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 hitherto upheld me in many times of danger and difficulty. The night was a most beautiful one, and the very motion of the little vessel recalled so much which had once given me support under similar circumstances, that my mind seemed to acquire a degree of calmness and firmness which was almost sublime. For this I have great cause of gratitude; it was the gift of a Power mightier than I, and prepared me for the coming danger. We were two nights and a day crossing to Southampton, about twice the usual length of the passage, the greater part of the time in a violent storm and most dangerous situation. I suffered more from sickness than in crossing the Atlantic, but met with very great attention from the ladies who were in the same state-room, and much entertainment beside; but I never was more rejoiced than when I found myself in a clean bed on terra firma, upon the second morning.
"My first attempt at journeying alone was a very encouraging one. A good old clergyman was my companion, and after three weeks in France, I assure you, I enjoyed any thing like serious conversation; though he happened to be a Methodist, he was a rational and learned one, and I believe I learned much that was useful from him. I had apprised my good cousin of my intended descent upon her family, and was received with open arms and much kind greeting by all her flock. Here I am, then, at last, and I know you are impatient to know all about them, and the place in which they live. Mrs. S—— is in appearance but the shadow of what she was when her picture was taken. Trouble and age have made her thin and pale. But the perfect symmetry of her pretty little figure, and the brightness of her still beautiful eyes, enable one to see in her the remains of one of nature's fairest works. Her naturally good spirits are almost wholly subdued by the trials and perplexities which have followed her in constant succession for many years, and ill health and an anxious mind have created a disposition to despondency which even her piety cannot at all times overcome. This has unfitted her for great exertion, and, not possessing much natural force of character, it is impossible for her to make much effort even for herself. She is all gentleness, and full of affectionate feeling, and I often think, in looking at her in her happiest moments, that she would be a good personification of Shakspeare's Patience smiling at Grief. Her situation here is that of matron to the hospital, but it is almost a nominal office, a perfect sinecure, for she has scarcely any duty, and a comfortable income. She is now peculiarly tried, and seems to consider it an especial mercy that she has one to whom she can turn in her loneliness with something like a claim for sympathy.
"... There is a small Unitarian chapel here, and cousin N—— will say, 'Why do you not go to that?' Merely because I found out but yesterday that there was such an one; hearing a lady say, 'We ought to tolerate all denominations but those dangerous enemies to religion, the Unitarians,—I cannot pass their chapel without shuddering,'—next Sunday I shall endeavor to ascertain the grounds of this pious hatred. But in truth, if I had not learned liberality before, I have had experience enough to teach it to me since I have been in this country, I have met with so many good Christians, of such a variety of sects; and found that the bond of union created by a mutual desire to aid in the cause of benevolence was sufficient to excite interest, without any regard to different creeds or doctrinal points.
"I am constantly hearing now from all my little circle of relations, who seem determined to prevent my feeling alone, if their attentions can prevent it. Do not suspect me of vanity in mentioning all these attentions; this is not the case, for the effect is rather humbling, and I fear when they know me better they will find a poor return for it all; but I do feel such gratitude for so many unlooked for, undeserved blessings, that I want you all to know it, that you too may unite with me in thanksgiving to God for his watchful care of me, a solitary orphan in a foreign land.
"September 14. The day after I wrote the above, I received a letter from Mr. and Mrs. C——, then at Ramsgate, a town upon the eastern shore of Kent, saying that they were making a short tour, and had intended coming to Chatham to see me on their way home, but thinking I might like to see Dover and its castle, proposed that I should join them there, and pass a few days with them. So, without hesitation, I got into one of the many coaches which daily pass through Chatham, and in six hours was with them. The ride was delightful, through a richly wooded and highly cultivated country, the fine old city of Canterbury, and a number of pretty towns. My companions in the coach were very genteel, intelligent people, and I was quite pleased with finding that it was a very customary thing for a lady to travel inside a coach without escort; I wished it were equally so to travel outside, I do so much prefer to see all I can. This was on Thursday last, the 9th, and I remained with them until to-day, receiving every attention and kindness from them, and much satisfaction from seeing the place....
"I returned here to-day. My cousin was to have met me at Canterbury, but was prevented by the weather. I rode the greater part of the way alone, inside, though the outside was full; and you may tell Mary that my thoughts were often turned to her; for a guideboard with the name of 'Milton' upon it reminded me of my shameful neglect of our sweet tune of that name. I had not once sung it since I left her, and found full employment for some miles in trying to bring it to mind; and it was not until after recalling her looks and voice, and beating three strokes in a bar, over and over again, to try the power of association, that I could bring it to my recollection. But I sung it enough, when I did get it, to make up for all past deficiencies. It carried me back to last winter, and all your happy family, so fully, that my empty coach was soon peopled, and I had as pleasant a ride as need be.
"I had the gratification of seeing the famous actress, Mrs. Siddons, at Dover,—a rare sight indeed; she is a wonderfully handsome woman for her age, living in elegant retirement, in handsome style.
"Mary."
"Chatham, October 4, 1824.
"My dear Cousin:—
"I am delighted that Mr. Gannett pleases you all, and to hear such good accounts of Mr. Channing. The very idea of a letter from him was almost too much for my poor brain; the reality would overpower me, I believe. I greatly fear, unless the spring should bring me some kind American friend with whom I can travel, that I shall see little more of England. But I will be satisfied, at any rate, if I can but find the means of seeing my poor aunt S——.
"The return of this season brings so forcibly to my mind the recollection of the trying events of which it is the anniversary, that I find it difficult to prevent myself from dwelling too much upon it. I would not lose the remembrance of it, for every hour of that time was filled with valuable experience of the goodness and loving-kindness of my Heavenly Father. I love to dwell upon it, and recall every act of the many friends who then surrounded me with renewed feelings of gratitude towards them. May I yet be enabled to prove in my actions what I cannot express in words.
"Mary."
Mary Pickard is now among her kindred, those relatives of her father whom she had so long desired to know, and whom she hoped in some way to benefit. For her idea of conferring benefits was never defined by the thought of wealth, or excluded by the want of it. That she gave most liberally, according to her means, at this very time, we learn from others; her letters would never suggest it. In other and better ways, by most unexpected opportunities, did she render service to many before she left England, where her stay was greatly prolonged beyond the first intention, for this very purpose. For ten weeks she remained in Chatham; and though she does not say it, we infer from other intimations that much of that time was occupied with the care of the sick, or in relieving some kind of trouble. It is in reference to Chatham that she says, "I am fated to find trouble wherever I go,"—which is true of all who are willing to take trouble, that they may relieve others.
From Chatham Mary went to Waltham Abbey, and passed three weeks with the son of the only surviving brother of James Lovell. And in December, unwilling to be detained longer from the cousin to whom she designed to make one of her chief visits in England, and finding that sickness in the family prevented any one from coming for her, she took the coach alone, leaving London before daylight and riding to Salisbury, where some of her friends met her, and conducted her to their home at "Burcombe House," in that vicinity. And there she spent the next three or four months, in a way that her letters will best tell. These letters we give as we find them, without excluding the personal allusions and occasional descriptions of character; since it is in just such descriptions, natural and easy, that we best read the mind of the writer and of those whom she portrays, as well as the features and ways of a common English household. And should these letters chance to fall under the eye of any to whom they allude, if any still survive, we trust they will pardon a liberty which exposes nothing that is not to their honor.
"Burcombe House, December 8, 1824.
"Congratulate me, my good friends, that I am at last under this roof, and have seen cousin Jane and all her dear family. I left London at five o'clock on Saturday, the 4th, and I found myself at Salisbury at three o'clock, not at all fatigued. Cousin Jane and her son came to meet me; but as their carriage was from home, they were in an open gig, and we thought it expedient to take a postchaise, as Burcombe is five miles from the town. But before I proceed to the events of my ride, I must tell you something of my cousin, as I know you are wishing to hear how she received me. Our meeting was just what you could easily imagine it would be, knowing her to be a person of ardent feelings, strongly attached to her dear uncle, and consequently determined to love his daughter, let her be what she might; and after the frequent disappointments we have had, with regard to meeting, we both had an almost superstitious fear that something might yet happen to separate us. But we were at last together, and, if it took us both some time to realize it, we were not the less rejoiced to find it true. She has suffered much, and it has subdued her mind and spirits, and softened her manners. She is certainly one of the most entertaining women I ever saw, and one of the most interesting. She has strong powers of mind, and of course strong passions, warm-hearted, enthusiastic, prone to extremes, almost without restraint in youth, and the sport of adverse circumstances through life, ignorant of the only sure Guide to direct and guard the soul under the temptations to which such trials subject it. Imagine, then, what such a mind must be when brought by suffering to a deep sense of religious obligation, turning all its energies to the accomplishment of good to others and the subjection of self, not content with feeling until every feeling leads to active exertion,—and you have my dear cousin before you. You will not be surprised that I should already dearly love her, and feel that it was worth coming so far to know and give her pleasure. Her mind is just in that state which requires free discussion upon subjects of faith and practice, and shut out as she is here from society, and almost wholly without ministerial instruction, she suffers from the want of a companion who feels a like interest in the matter. How often do I wish for her the same privileges which I have had in Mr. Channing, or that you, my dear cousin, could step in and pour forth a little from your fund of knowledge.
"But I have digressed vastly from my tale. To return to the inn at Salisbury. We soon seated ourselves in a chaise, trunks, boxes, and all, and were driving on at a furious rate towards Burcombe House, when, lo! in a quiet lane, a mile at least from any houses, the axle of the front wheels gave way; off went one wheel, and down went we, just at dark, and the rain falling in torrents. We soon found it was only a subject for laughter; we had but one resource, which was to send the postboy back to Salisbury for another coach, and to sit quietly in the broken one until he returned. We had not, however, sat long, before Lord Pembroke's carriage came to our relief; it had passed us full at the commencement of our disaster, and was sent back to take us home, or to Wilton House. As we did not like to take all the baggage with us, we left it in the care of a servant, and, glad to get out of the cold, we proceeded to my Lord's house. I could not but be amused, that my first introduction to this region should be to Wilton House, in an Earl's carriage. I was not sorry to have an opportunity of seeing a place of which I have heard so much, and should have been quite pleased to have seen the great folks themselves; but they chanced to be dressing for dinner, and as our chaise soon came up for us, I had but little time to survey the place. The house is filled with pictures, statues, and ancient armor. I hope to have an opportunity of seeing it more leisurely.
"This whole family gave me a most hearty welcome, and I found that it would be my own fault if I was not loved by them, and happy with them. Jane has, indeed, a remarkably fine family, of steady principles and habits, and sufficiently accomplished to be agreeable and well fitted for society. This is a very retired spot, and except a call from Lord and Lady Pembroke when they are in the neighborhood, or a visit from some travelling acquaintance, scarcely any one enters the house except the family.
"... The state of the poor in this country is so very different from any thing we see at home, that I can scarcely give you any idea of the striking difference everywhere observable in their manners and habits. The immense sum which is collected for their support, under the form of poor rates, must lessen their exertion for themselves, and the very dependence which is thus created makes them servile. Some great man owns the village and lands about it, his steward lets them to farmers, and of course it depends upon sundry contingencies whether they retain possession even during life; and how can they feel as much interest as if it were their own freehold, and they knew their children would reap the benefit of their improvements upon it?"
"Burcombe House, December 31, 1824, Half past Eleven.
"My Dear Friend:—
"This hour has for so many years found me at my desk pouring forth to you, that, although in a new hemisphere and under new influences, I instinctively turn to the pen and ink, with a feeling that something remains to be done before the old year can be allowed to take its departure. I am not, as I was wont to be, seated quietly alone by my 'ain fireside,' cogitating upon the past, and, for the only time in the twelve months, daring to look forward and hope for the future. It is the custom here for all the family to sit out the old year, and I am in the parlor, surrounded by the whole tribe. On one side is my cousin's eldest daughter, playing 'God save the King' as if all possibility of ever doing it again was going with the year; on the other, an animated Miss C——, acting the old-maid aunt, giving her nephews and nieces sage advice upon the occasion, who are all laughing most heartily. In fact, the whole house is in a bustle; so you need not expect a very connected epistle, as I am obliged to turn to one or the other, every other word, to join in the merriment.
"The changes which the past year has made in my life are so amazing, when I view them in a body, that I cannot but be astonished that we should ever attempt to look forward with any thing like calculation or plan. You can easily conceive that the contrast between this night and its past anniversary is enough to excite the few nerves I have; and you will not at all wonder, that, whatever attractions there may be around me, thought will wander back to home and its interests, and it requires some effort to restrain my impatience to be again restored to them, that I may make up, if possible, for my abuse of some of them. Yet do not imagine me discontented or homesick; I am not in the least, for every hour's experience makes me rejoice that I am here; and, if kindness and attention could make up for old acquaintance, I could be as contented to pass my life here as anywhere. I would not return without seeing and doing all that may be in my power; but that I do look forward with a feeling of desire, such as I never knew before, to the period when, all this being accomplished, I shall find myself again at home, it would be folly to deny. But this is just what I expected to feel, and of course was prepared for with some degree of firmness; and when thus prepared, it is astonishing how indifferently we go through with what, under any other circumstances, would destroy one's self-possession entirely. The greatest evil I find in this state of constant preparation for enduring is, that I am getting into a quiescent state of inaction; not being quite enough at ease to exert my own powers freely, I am losing that activity of mind which I rather hoped to increase. But I have long since learned that youthful habits are not easily displaced, and I am sure now that I never shall learn to be loquacious. You know how much I felt the inconvenience of my silent habits at home, and will readily believe that I must suffer still more among strangers, with whom agreeability is a necessary passport.
"It is so long since I have written you, that I scarcely know where to take up the thread of my discourse. I was then, I believe, at Dover, and you probably have learned from my letters to Boston how much I found to please me in my cousin's family at Chatham. It was my good fortune to have it in my power to be of some service to them, and I assure you I was most thankful for any opportunity of redeeming my time from entire uselessness. I am fated to find trouble wherever I go, and ought to be truly grateful when it is such as I can relieve. I staid ten weeks at Chatham, and went then to Waltham Abbey, about sixteen miles from London, and spent three weeks with George Lovell and his most lovely wife. He is the son of the only remaining brother of my grandfather, with all the warmth and generosity which characterized the family in America. He unites good judgment and firm principles, an uncommon versatility of talent, and consequent power of pleasing.
"I came here upon the 4th of December; and if I have ever told you enough of cousin Jane and her concerns to give you any idea of the strong interest I have always felt in her, you will fully understand how intense was the excitement of my mind when I found myself at last approaching her mansion. She had been the greatest attraction to me on this side of the water, indeed the principal object of my visit; the constant impediments which had prevented our meeting during the past summer of course increased our interest and impatience about it, and I can scarcely tell whether pain or pleasure predominated when I felt that the crisis was near which would decide how far it was well that I had come.... She has had a life of trial, and being without that only comforter under suffering which can teach us to submit patiently to it, the effect has been unhappy. And now that she is just awaking from her dream of darkness, you can easily conceive that the effect of the bright sunshine which is breaking upon her mind should be most powerful, and apt to carry such a mind to the extreme of enthusiasm. She has but few connections, and almost idolized my father as the guardian of her youth, and therefore inclined to extend to his child all the strong affection she felt for him, so that her delight at seeing me was little short of mine to be with her. Here, then, I am enjoying much with her and her family.
"The house itself is one of those ancient stone edifices which abound in all parts of the kingdom, in connection with the houses of the great; probably built for some younger and less affluent branches of the family. The grounds are laid out with taste, and the lawn behind it has not probably been disturbed since the house was built, and is covered with a turf which might rival velvet in beauty. The fir-trees, elms, and walnuts which surround it, and the yew hedge which divides the garden from it, all speak its antiquity and add to its loveliness. We have no neighbors; but the occasional visits of the different branches of the family give us some variety."
"Burcombe House, January 1, 1825.
"My dear Mary:—
"A happy new year to you, and all the good people at Marlborough House, South Street, Newton, and Canton! Although I cannot have the pleasure, as I had at this time last year, of waking you out of a sound sleep upon the occasion, I have taken the liberty of thinking of you almost all the night, and wishing you in my heart all possible blessings during the year upon which we have entered. I do not dare to look forward, but I cannot help hoping that it may witness my return to you, to find you in the enjoyment of all that is worth possessing in life. It is the custom here to sit out the old year, and as we were expecting Mr. McAdam and William home last night, we determined to sit up for them. They did not arrive until nearly five this morning, so that I had time enough to reflect upon the past and hope for the future; and every thought and action of the last anniversary were lived over again in full reality. I only wanted liberty to pour forth to some one, to be a most eloquent egotist; but as it was, I just thought on quietly to 'my ain sel,' and enjoyed what was going on around me as well as I could.
"Our only neighbor is the farmer's wife, a most excellent woman of sixty, one of the old primitive people of the country, of good sense and sound judgment, just such a body as cousin N—— would delight in. Her husband is the church-warden, overseer of the poor, and indeed the principal man in all parish concerns; and their goodness to the cottagers makes them beloved by all. You may imagine Mrs. L—— as about dear aunty's size, of pale complexion like her, white hair, just parted under a neat white cap, always surmounted with a neat black-satin bonnet, stuff gown, made as grandma used to wear hers, with a plain double muslin neckerchief within and a black or calico shawl outside, and a full linen apron, as white as the snow itself. Her face is all benevolence, and her voice, even with the broad provincial pronunciation of the country, sweet and musical. They have a large family of sons and daughters; one of the former, a very interesting young man, is now going in a consumption. It is the best specimen of an English farmer's family that I have yet seen.
"I went on Christmas day to the Cathedral at Salisbury. It is a very fine building, and the part appropriated to the services of the church is fitted up in a much better style than any thing I have seen, being of black oak, and in unison with the style of the building. The organ is a remarkably fine one, and I think I never felt music more powerful than the first symphony, played as the bishop and clergymen entered. It was at first so soft, that in that immense building it seemed rather as if it were the sound of the air itself than any earthly creation; and as the tones swelled, the very building trembled, and one involuntarily held the breath with awe."
"Burcombe House, February 24, 1825.
"My dear Cousin:—
"The winter months have passed very quickly, and, as spring approaches, I begin to look forward with much anxiety to the period when, having completed all for which I came, I may prepare to return to my beloved home, and join again the many dear friends I may find there. I thank God that he has been pleased to spare so many of them for such a length of time, for it is remarkable that among so large a circle there should have been so few changes in ten long months. You cannot conceive of the gratitude which I feel whenever I hear from you, for you know not the anxiety which the consciousness of being at such a distance inevitably excites. I know not why it is, for were I ever so near, I could do nothing to save even one of the least of them all; but so it is, and it is a greater exercise of reliance and trust than I could have ever known, had I not left you. I try to look forward without fear, and I never doubt that, whatever trials may be in store for me, it will be in mercy that they will come, and I will be patient and submissive.
"With regard to the probable time of my return, it is impossible for me to speak with any certainty. The first four months that I was in England were lost, so far as the accomplishment of the immediate object for which I came was concerned; and it retarded my progress more than that time, as it is impossible to do as much in winter as might be done in half the time in summer. I do not speak of this as regretting it, for I have no doubt that it was for some good object that I was so employed; and I saw much which I should not have otherwise seen at all. But it makes it necessary that I should prolong my stay here, in order to do even what I calculated upon when I named a year for the probable limit of my absence. In addition to this, many objects of interest have been presented to me of which I knew nothing, and peculiar circumstances have occurred since I have been here to make me desirous of remaining longer than I had anticipated. For I consider myself a sort of isolated, unconnected being, who, having no immediate duties in life, is bound to improve all opportunities of usefulness which may offer themselves."
In April Mary received the welcome intelligence that her very dear friend, E. P. F., from America, had arrived in Liverpool. Being at this time at Ash, Surrey, the residence of her father's uncle, she immediately arranged to meet E—— in London, making, as she says, "a desperate effort" to break away from her friends at Burcombe House, to whom she had become so strongly attached as to make it no easy matter, as we may believe there was some attachment on the other side also. Again and again was she constrained to alter her plans and defer her purpose of returning, by the entreaties of those whom she wished to gratify, and who urged upon her, when other arguments failed, one that was unanswerable; namely, that she had no duty to call her home. With sadness did she admit it, and nobly too. "I feel that I have many ties which have to me the force of duties, in drawing me back; but I cannot forget that I am indeed without bond of any kind in life which can be called peculiar duty."
The two friends met in London, and, after a few days of delightful interview, Mary was called to Sydenham, where are dated two letters, from which we take portions, referring to widely different subjects and scenes.
"Sydenham, June, 1825.
"Dear Emma:—
"It is so evident, from many circumstances of which you must be fully sensible, that this is an appointment by that Providence who guides even the sparrows in their course, that you have only to seek to fulfil its duties to the best of your powers, and humbly leave the event in His hands without whose blessing the best endeavors of the mightiest must be ineffectual. Do not be thinking how much more this or that one might have done; we should do what we can for the sake of obeying God, not for our pleasure; and acting from this motive, we may learn to be 'willing even to be useless,' if it be His will. This may seem more than the Gospel requires, but I believe, if we knew ourselves thoroughly, we should ever be suspicious of all feelings which led to personal comparisons. We should, as you say, be thankful for the one talent, not dissatisfied that we have not the many, knowing that we may please God, and accomplish the end of our being in the one case as well as in the other. And as it regards the good we may do, do we not often see Him using feeble means to effect great ends? At all events, it is our duty to be satisfied with what He has thought sufficient for us. But you need no urging to induce you to do your utmost; the only difficulty is, to know in what manner it is to be done."
"Sydenham, June 9, 1825.
"My dear Mary:—
"I made a call with some friends one day upon the clergyman's lady, when our names were carried along by a row of livery servants, each one sounding it louder and louder, until it was announced by my lady's own servant at the door of the drawing-room, in a voice that made me start at the fellow's impudence in speaking so loud to his mistress; but I found that the poor lady was very deaf, yet a good, easy, old-fashioned body, as sociable and kind as need be. My risibles unfortunately took alarm at the similarity of this train of servants to a line at a fire handing buckets, and I had much ado to look indifferent and dignified, as if I were used to it; but I had my laugh out when I got into the room, for the good-natured body soon gave me a pretence for it by her whimsical stories.
"I went to St. Paul's last week to see the annual gathering of the parochial schools and I could not have conceived any thing so striking as the sight was. That part of the church which is fitted up for service is not used, but temporary seats are erected for the children under the great dome, and the spectators sit in the body of the church, quite down to the western door. The children, about eight thousand, all clothed in the uniform of their several schools, are arranged one row above another to the number of sixteen, and to the height of at least fifty feet, within the pillars of the dome and on each side of the aisles. The appearance of the children was most deeply affecting; all between seven and fourteen, not half of what belonged to the schools, for want of room; all clothed and educated by charity; taken, for the most part, from the poorest classes, and perhaps saved from destruction; it was a delightful sight for a Christian, a striking testimony to the power of religion. They were directed by the motions of one man and it seemed as if one impulse moved the whole, so perfectly did they keep time together. And when at last all were assembled, and the solemn silence was suddenly broken by one swell of their united voices in a hymn of thanksgiving, I think the most insensible there must have been melted; the sound filled the whole of that vast building, and reverberated again and again along its aisles. The morning service was performed by the clergyman, choristers, and children; the minister's voice was almost powerless in that vast place, and the organ, and voices of the singers, sixteen in number, could scarcely be heard at the end of the aisle; the children only could fill the space, and as they occasionally burst out in different parts, the effect was wonderfully fine."
At this point, Mary received a cordial invitation from a party of American friends, to go with them to Scotland. It was an opportunity which she hardly expected, but most earnestly desired; not only for its own sake, but as facilitating a cherished purpose of visiting her father's only sister in the North of England,—a visit of which she thought more than any other, and which was to prove more important than any other, though in a way which she could little anticipate. The journey thither, which was almost her only pure recreation, and was shared with a friend of all others desirable, was a high enjoyment; and her unstudied account of it, written from Chester and Gretna Green, we give at length, as we have allowed but little room to this kind of description. We claim for it no distinction, except that of naturalness and ease.
"Chester, July 22, 1825.
"My dear Cousin:—
"From sundry letters from Emma and myself, which will, I trust, have reached you long before this does, you will be able to guess how I have found my way to this place; but I am very glad that I have time and opportunity to tell you, not only how, but why, I am here. I wrote to Ann the last of June, mentioning Mr. Perkins's kind proposition, that I should join his party and go with them to Scotland. I received your delightful letter the day after, and, I assure you, the encouragement you gave me to see and do all I could, with the promise of the approbation of those kind friends whose wishes it is my greatest desire to fulfil, did not a little in deciding me to use the means placed within my power of acquiring the information, which I probably should never again have an opportunity of getting. I try to be satisfied in having done what appeared best, by the thought that it is my duty to improve all the means of doing good which may fall in my way. But I do not like to think that any thing is to keep me from you much longer. I had made up my mind when I came, to go on bravely to the end, let it take what time it might, but my hope was that a year would be sufficient, and I still hope that it will; yet I know you would not think me right to leave my work half finished, for any childish weakness, or homesick feeling. Be assured that I am as industrious as I can be, for my stimulant to exertion is a most powerful one, that of being again united to the beloved friends which that blessed spot, home, contains. We have had a most delightful tour so far, and I daily feel that I am a highly favored mortal, to have such an opportunity of witnessing the wonders of this goodly world; and I cannot but be grieved that I can make so little use of such a privilege.
"We left Bath upon the 9th, and have since passed through South and North Wales, and to-day took leave of the interesting scenery and people we found there, with much regret. At Chepstow we passed a day, seeing the ruins of its old castle, upon some sublime rocks on the banks of the river Wye, and walking through the grounds of Piercefield, a gentleman's seat in the neighborhood, finely situated upon the rocky, yet thickly wooded heights, which border the river for a long distance from its mouth. On our ride from Chepstow to Hereford, we stopped to see the ruins of Tintern Abbey and Ragland Castle, both very famous, and I should think as fine as it was possible any thing of the kind could be. Of the former, the walls and pillars of the church are nearly all that remain, but they are so perfect as to give one an exact idea of the beauty which it once possessed, built in the purest Gothic style, in the bottom of a quiet, beautiful valley, watered by the Wye, and protected on all sides by rocks and hills, which seem to defy any power that should dare to approach. But the hand of Time has worked silently and effectually, and what was once a most noble temple is now but a tumbling ruin, sublime, indeed, even in its decay, covered almost with ivy, and shaded from within by trees which have grown upon the very spots consecrated to the prayers and confessions of its former possessors. Its situation, and the peculiar lightness and beauty of its architecture, have made it very much talked of by travellers; but all my expectations were fully answered, although they were very great.
"After riding all day over hill and dale, with only the sheep for our companions, we came at once upon one of the most romantic scenes imaginable; the singular pass called the Devil's Bridge, a stone structure thrown over a chasm in the rocks of one hundred and fifty feet depth, through the bottom of which runs a very rapid stream, dashing over rocks which at some seasons must make quite a grand cataract; but at this time the water is low. The banks are thickly wooded, even to the edge of the water, and altogether it is very attractive. At A—— we passed a night, and came through much glorious scenery to Dalgelly, where we performed the mighty feat of mounting Cader Idris, the highest mountain in Wales, except Snowdon, and two thousand eight hundred feet from the point we left in the plain below. Imagine me mounted on horse back, for the first time in my life, for such a perilous undertaking, fortunately without any fear, and much amused by the novelty of the situation. The day happened to be very hot, but the atmosphere was clear; and we should have been amply repaid for tenfold the fatigue we endured, by the grand scene we beheld from the summit. Never having before been on a great elevation, I knew not what to expect; and if the sensations were not just what I had supposed, they were sufficiently solemn to make me sensible that it was 'good to be there.' A birdseye view of a circuit of five hundred miles could not fail to fill one with an idea of the power and majesty of Him who formed these wondrous glories, such as no common scenes could ever have inspired. I think I shall never look back upon that hour without recalling emotions which should make one better for ever.
"Mary."
"Gretna Green, July 30, 1825.
"My dear Mary:—
"My last, I think, was from Lancaster, just as we were about commencing our journey among the beautiful lakes of Cumberland and Westmoreland. We crossed what are called the Ulverstone and Lancaster Sands to Ulverstone. The shore is very hard at this place, and when the tide is down the ride is perfectly safe and free from water, except in the centre, where a river passes through. At this place is always found a guide, who conducts the carriage through the ford. I confess I did not much like the sensation, for though there is no danger in a heavy carriage, the current of the river is so strong that it seems as if the carriage were swimming. It was an odd feeling, too, after having been so recently three thousand feet in the air, to find one's self walking on the very bed of the ocean. We had about twelve miles of this kind of travelling. The coast is very bold, and we were quite delighted with the variety.
"The next day's ride, from Ambleside to Keswick, was a very interesting one; the scenery of the grandest, and at times most beautiful, character. At Rydal we stopped to see what would have been a beautiful cascade if there had been any water, but we have had such a long period of dry weather that the stream had almost disappeared. The scenery about it was fine, and the thing itself could not but interest us under any circumstances, for it borders upon Wordsworth's grounds, and has no doubt been a favorite resort of his, and the suggestion of much of his fine poetry. His house is just below, and we could not help stopping at the gate, to look at the abode of one whose writings we so much admired. He was not at home, but his sister came out and invited us to see the place, and take a view from the Mount which gives the name to his place. This we could not do, but it was some consolation for our disappointment to have spoken to her, although it was very tantalizing not to be able to avail ourselves of her polite invitation. The lakes of Rydal, Grasmere, Windermere, came in succession on our way, all beautiful, but Grasmere with its little island in the centre the most so, by far; the banks being much wooded and ornamented by gentlemen's seats. And Emma and I fancied that, after searching the greater part of England, we had at length found a spot in which we should be willing to take up our abode for life. The mighty Helvellyn tempted us mountain-climbers to ascend its rough sides, but with Skiddaw before us we were satisfied to pass it, in the hope of accomplishing the ascent of that. At Keswick we staid one night, riding to Bassenthwaite in the afternoon, and sailing upon the lake in the evening. Nothing could exceed the beauty and sublimity of the latter excursion. When we first went upon it, the sun was just setting behind the immense mountains which bound this lake on the west, throwing their shadows upon its smooth surface, and lighting those beyond with that purple, misty hue, which is not to be described but by the brush of an artist, this again giving way to the sober hue of evening, until all view of them would have been lost, had not the moon risen in full-orbed glory, to enlighten the scene with her paler, but not less beautiful light. We sailed about four hours upon the lake, landing upon one of the islands upon which is a gentleman's seat, and going to the other extremity to see the falls of dark Lodore, and to hear the singular effect produced by firing a cannon on the shore; it seemed like the rumbling of thunder, and was distinctly echoed five times. I don't think I have enjoyed any one thing so much as this sail, since we commenced our journey.
"We came on through Carlisle, and passed the boundary line between Scotland and England, and reached this place before dark,—the first town over the border. It is a very small village, consisting of scarcely more than a dozen white cottages, but it has, perhaps, been the scene of as many critical events as many a larger one. We are at a very comfortable inn, got up for the accommodation of the fugitives who fly hither to seal their fate with the blacksmith's unholy blessing. Do not be alarmed for me, although I am quietly seated in the very room which has witnessed the consummation 'so devoutly wished' by most young dames. It is, indeed, mortifying to find one's self so near the goal, with so many requisites, obliged to miss the glorious opportunity for the want of one trifling article,—a husband; but so it is, and notwithstanding I am treading fairy land, I in vain look for some kind godmother to conjure up the needful, and must even submit to single blessedness a little longer. But I must stop; and have not time to look this over.
"Mary."