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."