"Erdington, near Birmingham, March 3, 1826.
"My dear Cousin:—
"I have continued to gain strength daily since I last wrote. Miss McAdam passed a week in Liverpool, during which time Selina and I kept house at Cockel; and after passing my last few days there in the most delightful manner, with all the good inmates, I left them on the 26th. Mr. McAdam kindly insisted on coming by the way of Erdington, that I might not be obliged to travel all the way alone. We found a great change on this side the hills of Westmoreland; the grass is green, and every thing putting forth, the lambs bleating and the birds singing as if it were May.
"... I had given Mr. B—— notice of my intention to come to him at this time, and found him looking out for me even at the gate, with characteristic impatience, on Tuesday about noon, and not a little delighted to see me at last. You know how strongly attached he was to my father and mother, and indeed to the whole family; his enthusiastic feelings have fully retained the remembrance of what he enjoyed with them, and any one who belonged to them would have been most welcome to him. Besides this, he used to pet me, and took a great deal of pains to teach me, and I thought the little body would have lost his wits when he saw me; he is a kind-hearted man, and with all his peculiarities one cannot but respect and love him. You may remember what a little oddity he was in appearance when he was in Boston, and I assure you increasing years have not at all lessened his peculiarity. His face is not, I think, altered in the least; his hair is still a bright brown, cut as short as scissors can do it, upon which he usually mounts a small sailor's wove hat, from beneath the narrow rim of which his little bright, gray eyes twinkle in a most animated manner. His common dress is a pepper-and-salt frock-coat, which has been apparently in the service many long years, the waist of which just divides his height, coming down to the chair when he sits; a straight, long waistcoat of the same materials, and a colored neckerchief tied as tightly as possible round his little neck; breeches of purple-corded velvet, fastened at the knee with a little steel buckle, white worsted stockings, and a pair of what have been long leather gaiters, pushed down over the ankles à la negligée. Fancy this little odd figure moving about as briskly as if he were a boy just loose from school, the vivacity of his manner and looks corresponding exactly with the quickness of his motions, and you have my little friend Mr. B——. You would think all this must be ludicrous, but it is not. There is so much good sense and kind feeling about him, and so much real benevolence in his manner towards every one, that all his peculiarity is forgotten in a very short time. He is one of the most intelligent, entertaining men I ever met with, and certainly one of the most warm-hearted. He has passed a very unsettled life since he left America, and is now living in a poor cottage, quite out of the way of all society, with no amusement but his little garden, which he cultivates entirely himself, and a fine library of most valuable books. This is quite enough for him, and he seems as happy and contented as possible, because he is independent. His sanctum is more like grandpa's than any I ever saw; he reminds me of him in many things, and we have talked over old times until I have fancied myself young again.
"You may form some idea of my strength, when I tell you I was yesterday tempted by the pleasure of my own company to a walk of eight miles, and did not suspect I had done half of it. I have indeed recovered my strength rapidly, and do not care about the flesh. I believe I am as well as I ever was, and should forget that I had been ill, were it not for certain feelings of inefficiency and reluctance to move,—the consequence of the indulgences I have had, I presume. I have indeed had enough to make a spoiled child of me, had I not been one before. It is no light burden upon my mind, that I can do nothing to show my gratitude for all the kindness I have received here. I do begin to dread parting for ever from all these good friends; but do not think that any thing can efface the remembrance of what I owe my dearest friends at home.
"Mary."
"London, May 26, 1826.
"My dear Mrs. Barnard:—
"Mr. Bond had a letter yesterday from Mrs. B. of April 21st, in which she says you had heard of my illness at Osmotherly. I am glad to remember that you would at the same time hear of my entire recovery, and I hope before this you have received other letters to tell you how complete was that recovery. It is indeed overpowering to me, when I look back upon the events which have taken place since I came to England. How many and great have been the blessings which have attended me!
"I staid here with Mrs. Bates from the 4th to the 30th of April, seeing and doing very diligently, and, with Mr. Paine's assistance, examining many of the wonders and curiosities of this great place, which I had not before seen. I then went to Chatham to make my farewell visit to my cousin, Mrs. Stokes, intending to stay only a fortnight; for I did not then know at what time precisely Mr. Palfrey intended to embark for home, and was making my arrangements to be ready the latter part of June at the farthest. I was not, however, able to return at the time I intended, for I was attacked very violently with spasms from being very bilious, and the heavy doses administered by the physician kept me housed for more than a week. I returned to town on Monday last, the 22d, and came again to Mrs. Bates, as she begged me to make her house my home in London, as long as I staid. I was very much wearied with the journey, and Mr. Palfrey and Mr. Bond, who came in soon after, thought I must be ill, and may say so, but I assure you I am not. I gain strength very fast, and, as a proof of it, I was nearly seven hours on my feet yesterday, without food, and not fatigued by it. I shall stay here only just long enough to see the friends I have about London, and pack up my duds for the voyage, and then go to Ash and Uncle Ben for a few days, and thence to Burcombe to stay as long as I can.
"I feel now that my work here is finished (that is, all the most important part,—I could find enough to do were I to stay ever so long,) and I assure you I should feel most impatient of delay beyond the time appointed. Mr. Bond brought me Mr. Channing's Review from himself; you may believe I was not a little pleased that he should think of me. I beg you will thank him for me. How I shall enjoy hearing him, if such a blessing is in store for me! Love to you and the household.
"M. L. P."
During the progress of events recorded in these different letters, covering the space of a whole winter, we can imagine that some anxiety was felt by friends on both sides of the water. Communication with remote towns and obscure hamlets, even in England, was not frequent or easy; and across the ocean we all know how different was the correspondence then and now. Accordingly, we find the deepest solicitude expressed, and painful suspense, in both lands. The manner in which the English friends write shows the extent of Mary's danger, as well as the amount of her services and their exalted and tender estimate of her worth. We are not in possession of as many letters from England, relating to any period, as we have wished to obtain; and the few we have we hesitate to use freely, because of their allusions to domestic incidents and persons who may be still living. But abundant is the testimony, if we need it, to their appreciation of Mary's character, warm and enthusiastic their love and admiration. A few sentences we take from the letters of Mrs. McAdam, the 'Aunt Jane' so often named, to a friend here.
October, 1825. "I have a letter this morning from our blessed Mary, dated the 3d of October. She has laid her poor cousin in the grave, after a fortnight's illness, during which time she appears to have been her sole nurse. I dread she is doing far more than she can bear. The younger of the two boys left is taken ill, and she talks of taking him home to nurse him; but I shall by this post write Miss McAdam to send for her and insist on her removal. Her life is of so much more consequence than any which are now left, that I can no longer hesitate. You, who love her as well as I do, can imagine my uneasiness. Rest assured, however, that I will keep you informed of every thing. When she wrote, she said she had so much to do she could not write home, and begged me to write. Now, my dear friend, all we have to do is to rely on that God who orders all things for the best, and to whom I constantly and ardently pray that He would spare and reward our and His own Mary, to guide more of us to Him; and I feel comforted when I rely with confidence on His love and wisdom. She is such a blessing, that I would fain hope the rest of my days may be influenced by her."
From the same:—
November, 1825. "Since I last wrote you, my dear Emma, I have had various accounts from our incomparable Mary. I feel much anxiety on her account, for which I have been frequently reproved by her, whose higher feelings and better regulated judgment give her such wonderful advantage over me, and so constantly produce in her the tranquil security of inward peace. She is so excellent, and so truly set in the midst of difficulties, that it sometimes appears to me as if she had been graciously lent to us for our guide to that heaven which we all pretend to seek. When she wrote, she was perfectly well; but though our friends went for her, she would not leave for several days, lest she should take the disease with her to Penrith. I dare not say I wish she were removed, for all is assuredly for the best, however it may appear to our imperfect minds. I feel confident she is the peculiar care of the God she loves and serves; but when she gets to Penrith, I know I shall be almost too happy. Her mind has taken such complete possession of my affections, that I appear to myself a new creature; I have totally changed since I became actually acquainted with her.... Our correspondence will not drop here, I hope; and I may at some future period give you a faint idea of the interest she has excited for every thing that lives and breathes her atmosphere."
From the letters written in America at this time, to Mary or her friends in England, many touching passages might be borrowed. How much is conveyed in a single fact communicated to her, at the moment of the greatest anxiety! "With all their desire for your return, nobody murmurs; every body says it is much better for you to stay. And Mrs. Barnard says, when she expressed her sorrow about it to Dr. Channing, he gave her for the only time in his life almost an angry look!" The writer of this passage, when at last assured of Mary's perfect safety after all her labors and perils, sent her such a full, hearty outpouring of joy and love, that we must be pardoned for citing a part of it, as showing the depth of the interest she awakened and the affection she secured.
"My dearest live Mary!—
"The pleasure and gratitude I feel in the confidence I now have that I am writing to an inhabitant of this world, you can scarcely imagine. The dread I felt about your fate weighed upon me so heavily, in spite of all the reasoning and hope about which I sedulously employed myself, that it was a great effort to write; and I fear our letters of late have not served to animate you. I shall not enter upon the long history of my anxiety, which was inwardly greater than any body's, I believe, because I knew more about it. I will only tell you, that a question about you was sure to damp the best spirits I could be in; and if people I visited undertook to talk about you, it was a signal for my call to terminate. At one time, I determined not to go to town till I heard from you, but was induced to alter my plans, and did go and pass a month, doing all I could to be at ease, and acting just as if I knew you were safe;—how you want to scold me for using that word! as if you could be any thing but safe in the hands of your God, and when you were serving him to the utmost of your power.... On Monday night, the 13th of this month, M——, E—— B——, and I found our way to Milton Hill in the 'evening coach.' The next day, that most valued of couriers, the milkman, brought us a bundle from Pearl Street; two letters fell out on opening it,—one from Exeter, the other from the Sandwich Isles,—a long one from B——, which I employed all the daylight in reading. Would you believe me so insatiable, when one such blessing as hearing from that distant spot of earth had been allowed? I was not yet satisfied, although we had left town but the day before; presentiment drove me to the pile of clean clothes on the floor, when my hand made its way through the chaos to a letter! Mother says it was the sense of feeling that discovered it to be yours, for the room was quite dark. I needed but half a glimmer of fire-light to show me the characters I had so longed and prayed to see once more. I screeched, 'Mary Pickard!' and flew to the kitchen fire to assure myself still farther; and never, dearest Mary, did I feel a warmer flood of joy and gratitude than when 'Penrith, 8th December,' convinced me you were alive and well, and in just the hands you ought to be! And when I came to know, too, that my fears had not been unfounded, that you had so narrowly escaped, had passed through such trying scenes, and done more, much more, than almost any body ever did before, I was too happy! Though you don't tell me so, I know under such circumstances what efforts you made. But you have earned the privilege of being an instrument, in the hands of the All-powerful, of good to every human being you come in contact with. And when I knew this, why did I feel so forlornly whenever I thought of you in that remote place, alone, and exposed to fatigue and illness? If it had been you, how much higher views would you have taken!
"Emma."