
all are free from deliberate faults, till we have good reason
to suppose otherwise. This is, perhaps, if understood
literally, rather too liberal a plan for this world of sin and
wickedness; but as far as is consistent with reason, and our
previous knowledge of men and manners, is it not just to judge
of all as we would be judged? I have _felt_ the want of this
spirit of impartial justice, and speak from experience in some
respects; in one, I hope never to be tried. I have been what
you call mysterious; could you understand me, you would, I am
sure, approve. Believe me, I am not governed by caprice in my
treatment of friends; if any thing may have appeared so, there
has always been a motive, and I feel that I may confidently
rely on your friendship for all charitable construction....
"I am in a sad state. I long to see you, in hopes of procuring
some remedy in your better regulated mind. I am so much under
the dominion of certain sickly feelings of late, that I begin
to think my mind will never recover its healthy tone again;
active employment for the good of others is the only preventive
for such disorders. I have not at present any prospect of such
a means towards my own recovery, but trust the vital energy of
my being is not quite extinct, and that ere long it will rise
and subdue the weaker powers.... I have just thought that it is
the spring-like feeling of the day that has such a weakening
effect on my mind. Why do we indulge so much in idealism,
instead of the real pleasure of our existence? I have no
opinion of this giving way to imagination in our estimate of
life.
"MARY."
In the month of October a death occurred which awakened all her
sympathy, and the sympathy and sorrow of a large community. The Rev.
John E. Abbot, whose life and character Henry Ware has made familiar to
us all, died in October, at his father's in Exeter, where Mary's friend
was staying as a relative. To both of them he had been a Christian
helper when they most needed Christian counsel and encouragement. His
short life was, indeed, a blessing to all who knew him, and his death
full of "joy and peace in believing." Again was the pen taken, and
solace offered.
"_Boston, October 15, 1819._
"I attempted, my dear friend, to write you on Tuesday, for I
felt then that, all being over, I could calmly write of what
had passed, and direct your feelings and my own to the future.
But I knew from experience that a few days' delay would find
you more in want of a letter; as the necessary exertion which
attends a scene like that you have passed through occupies the
whole mind while it is necessary to support it, but leaves,
when it is passed, a vacuity which needs some external power to
fill it. Perhaps I too easily found in this an excuse for
leaving my letter unfinished, and now that I review it, I blush
at my own weakness. I sought to relieve my own heart, instead
of strengthening yours. I have been with you every moment since
I last wrote you, and too fully realized all that you have
suffered. At the moment I was writing you, that pure spirit was
taking its flight. I felt it as by intuition, and needed not
further confirmation. But it was a relief to know that his
blessed spirit was for ever beyond the reach of pain and
anguish; that it was exalted to its native home, there to
realize all that his brightest hopes could anticipate of a
glorious immortality.
"I feel an almost total inability to write you on this subject.
Could I talk to you, there would be time to enlarge on all the
thoughts which it suggests. But they are so various, so
interesting, so overpowering, that I know not on which to
dwell. His virtues are too deeply imprinted on our hearts to
receive any additional weight by enumeration. We can only go
forward with them to that world where they shall meet a reward
proportionate to their value. The remembrance of his character,
while it awakens every emotion of affection which he excited
while on earth, sheds on the heart a light which unfolds to the
eye of faith its glorious perfection in heaven. Nothing in him
can have escaped the mind of one so closely connected with him;
friends need not to be reminded of what is imprinted in
indelible characters on their hearts. But the thought that what
we so loved and cherished is gone for ever from us, that the
form by which we have held communion with the spirit is hid for
ever from our view, the chilling realities of death and decay,
as they appeal to our purest earthly feelings, are the most
difficult to contend with. Our brightest visions of the future
have a most powerful drawback in the horror with which nature
shrinks from the sad appendages of death.
"It is this, I think, which more than any thing else makes us
look forward to our own dissolution with instinctive dread, and
leads us to avoid, if possible, every thing that reminds us of
it. But when we view it as it really is, but a step in the
ceaseless progression which is to carry us on to eternity, as a
mere change of the external habitation of our spirits, a
removal of the greatest impediments in our progress towards
perfection, then, indeed, it loses all its terror, and we think
of our friends who have passed through it as absent only in
body, but present in spirit. Our own souls, though still
connected with an earthly load, form by their derivation from
heaven a part of the spiritual world, and in proportion as they
become purified from the corruption of the world, they approach
the state of those beatified beings who have finished their
course. And therefore, though separated from them in this
world, we are allied to them more closely than earthly ties
could bind us, and must patiently wait for the fulfilment of
our Father's plans for our joyful removal to them. This is,
indeed, a new incentive to exertion, to prepare ourselves for
this change. I have feared it might supersede a still higher
motive; but how far it may be permitted to influence us, I dare
not determine. That our earthly affections _may_ be a means of
leading us to the Creator of them and of all our powers of
thinking and feeling, I believe must be true, or they would not
have been given us as sources of such pure enjoyment here. But
their tendency to make us forget all other considerations, to
absorb those thoughts which should be directed to higher
objects, is the trial which always attends every means of
worldly enjoyment we possess, and as such should be combated
with our utmost powers....
"Yours, most truly,
"M. L. P."
In the summer of 1821 Mary went with her father to live in Dorchester.
And the change from town to country, and from a life of business and
care to the free and still enjoyment of nature, seems to have had both a
favorable and unfavorable effect upon her mind. Unfavorable in part, if
we may trust her own account of herself. In this account, however, there
is a nearer approach to morbidness than we have before seen, and a kind
of self-disparagement, which must have been sincere at the time, but
was not, we think, a part of her essential character. Humble she was
always; truly, deeply humble; yet no one knew better than she, or acted
more upon the truth, that genuine humility says very little about
itself. And the expressions of it which appear in the letters that
follow were made, we are to remember, to a confiding friend, to whom she
declared all that she felt, though it were but the feeling of the
moment, and the next moment recalled. She says herself, in this
connection,--"I believe I have given an extravagant detail of my danger;
and I may be under the influence of one of those fits of distempered
mind, to which I have always been prone." If this were so, it shows the
more what efforts she made, and how completely she brought every such
disposition under the sway of principle, so that few who knew her ever
suspected, we imagine, that any effort was necessary.
But we are ourselves overstating, it may be, the disposition to which we
refer. Wherever it appears, as here, it is connected with such just and
exalted sentiments, that it seems incidental and unimportant.
"_Dorchester, June 18, 1821._
"The first line which I date from this place is to you, my
friend, to whom my first feelings, on all occasions of
self-interest, turn for sympathy. Your friendly curiosity is
awake to know what effect a new kind of life is to have on a
character which I know you feel of some importance to yourself.
I would not imply that this selfish reason is the only motive
of your interest, but I seek rather to find in it some pretence
for indulging myself in the egotism which is creeping over me;
and which led me to this desk for relief. How much will one
short week of quiet reflection teach of our own hearts! How
deceived are we, if we imagine we know ourselves thoroughly,
when we have been but partially exposed to that change of
circumstances and situation which alone can develop character
even to one's self! I have found, indeed, just what I
anticipated, that the change from constant activity to perfect
stillness and inaction would of course produce a vacuity which
time and habit would alone overcome; but I knew not the whole
weakness of my mind. In the bustle of a busy life (idly busy,
perhaps, but not the less exciting) I had almost lost sight of
my natural propensities. Accustomed to find objects to occupy
my powers wherever I turned, I mistook the simple love of being
employed for real energy of mind, and therefore did not even
apprehend the want of power to direct these energies to
whatever I pleased. But it is not as I thought. My natural turn
of mind (if I may so call what is perhaps more a weakness of
heart) is for that calm, saddened view of things, which seeks
enjoyment from the contemplative in character, and lives rather
on the food of imagination than reality. I never found in words
a more accurate description of the prevailing mood of my
natural feelings than in that exquisite little poem, 'I'm
pleased, and yet I'm sad,'--yet not of an uneasy, discontented
temperament, but simply inclined to the purest refinement of
melancholy. Trials which called for vigor of mind and
cheerfulness of manner, a situation whose duties required the
full employment of time which might otherwise have been wasted
in cultivating this propensity, and perhaps a little pride lest
those who could not understand it should discover it, and I
hope a principle which taught me to wage war with what must
interfere with higher duties,--all these combined to stifle the
propensity, and I sometimes thought had almost extinguished it.
But now, removed from those occupations which demanded thought
as well as action, thrown entirely upon myself, with every
thing around to inspire the enthusiastic indulgence of fancy,
my imagination has suddenly taken the reins, and I find it will
not be without a struggle that reason and principle will
recover them.
"I suppose I must set about some new study or dry book, if I
cannot find some animate subject to interest and fix my mind.
There is a little deaf and dumb girl just opposite us, and if I
knew the process I would teach her to read. I must have
something to do which will rouse my mind to exertion. I have
employment enough, but it is not of my _mind_, and that is
unfortunately one which will retrograde if it does not
progress. I am delighted with our situation, and cannot
describe to you the sensations of first realizing that I am
living in the pure, unconfined atmosphere of nature. It has a
power, which I hope familiarity will never efface, of elevating
the heart to Him whose 'hand I see, wrought in each flower,
inscribed on every tree.' It is a privilege which I hope I
shall fully estimate, to be thus reminded at every glance of
the love and power of our Father in heaven. I am grateful for
that goodness which has appointed me so much of the purest
enjoyment of life, and I would testify it by devoting all my
powers to his best service. I was not made for solitude of
heart, and I would find all that my heart requires in the love
of divine perfection. I think Foster will do me good,--'On the
Epithet Romantic.'
"I have just been taking a delightful walk, as the sun was
setting gloriously, and I think if you were only with me I
should enjoy it tenfold. I wish you could arrange matters to
come out with father one night before you go, and we will go to
Milton.
"MARY."
* * * * *
"_Dorchester, July 25, 1821._
"I wrote you last rather a monotonous round of sedentary
employments, occasionally interrupted by a visit to the city,
or a ride about the country. On the whole I enjoy life highly,
although my present mode is so novel a one, that I am sometimes
at a loss to decide whether it is actual enjoyment or negative
indulgence of ease. But country life is a privilege I estimate
most highly; that I can at all times, when I raise my eyes,
find my thoughts so forcibly directed, by all I behold, to that
'still communion which transcends the imperfect offices of
prayer and praise'! I am persuaded that it is far easier to
cultivate a devotional spirit here than in the confusion of
life, and to have a deeper sense of the presence of God in the
heart. Feeling is little, to be sure, unless it fortifies for
action; but in the hour of trial, we find great assistance in
recalling past exercises, and in spiritual as well as temporal
concerns habit is a powerful coadjutor. That high-wrought state
of feeling which some of the splendid appearances of nature
often produce on a heart which has once felt the power of
piety, is ridiculed as enthusiasm of the most dangerous kind;
and I do not myself think it is any test of religious
character; but as far as the enjoyment of the present moment is
of any importance, what can exceed it? We are, indeed, too apt
to feel that we have been on the mount, when it was but a
vision which we saw; but where it does not so deceive us,
nothing but a good effect can result from its indulgence. I
recollect part of a description of this state of mind in
Wordsworth's Excursion, which from its accuracy has remained in
my mind, though I forget the scene which suggested it:--
'Sound needed none,
Nor any form of words; his spirit drank
The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form
All melted in him; they swallowed up
His animal being; in them did he live,
And by them did he live; they were his life.
In such access of mind, in such high hour
Of visitation from the living God,
Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired.
No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request.
Rapt into still communion that transcends
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise,
His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power
That made him; it was blessedness and love.'
"I have got Samor to read, because you recommend it, and am
shocked to find how unfit my mind has become for every kind of
application in the way of reading. I know you think I am
greatly deficient in that kind of literary taste which fits one
for an agreeable companion,--and I feel most sensibly that it
is true. But I am fully persuaded that if the _sentimental_
requisites of an interesting character are only to be derived
from books, I must go through life the plain matter-of-fact
lady I now am; it is too late for me to work a reform.
"MARY."
Not long afterward, an event occurred of no little interest and
importance to Mary,--the marriage of her true friend, now Mrs. Paine,
who went to reside in Worcester. In a letter dated May, 1822, we find a
full expression of the thoughts and wishes caused by this event, but of
too personal and private a character to be used. The letter closes with
an allusion to herself, showing that she had trials and experiences of
her own, not to be disclosed to the public eye. She speaks of the
previous winter, as "a remarkable era, never to be forgotten. Its
perplexities have passed away, but its blessings have increased and
become consummated. We have all found it an important period, and to
some of us the most so of life. How far it has improved us, He who
searcheth the heart alone knows; but for myself, I feel that it has been
a scene of more mental suffering than I ever before knew. You have seen
it, and will not misunderstand me when I say that, had I been more
indifferent, I should have escaped much torture. But it has been a good
lesson for me."
* * * * *
There are few greater demands upon the exercise of a sound discretion
and practical wisdom, than the giving counsel and exerting a right
influence on _sceptical_ minds. Nor is it often that such minds are
willing to open themselves, and confide their doubts or indifference to
a Christian friend. Unfortunately, Christians are apt to be either too
careless in their conduct, or too morose in their manners and severe of
judgment, to make a favorable impression on the sceptical, and win their
confidence in the assurance of a generous sympathy. We dare not
conjecture how much of the infidelity of the world, and the unhappiness
of the unbelieving, is owing to this cause. We are sometimes driven to
the fear, that Christians themselves may have as much to answer for as
those whom they exclude for their unbelief, and whom they fail to
impress with the power of their own faith, or the beauty of their
holiness. We have many intimations that this was felt peculiarly by her
of whom we write. And it is one indication of character, and of the
aspect and influence of her faith, that many came to her freely with
their doubts and difficulties. Some of the particular cases cannot be
published.
But where no names are used in her account of them, nor a hint given of
the persons intended, there can be no impropriety in offering the facts
as related. The reflections with which she accompanies them may be
profitable to both classes of minds, the believing and the doubting.
Under date of August, 1822, Mary writes to her former instructors in
Hingham, giving with other incidents the following case of hard
indifference, if not infidelity.
"This leads me to a subject upon which I want assistance. I
have lately met with a person of my own age, who, though living
in a Christian land, under the public dispensations of the
Word, from the more powerful influence of those with whom she
has lived and the want of education, is as it were wholly
ignorant of what religion is, in any form, except as it is in
some way connected with going to church, but without the least
_feeling_ of what that connection is. She is not deficient in
strength of mind, or capacity to receive instruction on the
subject, but without any idea of the necessity of any other
principle of action than she already possesses; that is, a
firmness of purpose proceeding from natural decision, and a
patience under trial, because experience has taught the
weakness and uselessness of irritation. Now this seems to me an
opportunity of doing some real good. I have almost unlimited
influence over her from the strong affection she feels, and, as
my opportunities are few, I cannot neglect this one without
reproach. But that dreadful consciousness of incapacity will
place its iron hand on my wishes. I am aware that much might
and ought to be done, but that much, if not every thing,
depends on the first impression. She must be made to feel the
_necessity_, in order to be excited to the pursuit of piety;
and how this is to be done I know not. Never did I feel so
forcibly the imperfection of the characters of Christians, as
on this occasion. To be able to point to one example of the
power of religion in producing that uniform loveliness of
character and happiness of life of which it is capable, would
do more than volumes of argument to such a mind and heart. It
has made me shrink at my own unworthiness of the name I bear.
Could you find a moment to assist me in this undertaking, you
would confer an unspeakable kindness.
"M. L. P."
Another more decided and serious case came to her knowledge about the
same time,--a case of avowed atheism, confided to her for relief, and
most kindly and wisely met by her; so that, while she supposed no effect
had been produced, the work was going on, and an intelligent, troubled
spirit came out of darkness into marvellous light. This success, which
seems to have surprised her, was apparently owing to the beauty of her
own religion, and the harmony and happiness of her life, which the
doubter could not fail to see, which indeed first induced the
confession, and was more effectual than any formal arguments; another
evidence of the power and responsibility of the Christian course and
character. "What a responsibility did this trust impose on me!" Mary
writes; "for I knew that no human being but myself was aware of it. It
was too much to bear alone; I was unequal to it, I dared not attempt it
for a time, I knew that so much depended on the very first step in such
cases."
The counsellor to whom she would gladly have gone for aid, her beloved
pastor, was then absent, travelling in Europe for his health. He
returned the following summer; and the account she gives of that happy
event, familiar as the facts may be to the readers of the Memoir of
Channing, will be interesting to many, as the impression of one who saw
and heard for herself.
"_Dorchester, August 25, 1823._
"MY DEAR N----:
"I have just returned from passing the day with E----, and
although it is late, and I am very tired, I cannot resist the
strong desire I have to send you a few lines by her to-morrow,
that I may give you some faint idea, at least, of what you
would have felt, had you heard Mr. Channing yesterday. But to
begin at the right end of the tale, I passed Thursday in town,
and learned that Mr. Channing would possibly come in a vessel
which was expected daily. On Friday I was at Nahant, and saw a
ship enter the harbor which might be that. Saturday I went to
Newton, and on my return was told that he had actually arrived,
and was to preach the next morning. I could scarcely credit it,
and it was not until my arrival at home, when I received a note
from George requesting me to come in to hear him, and pass the
day in Pearl Street, that I could be convinced it was actually
true. I went in on Sunday morning, and with what sensations I
saw the church filling, and every one looking round in anxious
expectation, you may perhaps imagine; it was a feeling more of
dread than pleasure, lest the first glance at his face should
destroy all our hopes. He wisely waited until all had entered,
and when his quick step was heard (for you might have heard a
leaf fall), the whole body of people rose, as it were with one
impulse, to welcome him. He was much affected by this, and it
was some seconds before he could raise his head; but when he
did, it made the eyes that gazed on him rejoice to see him,
seated in his accustomed corner, looking round on his people
with the most animated expression of joy glowing on his face,
and with the evidences of improved health stamped on every
feature. His skin was much burned, to be sure, which may have
given him an appearance of health that did not belong to him,
but the increase of his flesh and the animation of his
countenance promised much.
"Mr. Dewey commenced the services as he used to do, but when,
after the prayer, Mr. Channing rose and read his favorite
psalm,--
'My soul, repeat His praise,
Whose mercies are so great,'
I could hardly realize that he had been absent, his voice and
manner and action were so exactly like himself in his very best
days. He stood through the whole psalm, and seemed to join in
and enjoy every note of the music. He could not control a smile
of joy. But of what followed I can tell you little. You have
heard him when he felt obliged, as then, to dismiss the
restraints of form, and speak freely the thoughts that filled
his mind, and have perhaps often thought with others that he
went too far, was too particular, too personal; but yesterday,
I believe the most uninterested person present could not find
fault. I thought it was the most deeply affecting address I
ever heard; it was also deeply and decidedly practical. There
are few occasions which will authorize a minister to excite the
feelings of his audience in a very great degree, and none which
can make it allowable for him to rest in mere excitement. But
when their minds, from any peculiar circumstance, are
particularly susceptible, I know no reason why it should not be
permitted that they be addressed familiarly and affectionately
on the subject of it. But you need not that I should defend Mr.
Channing from the charge of egotism. You understand his motives
too well to require it.
"His text was from the hundred and sixteenth Psalm: 'What shall
I render unto God for all his mercies? I will offer the
sacrifice of thanksgiving, I will call on the name of the Lord,
I will pay my vows unto the Lord now in the presence of his
people.' Returning, as he said, under such peculiar
circumstances of mercy to his home and his people, he trusted
no apology was necessary for waiving the common forms of the
pulpit, that he might speak to his people as to his friends,
that he might in the fulness of his heart utter its emotions to
those who, he trusted, could understand and sympathize with
them. As he slightly reviewed the views with which he left us,
the mercies that had followed him, and the blessings which were
showered on his return, he seemed almost overpowered with the
fulness of his feelings, and I feared he would not be able to
go on. But his voice rose as he said, 'And now what shall I
render for all these benefits? I will first pay my vows unto
Him, whose mighty arm hath been stretched out to save, whose
never failing love hath everywhere attended me.' The ascription
of praise which followed was more truly sublime than any thing
I ever heard or read. His solemn dedication of his renewed life
to the service of Him who had borne him in safety over the
great deep, who had sustained him in sickness, comforted him in
affliction, and crowned all his gifts by giving him strength to
return to his duties, was almost too much to bear. It was a
testimony to the power of religion, which spoke more loudly
than all the books that ever were written to prove it. But he
meant not to speak of his past experiences merely to relieve
his own heart; he had but one great object in view, the good of
his people, and he would not lose sight of that even when the
fulness of his own feelings might almost be allowed to engage
his whole mind. He could not be expected to enumerate all that
he had learned during his absence, but one thing he could
assure us; that at every step, under all circumstances, in
every country, and with every variety of character, he had
become more and more convinced of the value and necessity of
the Christian revelation."
The last of that succession of bereavements which Mary was so early
called to meet, and by which she was left as alone in the world, was now
at hand. Since the death of her mother, in 1812, when there devolved
mainly upon her, at the age of fourteen, the care of a dispirited and
feeble father, and two aged grandparents, with other members of the
family in a most trying condition, she had lived either in the
sick-room, or in a press of domestic cares and business avocations. That
these often made a severer demand upon her strength and patience, as
well as affection, than any one knew at the time, or indeed ever knew,
appears from various intimations in her letters and life. And all this
was now to be brought to a crisis by the death of her _father_, leaving
her without one near relative, or proper home. They had been boarding
for some time in Dorchester, in the family of Mr. Barnard; where she
received, as she says, "the greatest kindness and affection,"--and she
felt the need of it. But let her give the circumstances in her own
words.
"_Boston, November 1, 1823._
"MY DEAR FRIEND:--
"I have been wishing this whole week to find time to write you,
but it has been wholly impracticable. I have been in a
perpetual agitation from sundry unexpected occurrences and
continual interruptions from visitors. In fact, at no moment
of my whole existence have I more wanted your counsel and
sympathy. You know it is my lot to be assailed in more than one
direction if in any, and it has been more remarkably the case
now than ever.... I thank you most sincerely for your two good
letters; it was more than I dared expect, and it was a cordial
to me to receive the kind expression of your sympathy, though I
should not have doubted its existence without it. You say you
'have heard but little of me,' and it was scarcely possible
that you should hear of the immediate circumstances that
attended my trial. It was so sudden that I was, as it were,
alone, and I have feared that, in indulging myself in writing
to you of it, I should give way too far, and distress and weary
you. I have realized more than I ever did in any of the various
changes I have met with, that 'the wind is tempered to the
shorn lamb,' and even in the very extremity of trial we can be
strengthened to support all with calmness.
"For the first three days of my father's sickness he seemed to
have only a severe cold and slightly disordered stomach, and
though I had called Dr. Thaxter, it was more to satisfy him
that the medicine I gave was necessary for him, than from any
doubt that I could do all that was needed; for he had often
appeared more sick, and I had administered to him without any
advice. On the morning of the fourth he appeared to be a little
wandering, but remained quiet until night, when he was very
violent for two or three hours; and the following day I was
told by the physician that nothing but a miracle could preserve
his life until the next morning. I heard it calmly, I believe
because I could not realize it. He did not seem to be conscious
that he was sick; he did all that I asked him to, but did not
seem to know me. I soon found that the doctor's prediction was
but too true, for symptoms of decay increased very rapidly,
and at three the next morning he breathed his last, as a child
would go to sleep. Not a struggle indicated the approach of the
destroyer. I held his hand, and gazed at him until I was taken
from him senseless. No one was with me but Mr. B----, and Mr.
E----, his son-in-law. I recovered myself in a few moments and
found Mr. E---- fainting; this obliged me instantly to rouse
myself to action, which was all mercifully disposed, and I sat
down quietly with them for the remainder of the night, giving
directions when any thing passed my mind, or remaining silent,
knowing all would be done just as I wished.
"It would have seemed dreadful to me had I anticipated passing
through such a scene with only two gentlemen, who a few months
before were perfect strangers to me; but it never passed my
mind that I was not with my nearest friends. I could not in
volumes tell you of all their kindness. It was one of the
striking testimonies of God's merciful care of me, that He
placed me with them. Indeed, His goodness towards me has been
most wonderful, and above all, that He has enabled me to feel
it continually; even in the awful stillness of that night I
never lost sight of it. I could feel as it were His arm beneath
me; and I can truly say I never experienced that fulness of
heavenly peace which results from undeviating confidence in
Him, which I then did. It was an hour of peculiar elevation
which I can never forget, and which I trust will ever be a
source of unfailing support, as it must be of gratitude. What
beside could have sustained me amidst its horrors? All that I
could call my own was departing from me, and I was standing as
it were alone in the universe; but I felt that I was the object
of His care who was all-sufficient, and I found in that
consciousness a calmness which nothing could move. I stood firm
and erect, though the storms of life seemed to have
concentrated their power to overthrow me, and I felt that the
Power which enabled me to do this would never forsake me, for
it was not my own. We may talk of the resolution and fortitude
which some possess, but what would it all be at such an hour?
Nothing,--less than nothing. I gave up all reliance upon
myself, or I should have utterly failed. Every thing was
directed with the utmost mercy. Even his unconsciousness, which
I thought at first I could not bear, was a mercy to him, for
how much was he spared by it; he could not have left me alone
without a severe struggle.
"I am now fixed for the winter, and shall soon feel, I doubt
not, as much at home as it is possible for me to feel; and if
the greatest kindness and affection that ever were shown to any
human being can make me happy, I shall be so, for I have it.
"With love, I am yours,
"M. L. P."
VI.
VISIT ABROAD.
Mary Pickard was now alone. Every member of her own family had gone, and
she had witnessed and smoothed the passage of every one. She had only
entered mature life, but her twenty-five years of experience and change
had been equal to double that period of common life. Already had she
learned the great truth, which to many comes late, if at all,--
"We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial."
Heretofore she had always had an object to live for,--some one dependent
upon her affection and exertions, to whom it was happiness enough to
minister. Now there was no one; and we wonder not that she said, "I seem
to hang so loosely on the world, that it is of little importance where I
am." It was indeed a singular providence which at this moment opened to
her an entirely new field, yet one wholly congenial with her tastes and
wishes.
Her only relatives on the father's side were in England, connections
whom she had seen only as a child twenty years before, but had always
hoped to see again. And not for her own gratification only, but that she
might be of service, if possible, to those who were in depressed and
obscure condition, as some of them were. This consideration, which would
have offered least inducement to most young minds, perhaps have kept
them away, was an incentive to Mary, and gave her a right to find in the
opportunity a duty as well as a pleasure; especially as the occasion
given her was itself an opportunity to serve an invalid friend. The
circumstances will appear in the following letters to Miss Cushing and
Mrs. Paine.
"_Boston, March 8, 1824._
"MY DEAR MISS CUSHING:--
"If sorrow for sin is any ground for forgiveness, I trust you
will grant it to me, for my shameful neglect of you. Do not
think that forgetfulness or want of interest has led to this;
you know me, I trust, better than to believe that, and you know
my faults too well not to be able to account for it, from my
too deeply rooted habit of procrastinating. Often during the
past winter have I thought, if I could only see you, I should
be sure to find the guidance and sympathy which I have longed
for; but when I thought of writing to you, I felt the
selfishness of troubling you with my own perplexities, knowing
that, as my mind was so much occupied by them, I could not
compensate you for it by any other communications I could make.
The last six months have indeed brought to me a constant
struggle of feeling. Left as I was to choose my own path on the
wide ocean of life, with health, strength, and some means of
influence, the responsibility which it imposed to use to the
best possible advantage the powers that God had given me, to
promote the end for which I knew they were given, was almost
overpowering,--and at times I would have given myself up
willingly to the control of any one who would relieve me from
the burden. I have experienced in so many striking ways the
great goodness of God in giving me light to guide, and strength
to sustain me in hours of trial, that it is, I know, but
practical infidelity to doubt for one moment that his
protecting influence will still be extended towards me, if I
try my utmost to attain a knowledge of duty, and persevere to
my best ability in the path which conscience dictates. But the
difficulty is, that, though in great events where we see at
once that no human power can aid us we cannot but acknowledge
that He is sufficient for all things, we are too apt to lose
sight of this truth in cases in which human agency must be
exerted, forgetting that God is as surely the operating cause
in one case as the other. When it appears that our fate may be
determined by a single word which we feel the power of
uttering, we can scarcely help thinking that upon our own heads
must be all the consequences which may follow; and thinking
thus, we must realize our weakness and insufficiency.
"All this has been preying upon my mind, and its effects have
been deplorably contracting to my thoughts. I have, indeed,
been outwardly much occupied by various pursuits, trying to do
something for others, but my thinking has been nearly all for
myself. This is my only excuse for not writing you more, and I
think with this specimen you will be satisfied that I have not
before attempted it. I believe that all the events that befall
us are exactly such as are best adapted to improve us; and I
find, in a perfect confidence in the wisdom and love which I
know directs them, a source of peace which no other thing can
give; and in the difficulty I find in acting upon this belief I
see a weakness of nature, which those very trials are designed
to assist us in overcoming, and which trial alone can conquer.
Whatever is in store for me, I trust that I shall not forget
that the first and only important object of existence is to
promote, as far as my powers may extend, the cause of holiness.
That every one, however humble their station and limited their
capacity, has some power to do this, I doubt not, as I find in
every line of God's word a command to do so; and I pray that my
feeble efforts may be fully devoted to this end.
* * * * *
"_March 15._ What changes a few days may produce in one's
prospects! Little could I think, a week ago, that the
conclusion of this letter was to tell you, that in less than
another week I should be floating on the vast ocean, on my way
to England. But so it is, and I hope that the suddenness of the
determination to go has not shut from my eyes any very
important consideration against it. It seems to me like a
dream, for it is only in my dreams that I have ever thought of
it as a possibility. I have wished to see my relations there,
having always kept up a constant correspondence with them, and
felt very much interested in them; but since my father's death,
I have viewed the accomplishment of this wish as an
impossibility. But now that so good an opportunity has offered,
I cannot hesitate to accept it. I seem to hang so loosely on
the world, that it is of little importance where I am, as it
regards duties, and it is an advantage to enlarge one's ideas,
which I feel ought to be improved. To tell you all that I feel
at leaving home would be impossible; it is a most solemn
undertaking, and when I glance at the possibilities connected
with such a step, it almost overwhelms me.
"I wish I could see every one of you once more. My heart is
indeed too full to tell you half that I wish.
"Yours most affectionately,
"M. L. P"
* * * * *
"_Boston, March 13, 1824._
"MY DEAR N----:
"I have been sitting many minutes with my pen in my hand and
paper before me, trying to bring to myself sufficient
resolution to tell you the new and surprising turn which has
taken place in my wayward destiny. I have been so long the
creature of circumstances that you must be prepared for changes
of all kinds in my lot; but I know not how it will strike you
when you learn for truth, that in one week from to-morrow I
sail for England. I thought that I was entirely willing to go,
but as I find myself telling you of it, and think that it is
utterly impossible for me to see you again, my heart sinks
within me, and I almost shrink from it. In fact, this is the
first moment I have realized it. I knew nothing of it until the
day before yesterday, when Edward Robbins sent to me, to say
that his physicians and friends advised his taking a voyage,
and that, if I could go with him, it would decide him to take
their advice. I had thought of the subject so much, that I was
prepared at once to answer. It is a very desirable thing for me
to visit the few relations which I have there, and I could
never give up the expectation and endeavor to accomplish it. My
dependent state was the only barrier, as I could never go
unless under the protection of one of the few male friends from
whom I should be willing to receive such an obligation, and it
was so unlikely that either of those few would ever think of
going, that I had but little hope I should ever realize my
wishes. But this proposition at once removed all difficulties.
Our families have been so long connected, and Edward himself
has been so particularly kind to me through life, and more than
ever since I have been without a parent's protection, and is in
every respect so exactly calculated to make one feel willing
and happy to be under obligation, that I could not but feel
that now was the time (if ever) for me to accomplish this
great object. Doubts about the sufficiency of my means, and
some scruples about my right to employ them in this way, made
me hesitate a few hours; but in less than four I decided, with
the advice of all whom it was necessary to consult, that it was
right to improve the present, as all future opportunities were
uncertain. That it cost me a deep inward struggle to make my
feelings acquiesce, you will not doubt. The first day I felt
like a child. I could not glance even at the reasons which
favored my going without sad and overpowering retrospection,
and the thought of the uncertainty of the result, the thousand
possibilities involved in such a change, almost turned my
brain; and yet every one was wondering how I could look so
composed and keep so still. It is singular how much little
things sometimes concur to aid us. It was Thursday, and I was
just going to lecture, as Mr. Robbins came in with his
proposal. I went still, and Mr. Walker gave us one of the most
delightful, strengthening sermons upon the influence of the
Spirit, and the all-sufficiency of trust in its guidance, that
I ever heard in my life. I believe no other subject could have
fixed my attention, and it did fix it most effectually.
"I know it is utterly impossible that I should see you,
therefore I will not dwell for a moment on the thought. I have,
of course, a great deal to think about, although little
personal preparation; but I must leave every thing in which I
have the least concern just as I should wish if I was certain I
should never return. God only knows what the future will bring
to me, but I hope to find myself wholly willing to yield myself
to the disposal of his providence. We think of these changes
for others, and feel little doubt about their safety, but when
the case becomes our own, it is another thing. To embark on the
wide ocean in a little, frail vessel with perfect calmness,
requires a firmness of faith of which no one can boast until
they have stood the test. I have no fear of it now, and I trust
I shall find that the ground of confidence in the all-powerful
God, which the experience of my life has given me, will be
sufficient to support me in all events. I am willing to be put
to the test, for if all that I think I feel is but delusion, I
had better discover the delusion before it is too late.
"We have taken passage in the Emerald. If I feel alone here, I
don't know what I shall do in a land of strangers. We go to
Liverpool, and probably immediately to London from there. I go
with very moderate hopes about seeing the wonders and beauties.
I must be satisfied with seeing people, not things. I shall
have no right to travel much, and shall have no advantages not
common to the most insignificant; nevertheless, if I can attain
my principal object, all the rest will be unexpected gain. It
is most probable we shall be gone a year, but it is possible we
may return in the fall.
"What a variety for one poor soul in the last four months! It
absolutely makes me giddy to think of it all. But what a source
of comfort is it, that in all things I have sought guidance
where I believe it is ever freely given; and I do believe,
whatever is the event of all this, it must be the direction of
Him who knows and governs all things I must not write more.
"Yours most affectionately,
"M. L. P."
A particular friend in Milton, one of the truest and noblest friends
that Mary or any one ever had, describes her as at this time "worn to
the bone" with care and trial; and then breaks forth in praise of her,
in unmeasured terms; adding, "Yet, with all this superiority, where is
the other being on whom any poor fool can repose with such trust and
confidence, as on her? My meanest thought is not checked in the
utterance, because her mind is so flexible it stoops to the lowest. I am
only afraid of adoring her, so I may as well hold my peace." This was
said in earnest, and is one of many expressions of admiration and
affection called out by her departure.
Of her progress and occupations abroad, our knowledge is drawn
exclusively from her own letters. These, therefore, we shall use freely,
leaving them to show their connection as far as they can, and make their
own impression; begging the reader to remember, however, that they were
all written in the haste of travelling or the fatigues of watching, and
that their literary merit or public appearance was the last thought to
occur to the mind of the writer. She wrote a great deal, and we confine
our selection chiefly to passages relating to personal experience,
rather than descriptions of places or works of art. For these last she
allowed herself little time, though keenly alive to the enjoyment of all
grandeur and beauty, and giving passing indications of her power of
appreciating and delineating.
Arriving in Liverpool in April, she was made to feel at home
immediately, by the kindness and sympathy of a kindred mind, in one to
whom Dr. Channing had given her a letter, and whose name and sad fate
are familiar to many,--Mrs. Freme, daughter of the Rev. Dr. Wells, who
settled in Brattleboro', Vermont, where she afterward perished by fire.
Mary's account of her interview with that excellent woman is
characteristic, as her first interest in a new country.
"_London, April 19, 1824._
"In Liverpool, I went with Mrs. Freme to visit the Female
Penitentiary, and took a long walk with her. She had
relinquished an engagement out of town to go with me, and I
know not that I ever felt more grateful to a stranger in my
life. She is an uncommonly sensible, kind woman, extremely
interested in the encouragement of all good works, a warm
Unitarian, and a truly liberal, benevolent Christian. I never
enjoyed any thing in my life more than the conversation I had
with her. I had begun to feel the want of that free intercourse
upon those subjects upon which we can speak only to those who
we are sure are equally interested in them; and in a strange
land, to meet with one who not only entered fully into every
thing I wished to say, but carried me on to higher, more
improving and elevated thoughts, was indeed a privilege."
* * * * *
"_London, May 6, 1824._
"MY DEAR ANN:--
"It was a great deprivation to me to be unable to write at sea.
I hoped to have had a large packet for the many kind friends
who aided and blessed my departure, expressing something of the
gratitude which overpowered me. I have sometimes feared that
you thought me insensible to it all, for I dared not try to
utter even a word of what I felt lest I should lose my
self-possession entirely, and trouble them more than my thanks
would please them. God alone knows how fully I appreciated it
all, and when I look back upon the period which elapsed after
my father's death until I left you, I know not how to speak my
astonishment that such a one as myself should have been so
signally favored. For your Aunt Nancy I can only say her reward
must be beyond this world; nothing that I or any one here can
do, is adequate to it. Never was a human being so blessed with
kind friends, and could I feel that I had been as grateful as I
ought to have been, I should be happy. But the entire
absorption of every thought in self, during the past winter, is
now a subject of much reproach.
"I had time to think of all this during the long days and
wakeful nights on the voyage, and I do assure you I took a new
view of every thing connected with it. Whether it was the
absence of every thing else to interest my mind, or the natural
increase of our attachment to all objects when we are going
from them, I know not, but there were moments of acute agony,
when I thought of the return I had made for the kindness
manifested towards me. How often I longed to be for a little
time on the little stool in the drawing-room, giving utterance
to my spirit! There was so little in the monotony of sea-life
to interrupt the train of one's thoughts, that I could not
sometimes get rid of an idea which possessed me, and I often
woke up, wearied with the continuation of one and the same
dream, night after night. But I did enjoy a great deal at sea,
there was so much to elevate the mind in the very situation;
and the want of confidence which I felt from the first evening
in the head of the concern tended most powerfully to raise my
thoughts above all second causes, to the One Great Cause and
Supporter of all things. Never did I so deeply feel our entire
dependence upon the power of God, never did I so fully realize
the impotence of human skill, as when I saw it contending with
the winds; and yet there was something ennobling in the idea,
that human skill had contrived and taught to guide such a
vehicle as a ship upon the trackless waste of waters; and while
we trace all this power to the original source of it, we cannot
but feel that He has given to us a noble nature. Often when the
sea was rising in immense waves on every side, and the ship
tossed about as though it were but a little shell which the
waters would soon overwhelm, have I felt as I never before did
the immense value of that religion which was able to calm all
fears, and raise the mind to a state even of enjoyment, under
such terrific circumstances. What but a firm confidence that,
whether we live or die, or whatever event befall us, it is in
Infinite Wisdom that it is so, can give this composure? Shall
we not then hold fast and cherish such a faith? shall we not
seek to understand its nature, and endeavor with our whole
hearts to ingraft its principles upon our characters?
"Tell me as much about Mr. Channing and his sermons as you can.
I went to chapel on Sunday with Mrs. Kinder, but heard very
poor preaching, to very poor houses. But Mr. Channing told me
just what to expect, therefore I was prepared for it. Poor as
it was, however, the delight of finding myself once more in a
place of public worship overbalanced all, and when I heard the
same tunes sung to the same words which I had heard in Federal
Street, it was a little more than I could bear firmly. I am
charmed with the whole Kinder family; they are too literary to
make me feel able to communicate the least pleasure, on account
of my ignorance upon all literary subjects, but they are every
thing that is kind, and very agreeable, and I find a good
lesson for my humility when I am there.
"MARY."
* * * * *
"_London, May 26, 1824._
"MY DEAR FRIENDS:--
"For the first four weeks I resisted all the entreaties of my
cousins to go to them, because Dr. R---- was so depressed and
ill, and it was so bad for Mrs. R---- to be left alone. But the
third week Dr. R---- improved very much in health, and somewhat
in spirits. And though he offered me many great inducements to
accompany them to Leamington, I could not think it quite right
to do so, as my society would not be as necessary to them as
it had been, and they were going to a fashionable
watering-place. I had seen nothing of my own friends, and as
Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Morton had asked me to stay with them when
I first arrived, I took the liberty of accepting their
invitation for a few days.
"I believe I told you I had a kind letter from Uncle Ben, and
have since had a visit from his son, who heard of our arrival,
and came up the next day, in true Lovell style, to take me home
with him to Waltham Abbey, near Enfield.
"Through the kindness of Mr. Kinder's family I have had many
privileges. By their intercession I have been admitted to
Newgate, and though Mrs. Fry was not there, I was very much
gratified. I met with a young Quakeress, who was rather
handsome, was very intelligent and kind, and has been very
attentive to me. Mrs. Fry is too much out of health to go
often, but I am to be informed by my little friend when she
next goes.
"Walking to Newington with the Kinders, to return a call, they
asked me if I would go with them to see Mrs. Barbauld. To be
sure, it made my heart beat, but I could not say no. It was
indeed a privilege, and I wish I could tell you all about it.
She spoke with great feeling of those of our ministers whom she
had seen,--Buckminster, Thacher, and Channing. Having never
seen Mr. Thacher's sermons, I had the honor of sending them to
her, and of writing her a note. A note to Mrs. Barbauld! What
presumption! Yet I was asked afterward to dine with her. She is
remarkably bright for her age, speaks of death with the firmest
hope, and I really felt as if I were communing with a spiritual
body. Though now eighty-two, she possesses all her faculties in
full perfection. Her manner is peculiarly gentle, her voice
low, and very sweet.
"I went with the Kinders to see some rich Quakers, who are very
active in the school concern, and also to a meeting of the
British and Foreign School Society, where I saw the Duke of
Sussex, and heard some fine speaking. They go upon the
Lancaster and Bell system, and truly wonderful is their success
and usefulness. I have heard Madame Catalani, and some of the
finest singers, at a concert at the Opera House, and was as
much amazed as it was possible to be, notwithstanding all I had
heard. But some of those with less power pleased me more. No
one can equal _her_, or be compared with her. Braham sung with
her, with a full band, and her voice was heard above all; it is
tremendous, for the house is immense, and she entirely filled
it. At a meeting of the Sons of the Clergy at St. Paul's, I
heard some very fine sacred music. About thirty little boys
sang the high parts, and chanted the responses. The church was
very full. The Duke of Clarence, Lord Mayor, and a goodly
company of the dignitaries of the Church, filled the seats of
honor. Nothing could be more solemn than the whole scene, and
when at parts of the service the whole congregation joined in
the chant, the dome rung with the sound, and one almost looked
to see if the statues around were not roused.
"Do you fear that my head is growing giddy, with all this
variety? At present there is no danger. My thoughts turn too
often homeward, to be very much engrossed by any thing here,
and my heart will feel sad when I think of the time which must
elapse ere I see it again."
* * * * *
"_Broadwater, Worthing, June 11, 1824._
"MY DEAR COUSIN:--
"On Saturday, the 29th, I received a letter from Dr. R----
saying that Leamington did not agree with him, that Mrs. R----
was quite unwell, and they begged, if possible, that I would
come to them the next day, with some plan of proceeding for
them, for he felt wholly unable to decide what to do. After
some debate with Mrs. S---- I concluded that it was a duty to
give up all my own views, and do what I could for him, as there
was no one else who could assist them in this land of
strangers. Accordingly I wrote him that I would join them on
Tuesday, as it was not in my power to make such an entire
change in my arrangements before. I had just prepared on Monday
to start, when another letter arrived, saying they should be in
London at night.
"We propose going from here to the Isle of Wight, and round to
the western part of England, Bristol, Bath, and Wales. I hope
on the way to have a peep at Mrs. McAdam, who is now at
Plymouth, for it is rather tantalizing for us to be kept so
long separated. I would not have believed that any thing would
have kept me so long from my friends after I had found myself
in England. But it is well to be obliged to control our
selfishness in England, as elsewhere. The little I have seen of
my relations has only increased my desire to know them and be
loved by them. My reception at Uncle Ben's was more like that
which I hope to have at home, than any thing I could have
expected in this strange land. He is a warm-hearted old man,
with all the best of the Lovell feelings in full vigor. He was
very much attached to my mother, and retains a stronger
interest in his Transatlantic relations than I could have
thought possible after an absence of fifty years. He was very
much overcome at seeing me, and wept over me like a child. They
demand three months, at least, from me, but I am afraid I shall
not have half that time for them. You don't know how delightful
it was to be among people who seemed so like my own home
friends."
* * * * *
"_Broadwater, June 11, 1824._
"MY DEAR ANN:--
"You have been sorely afflicted indeed, doubtless for some good
purpose. I am rejoiced to find by your letter that you are
disposed to view it so, and improve by the chastisement. I hope
it will lead the way to a more free communication with our good
minister. It is a great privilege, and one which ought to be
improved. I have learned since I have been here to estimate our
advantages in this and all other religious affairs, as I could
never have done at home. In London, it seems to me that there
is no more connection between minister and people, in the
Established Church, than if they had no influence whatever to
exercise; and among the Dissenters I have met with, the case is
not much better. They are so scattered, and wander about so
much, that it is difficult to have much intercourse, or keep up
much interest among them....
"I have heard but one sermon since I have been in this country
which made the least impression upon my mind, and that was from
one from whom I expected nothing that would satisfy me. This
was Mr. Irving, whom Mr. Channing mentioned as the popular
favorite in London. He is a most singular-looking Scotchman, a
pupil of Dr. Chalmers, and now so much the fashion, that
tickets of admission are sold, to enable those who wish to hear
him to go in before the hour when the doors are thrown open.
Even in this way it is like the theatre of a Kean night, and
for two hours before the service commences the crowd is
immense. His manner is very like Kean's, most impassioned, and
when he commenced I turned from him in disgust. But there was
that in the subject and substance of the sermon which made me
forget the manner in which it was delivered. It was, I
understood, one of the least flowery of his productions. I
shall never forget it, I think; but I would not be obliged to
go to such a place for the best sermons that ever were written.
It was just like the theatre or some great exhibition.
"You cannot think how I long, when the Sabbath comes round, to
have an ear in Federal Street. I find, as Mr. Channing warned
me, that travelling is a sad enemy to the cultivation of
religious knowledge and improvement; it does so derange the
regularity of one's habits of thinking and acting. The day is
too confused, and the nights too wearied. But there is much in
the experience of every day to excite a strong sense of
gratitude to that Providence whose care is extended over us in
all places; in the consciousness which we must have, even when
the idea of separation from those we love presses most heavily
upon us, that there is One, ever present, whose love for us is
infinite. Yet it is not of feelings that I ought to speak; I
could fill volumes with the variety of thoughts which every day
suggests, but I am learning to do without the communication of
them."
From Broadwater the party of four went to the Isle of Wight, and made
the usual circuit, in their little open carriage, through that charming
region, "with nothing wanting but health, and with that deficiency all
was a blank." Dr. R---- was too unwell to enjoy any thing, and Mary
herself, for a wonder, speaks of suffering from a cough which she had
had a month. But it did not prevent her from making what she calls "a
break-neck excursion" up a precipice of about four hundred feet, at the
southern part of the island. Of the country she gives a glowing
description, for which we have not room. On leaving the island, Dr.
R---- found it necessary to return to Broadwater for medical advice,
and Mary, who had arranged to meet some of her relations at Plymouth at
this time, readily, though not without regret, gave up her own plans,
and went back with the family to Broadwater. The place had little
interest for her, and she writes of "useless idleness" as a new thing to
her, and uncomfortable. But others did not think her presence useless,
nor did she fail to find employment. From the wife of the clergyman, who
had lately established schools in the parish on a new plan, she learned
a good deal of the national system of education. After a short time, Dr.
R---- determined to go to Paris, and she accompanied him. But of Paris
itself she saw very little, being chiefly devoted to the care of her
friend. And except for him, she had no wish to be there. "It may seem
strange," she writes, "that I should not wish to see Paris, but the
pleasure of every thing depends upon the circumstances which immediately
surround us. Yet I am very glad I came, for, though I cannot be of much
use, any one is better than none."
Their stay in Paris was short. In view of all considerations, Dr. R----
found it best to return at once to America, and sailed that same month
from Havre, Mary remaining to make her visit to her friends in England.
Her next letters are from Chatham.
"_Chatham, September 7, 1824._
"MY DEAR ANN:--
"You may easily suppose that my sensations at leaving Havre
were not the most cheering. I knew that I could have been of
but little comfort to our friends on the voyage, but I could
not help wishing that it had been so ordered that I might have
returned with them. There was something, too, so very lonely in
the idea of being left in a strange land, with no chance of
escape for a certain length of time, even if my friends should
take it into their heads to dislike me; and worse than all,
under my own sole direction, to govern myself and my actions
only by my own judgment. Indeed, I did feel as though I should
almost shrink from the effort it required; but this did not
trouble me long. I thought of the mercies of my past life, the
great goodness and preserving care which had hither
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