MEMOIR OF MARY L. WARE,

WIFE OF HENRY WARE, Jr.

BY EDWARD B. HALL.

Seventh Thousand.

BOSTON:
CROSBY, NICHOLS, AND COMPANY.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES S. FRANCIS AND COMPANY
1854.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by
CROSBY, NICHOLS, AND COMPANY,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

CAMBRIDGE:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY
METCALF AND COMPANY,
PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY.

CONTENTS.

I.

II.

Parentage.—Character of the Mother.—First Training of Mary Pickard.—Early Visit to England.—Friends there.—Voyage Home.—Extracts from Letters.—Residence in Boston.—Pearl Street.—First Friendships.—Nature and Education.—A Friend's Description of Mary.

III.

School at Hingham.—A Teacher's Reminiscence.—Sickness and Death of Mrs. Pickard.—Mary's Position.—Her Father's Circumstances.—Dr. Park's School.—Earliest Letters.—Thoughts and Themes.—Chosen Friend.—Peculiar Confidence.—Return to Hingham.—Teacher's Account.—Moral Decision and Declaration.—Letters.—Joining the Church.—Henry Ware.

IV.

Mr. Pickard's Embarrassments.—His Correspondence with Mary.—Her Sympathy and Faith.—Her Teacher's Testimony to her Piety.—She leaves Hingham.—Her Grandfather's Death.—Devotion to her Grandmother.—Visit to Northampton.—Her Self-distrust.—Interest in Dr. Churning.—Letters on his Preaching, and Interview with him.—Correspondence with Miss Cushing.—Death of her Grandmother.

V.

Leaving Pearl Street.—Fears for the Future.—Pecuniary Means.—Business and Travel.—New York and Baltimore.—Mr. Pickard's Displeasure.—Return to Boston.—Letters on Providence and Bereavement.—Death of J. E. Abbot.—Living in Dorchester.—Morbid Feelings.—Marriage of her Friend.—Her own Trials.—Influence upon others.—Interesting Case.—Dr. Channing's Absence and Return.—Death of her Father.

VI.

Loneliness.—Invitation to go Abroad.—Letters relating to it.—A Friend's Admiration.—Arrival in England.—Mrs. Freme.—Letters from London and Broadwater.—Isle of Wight.—Paris.—Her Friends' Return to America.—She remains with Relatives in England.—Chatham.—Burcombe House.—Many Letters.—Arrival of E. P. F. from America.—Letters from Sydenham.—Tour to Scotland.—Description of the Country.

VII.

The Poor Aunt.—Osmotherly.—Sickness and Sorrow among Kindred.—Mary the Chief Nurse and Devoted Laborer.—Details in Successive Letters.—She goes to Penrith.—Recalled to Osmotherly.—Further Changes.—Her own Sickness.—Anxiety of Friends in England and America.—Joy at her Escape.

VIII.

Return from England.—Welcome Home.—Labors of Love.—Henry Ware's Preaching.—Interest and Engagement.—Their Letters to Friends.—Views of the Relation of Stepmother.—Parish Relations and Duties.—Sense of Responsibility.—Desire of Usefulness.—Visit to Northampton.—Disappointments.—Husband's Illness at Ware.—She goes to him.—Thence to Worcester.—Birth of her First Child.—Husband's Journey for Health.—Poetical Epistle to his Wife.—Newton.—Return to Sheafe Street.—Attachment and Removal.—Brookline.—Plan for Cambridge.—Thoughts of Europe.—End of Parish Life.

IX.

Sailing for England with her Husband.—Her Feelings at leaving the Children.—Difference between this and her former Visit.—Her Husband's Sickness and Depression.—The Great Trial.—Their Route.—England and Scotland.—The Continent.—Geneva and Letters.—The Treatise on Christian Character.—Italy.—Naples and Rome.—Annual to Mrs. Paine.—Birth of a Daughter.—Mr. Ware's Discouragement.—Mrs. Ware's Anxiety.—Her Account of Sufferings and Exertions.—Their Return to France and England.—His Excursion alone.—Her Provision for her Aunt.—Letter to her Children.—Passage Home.—Husband's Illness.—Arduous Offices.—Her View of her own Constitution.

X.

Final Leave of the Parish in Boston.—Removal to Cambridge—New Position.—Chief Anxieties.—Pecuniary Straits.—Mrs. Ware's Sickness, long and serious.—Husband's Feelings.—Emma's Visit.—Letters to Mrs. Paine and Emma.—Mrs. Ware's Recovery and Summons to Concord.—Mr. Ware's Illness there, and Apprehensions.—Her Use of the Warning, and Habit of Preparation.—Death of her Son Robert.—Her Account.—Devotion to her Children.—Letters to John.—Cases of Hospitality.—Crowded, but never worried.—Journal to John.—Letters at the End of 1832 and 1833.—Dangerous Illness of a Child.

XI.

Prudence in Sickness.—Mrs. Ware's View of it, and Experience.—Her Principle and Practice in Regard to Dress.—Exemption from Sickness.—Social and Private Efforts for Others.—Moral Cases.—General Intercourse.—Sympathy with Children.—Hatred of Gossip.—Husband's Severe Illness in 1836.—The Aid she rendered him.—Her Interest in the Theological Students.—Their Testimony to her Kindness and Influence.—Pecuniary Embarrassment—Death of a Sister.—View of Events and Circumstances.—Continued Mercies.—Pleasant Letters.—A Change approaching.—Various Records.—Her Husband goes to New York.—His Sickness there, and her Joining him.—Return, and Resignation of Office.—Dark Prospects.—Strong Faith and Hope.—Leaving Cambridge.

XII.

Pain of Removal.—New Residence.—Generosity of Friends.—Extracts from Letters.—Faithful Domestic.—Views of Service.—Larger Extracts.—Death of Dr Channing.—Kindness of Neighbors.—Mr. Ware's Illness in Boston.—Her Feelings.—Return to Framingham.—His Jaunts and final Sickness.—His Death.—First Sabbath.—Burial at Cambridge.—Letters to Children and Friends.—Isolation and Suffering.—Labor, Mental and Manual.—Preparation of a Memoir.—Communion with her Husband and the Departed Ones.—Letters to her Son.—Looking for a new Residence.—Decision for Milton.—Last Record of Framingham.

XIII.

Mrs. Ware's Fears of Loss of Power.—First Letter from Milton, describing her Condition.—Progress of Mind seen in her Letters.—Views of Education.—Reliance upon her Children.—Various Records.—The New Cottage.—Love of Nature.—Beginning of Disease.—Continued Work.—School.—Views of separating Children.—Trust for Things Temporal and Spiritual.—Annuals for 1845 and 1846.—Letters of Sympathy.—Letters to her Children.—Son at Exeter.—Her Visit there.—Views of Preaching and Preachers.—Tribute of a Pastor.—Family Religion.—Important Letters.—Equanimity in Sickness.—Death of Emma.—Visit to Cambridge.—End of the Year.—The Time yet remaining.

XIV.

Last Days natural, not wonderful.—Quietness and Enjoyment.—Relative Duties.—Decline of Strength.—Disclosure of her Disease.—Private Paper.—Visit to her Son.—Once more a Nurse and Helper.—Sinking and Rallying.—Accounts of her by Friends.—Her own Account.—Influence upon Others.—Her Pain at being praised.—Letter from England.—Her last Letter.—Conversation on the Future.—Her Pastor's Visit.—Closing Expressions.—Her Husband's Words.—Death and Burial.—Conclusion.

MEMOIR.

I.

INTRODUCTION.

The life of an unpretending Christian woman is never lost. Written or unwritten, it is and ever will be an active power among the elements that form and advance society. Yet the written life will speak to the larger number, will be wholly new to many, and to all may carry a healthy impulse. There are none who are not strengthened and blessed by the knowledge of a meek, firm, consistent character, formed by religious influences, and devoted to the highest ends. And where this character has belonged to a daughter, wife, and mother, who has been seen only in the retired domestic sphere, there may be the more reason that it be transferred to the printed page and an enduring form, because of the very modesty which adorned it, and which would never proclaim itself.

Such are our feelings in regard to the subject of the following Memoir, and such our reasons for offering it to the public. It has not been without scruple, and after an interval of years, that the family and nearest friends of Mrs. Ware have consented to the publication of facts and thoughts so private and sacred as many which must appear in a faithful transcript of her life. Perhaps this reluctance always exists, particularly in regard to a woman and a mother. In this instance it has been very strong, and it is but just that it be made known. Never was there a woman, we may believe, more retiring or peculiarly domestic than she of whom we are to speak. Never, we are sure, were the materials of a life more entirely private, and in one sense confidential, than those which we are to use; for letters are all the materials we have, and letters written in the unrestrained freedom of personal friendship, in the midst of pressing cares, and with a rapidity and unstudied naturalness, which will appear in all the extracts, but are still more manifest in the entire originals. Her correspondence was voluminous, to an extent unsurpassed perhaps in a life so quiet, with no pretence to literary character, and nothing ever written except for the eye of the receiver. How would the writer have felt, had she supposed these letters were ever to be opened to the public eye? It is a question which many ask,—some with pain, some with decided disapproval. It is a question which we have asked ourselves, and we prefer to answer it before we enter upon the work.

To answer it unfavorably, to yield to this natural reluctance to publish any thing designed to be private, and in its nature personal, would deprive us of the best biographies that are written. It would restrict to single families, and to a brief period, the knowledge of facts and features, of all most reliable, most valuable. Indeed, it is this very fact of humility and reserve, of freedom and naturalness, indulged in confidential communion and the quiet of home, that reveals most the reality of virtue, force of character, disinterested nobleness, and the power of religion. Who is willing that the knowledge of such examples should be withheld from the many who crave it, and whom it would stimulate and bless? Shall we make no sacrifice of our own feelings, supposing it to require one, shall we hoard exclusively for our own use the richest of God's gifts, when those by whom the gifts have come to us spent their lives in service and sacrifice for us? To these obvious considerations, we will add our firm faith in the knowledge which departed friends have of the motives from which we are acting, and of the influence which their own modest virtues and lowly efforts on earth may exert upon those remaining here; thus continuing, in a higher and surer way, the very work for which the loved and the pure always live, and are willing to die.

It is in point, not only for our immediate purpose, but for the exhibition in part of the character we would delineate, to say that these were the feelings of Mrs. Ware herself, in regard to a memoir of her husband. Public as a large portion of his life was, she shrunk from the exposure of that which was private, and which seemed to be sacredly committed to her own keeping. She remembered, too, his peculiar sensitiveness in this connection, and the injunctions he gave when under the influence of disease and depression. But another voice came to her from his present higher abode and larger vision; and thus she wrote to a friend, of the conflict and the decision, in language applicable now to her own case:—"I cannot tell you the agony it has given me at times, to realize that that sacred inner life, which I had felt was my own peculiar trust, was no longer mine, but was to be shared by the whole world. But this was sinful, selfish, earthly; and I have gradually left it all far behind, and can now only be glad that such a life is shown for the aid and encouragement of others."

It is our desire to give to this Memoir as much as possible of the character of an autobiography. We have few facts except those found in the letters, with the advantage of an intimate intercourse for more than twenty years. In the several hundred letters and notes that have been put into our hands, there is nothing that might not appear, so far as any one else is concerned. This fact is well worthy of note, as belonging to the character, and revealing a remarkable elevation and purity of thought,—that in such a mass of free epistolary writing, from different countries and to persons of every age, not a single severe stricture, not one unkind allusion or offensive personality, much less any approach to petty gossip, can be found. We feel the greater freedom in making copious extracts; and shall attempt little more than so to arrange and connect them as to give a fair view of the whole life, or rather of the mind and character that appear in every part of the life. That a life so private contained such a variety of incident, and a measure of unavoidable publicity, was the ordering of Providence; and may serve to show that the sphere of woman, even the most domestic and silent, is broad enough for the most active intellect and the largest benevolence.

II.

CHILDHOOD.

Mary Lovell Pickard was an only child, her parents having but one other, who died an infant before the birth of Mary. She was born in Atkinson Street, Boston, on the 2d of October, 1798. Mark Pickard, her father, was an English merchant, who came to this country on business, and remained here. Her mother was Mary Lovell, daughter of James Lovell, and granddaughter of "Master Lovell," so long known as a classical teacher in Boston. James Lovell, the grandfather of the subject of this Memoir, was a man of mind and influence. He had been active in the Revolutionary war, and was once made prisoner at Halifax, sharing there, it is said, the prison of Ethan Allen. Subsequently he was a prominent member of the Continental Congress, and at the adoption of the Constitution received the appointment of Naval Officer in the Boston custom-house, a place which he retained until his death. A man of free and bold thought, associating much at one time with French officers, Mr. Lovell adopted some infidel principles, became familiar and fond of Paine's arguments, and, as we are led to infer, treated religion with little respect in his family; the family in which Mary Pickard, as well as her mother, passed her childhood and youth. James Lovell had nine children, but only one daughter, Mary, who grew up the idol of the family. At the age of twenty-five she married Mark Pickard, who was seventeen years her senior, but not her equal in intellect or energy, we infer, yet always kind and most tenderly attached to her. She was a woman of rare excellence, in whose character, as drawn by those still living who knew her well, we can see, as usual, much that accounts for the character of the daughter.

Mrs. Pickard had been educated in Boston, and well educated, having a naturally vigorous mind and strong common sense. She was a woman of self-culture, loving books and choosing the best, conversing with marked propriety as well as ease, and exhibiting decided energy and generosity of character. In person, she is described as remarkable; of so commanding figure, benignant countenance, and dignified demeanor, as to draw general observation in public, and suggest the thought once expressed by a gentleman of intelligence,—"She seems to me as if she were born for an empress." Yet her empire was only the home, and her life peculiarly domestic; with enough of discipline and change to prove her fortitude, but never to damp her cheerfulness. She was a Christian. In early life, perhaps from causes already referred to, her mind had been disturbed, and apparently doubts raised, though never fixed, by sceptical writers and so-called philosophical reasoners,—more common in good society then than now, and more bold and insidious, notwithstanding our complaints of present degeneracy. A gentleman to whom Mrs. Pickard had once communicated her difficulties, and who was less a believer than she, spoke of her the day after her death, in reference to that conflict, as "one of strong mind, who took nothing upon trust" even at that early age when she approached him with "obstinate questionings." Whatever the effect upon his faith, her own was strengthened by all inquiry and experience. She was a member of the Episcopal Church, though apparently less a devotee to its ritual than Mr. Pickard. Not sect, but piety, was the source of her power and peace. "In religion," says one most intimate, "she was unostentatious and charitable, but decided and sincere; and her whole life was an exhibition of the ascendancy of principle over mere taste and feeling."

Such was the mother, who was the constant companion and instructor of an only daughter, through the whole of childhood; for Mary never attended school, that we can find, until she was nearly thirteen years old. But in that best of schools for the very young, an intelligent and quiet home, she was well instructed in the common branches, in habits of order, refinement, and frugality, in principles of undeviating truth and integrity, and in that most essential of all accomplishments for a girl, whether in ordinary or exalted station, the use of the needle. Her mother also taught her to sing, being herself passionately fond of music, with one of the sweetest voices, and, though not a great performer, enough so to impart a love of it to her child which always continued, associated with holy recollections. "Often," says one, "at early evening, just before going to rest, have I seen the little girl upon her mother's lap, and have heard her singing her evening hymn:—

'Teach me to live, that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed'; &c."

In January, 1802, Mr. Pickard was called to England on business, and took with him his wife and the little Mary, then but three years old. They remained there a year and a half, visiting both his and her relatives, in different parts of the kingdom; Mrs. Pickard being connected, on her mother's side, with Alexander Middleton, a Scotch farmer, in whose family Ferguson, the astronomer, lived as a shepherd boy, and of whom, with his wife and three children, there are still existing likenesses drawn in pencil by that lad, so celebrated as a man. Among such friends, and in such new scenes, we can believe a deep impression would be taken by an observing, thoughtful child, though at an age when it is considered of little consequence what a child sees or hears. Mary never forgot the enjoyment or the instruction of that visit. When she was again in England, twenty years later, she wrote her friends here that she was surprised to find herself recognizing her old home in Guildford Street, London, and other objects with which she was then familiar. And years afterwards, when her own children came round her with the never-satisfied request, "Mother, do tell us about when you were a little girl," the standing favorites were incidents which occurred either in England or on the voyage home, and particularly the following. During the voyage, her fifth birthday came round, and the captain promised her baked potatoes for her dinner, but, as the cook burnt them, threatened to give him the "cat-o'nine-tails"; when poor little Mary, not taking the joke, burst into tears, and begged him "not to hurt the kind, good sailor, who didn't mean to burn the potatoes."

A lady who came as passenger in the same vessel, has told us of the peculiar sweetness of little Mary, and the universal interest and love inspired by her in the ship's company. And this from no outward attractions, or efforts to commend herself, but by the simple power of goodness, and her ever-prompt obedience. If inclined to go anywhere, or do any thing, not approved by her mother, it was always enough to say,—"It will make me unhappy, my child, if you do that."

A few extracts which we are permitted to make from letters that passed, during this absence abroad, between Mrs. Pickard and her parents, will help to show the respect and affection which the daughter inspired, as well as the interest felt in the little granddaughter.

Under date of January 10, 1802, James Lovell writes from Boston to his daughter in England:—

"I constantly recur to the joyful consideration, that you, though absent, are still left to me, an amiable object, within the reach of hope, and a source of expected comfort for my last days. I think of you, at this moment, as safely arrived with your most worthy husband, and my None-such, in health, and happy among your friends. My engagements in office, especially since General Lincoln has been confined by sickness at Hingham, have occupied me very much. Though it is evening, little Dickey is bristling up and attempting to sing, that I may not forget to tell my dear little Molly Pitty how constantly he looks for her in the morning, at the rattling of the tongs and fender. Kiss the dear child for me. "James Lovell,—need I add, your affectionate father?"

In February, 1803, Mrs. Pickard writes home to her mother:—

"Your pickles and berries came in good order, and were very acceptable, particularly to my darling Mary. She often thanks you for them, and is now writing to you, and interrupts me every minute to hear her read her letter. My father must not laugh, and say I call my goose a swan; every one allows she is a charming child. You will not be able to deny her a large portion of your love, though you have so many lovely ones with you. She has been an inexhaustible source of comfort to me since I left you; and, as if she knew it would please us all, most of her conversation is of home and the friends she left there. She has a sad cold, but she says she is always happy. Farewell, dear mother. God bless you all."

March, 1803. From the same:—

"We are still in Guildford Street, but think of going into the country, where Mary may have more field for exercise. She is pretty well, but wants a little country air. I wish you knew all her little chat about you, so pleasing to hear, but so foolish to write. She is very tall and lively.... Mr. P. is even more anxious than I to go home. Mary is the only contented one. She is happy all the time. She has a very sweet disposition, and I hope will one day be as great a comfort to you as she is to me. She is telling me a thousand little affectionate things to say to you."

In the fall of this year the family returned to Boston, and lived with Mrs. Lovell in Pearl Street; and there, with parents and grandparents, Mary found a home, whose blessing filled her heart, and never left her to the day of her death. The home of her childhood,—how reverently and tenderly did she revert to it, through all the scenes of a changing and eventful life! Often has she said, that she was continually carried back, not only in her waking, but her sleeping hours, "to the old Pearl Street house and garden; assembling the various friends of all the different periods of her life, in dream-like incongruity, in the little parlor, with its black-oak wainscoting." There also were formed some of those first friendships, which do not cease with childhood, but affect the happiness of a lifetime. The other half of the block in which they lived was occupied by Colonel T. H. Perkins, and with his children, of whom some were near her own age, she grew up in terms of daily intimacy. In the partition between the two houses there were doors which were entirely closed, except their keyholes; and through these, Mary and her favorite companion used to sing to each other "all the songs we could muster," and exchange notes and experiences, the pleasure enhanced, no doubt, by the excitement of the little mystery occasioned by so peculiar a mode of communication.

So far as our scanty materials of this period enable us to judge, we infer that in the training of this favorite child there was a singularly wise union of control and indulgence. Mrs. Pickard seems not to have been one of the parents who think control and indulgence incompatible; nor does it appear that Mary was inclined to refuse the one, or abuse the other. The true training, we suppose,—if there be any rule for all,—is that which allows to children all the freedom and enjoyment consistent with deference to authority, refined manners, and fixed principles of truth, gentleness, and unselfishness. That these principles may be inculcated without sternness or perpetual restraint, indeed with a large allowance for the necessary activity and often irrepressible exuberance of childhood's spirit, few can doubt, though so many deny or forget it in practice. From the views which Mrs. Ware herself always expressed on this subject, and the reverence and gratitude with which she adverted to her own childhood, we are confirmed in the impression, that such was her uniform experience at home, and with the happiest effect. "It has been said," writes a friend of her mother, "that she was much indulged; and I believe it may be said so with truth. But she was not indulged in idleness, selfishness, and rudeness; she was indulged in healthful sports, in abundance of playthings, in pleasant excursions, and in companionship with other children, as much as might be convenient. I never knew her to be teasing and importunate, obstinate or contradictory." Nor is this to be ascribed, as many will be ready to ascribe it, to natural temperament and a peculiar exemption from ordinary temptations and trials. Of few persons, perhaps, would this be more generally inferred or confidently asserted, from a knowledge merely of her subsequent character. It is on this account that we refer to it particularly, and for this not least that we value the example. For we know it was not a case of peculiar exemption and easy control, but rather a remarkable instance of early conflict, the power of principle, and perpetual self-discipline. This we gather from occasional hints in conversation, and from letters to her own children, some of which will appear in their proper place. At present, we only adduce, for the right understanding both of this and later periods of her life, one or two short passages, like the following, from a letter to a daughter. "The tendency to self-indulgence was also one of my trials, in early life, when I grew rapidly and had poor health." "My trials of temper were different from yours, but they were very great." "What a comfort it is, that, although those who see only the outside can never compute what is resisted, all our struggles are known and appreciated by Him who looketh on the heart as it is; and that He who alone can give us strength is thus enabled to know when and how it is needed."

To this brief sketch of her childhood we venture to add an extract from a letter just written us, by a gentleman than whom no one living, probably, was more intimate with Mary and her home, at that early period. After a warm tribute to the character of the mother, confirming all we have said of her, he speaks thus of the daughter:—

"When I first remember her, it is as a gentle, loving, active child, always doing some little useful thing, and the darling of her parents' hearts. When her character first shone on me in its higher attributes, I do not know. But I seem to myself to remember, that there never was a time when I could have supposed it possible that she would do any thing that was not exactly right; when I had not perfect confidence in her tact and judgment to discern duty, and the prompt and unhesitating determination to do it, as the only thing to be done."

III.

MENTAL AND MORAL CULTURE.

Remaining in Boston, with little change, until she was thirteen years of age, Mary Pickard was then taken by her parents to Hingham, Massachusetts, to be under the care of the Misses Cushing, whose school for girls enjoyed at that time, and as long as it continued, a very high reputation. Her instructors there, who still live, seem to have regarded her as a friend and companion, rather than a child and pupil; and the fresh recollections and tender love with which they always speak of her, and delight to dwell upon her early and mature character, give us an impression of more than common excellence. This will best be shown by an extract from a letter written since her death to one of her children.

"Your dear mother came to us first in June, 1811; a sweet, interesting girl, thirteen years old, tall for that age, and with the same sweet expression of countenance she ever retained; remarkable even then for her disinterestedness and forgetfulness of self, and her power of gaining the love of all around her. She went home in November of the same year, and returned to us again in 1814.... She was with us but little more than one year in the whole, and in that short period endeared herself to us in a remarkable manner. For with the love which we could not but feel for her was mingled a respect and admiration for her high principles, and the piety which shone through all her conduct, in a degree very uncommon for a girl of her age. As a scholar she was exceedingly bright, and quick to comprehend, and would, I always thought, have made an excellent mathematical scholar, had she pursued the study of that branch. Her capacity for accomplishing a great deal in a short time was always remarkable, and I believe she never undertook any thing that she thought worth her attention, that she did not go through to the satisfaction of others, if not of herself. Her chief object, even when a young girl, seemed to be to do good, in some way or other, to her fellow-beings, and she considered nothing too difficult for her to undertake, if it could benefit another person either in a temporal or moral view. You have had sufficient evidence of this, since you have been old enough to judge for yourself, and I can only tell you that it seemed to be, at an early period of her life, a living principle with her. Yet, with all this devotedness to the highest objects and purposes of our existence, she was one of the most lively and playful girls among her companions, and a very great favorite with them all."

Mary had been but five or six months in the school at Hingham, when she was called back to Boston by the threatening illness of her mother, who continued feeble through the winter, and died in the month of May following. That winter must have been one of peculiar experience to Mary. It was her first great trial. She loved her mother, not only as every true child must, but with a reverence and affection heightened by the unusual circumstance of having been always the pupil of that mother alone, regarded as a companion also, and called now to the tender offices of a nurse, at an age when most children can ill bear confinement and devotion to the sick. Mary was never happier than when thus occupied, as her whole life has shown. To her it was no task, but a grateful privilege, to spend all her time at the side of a revered and departing mother. For six months was she allowed to give herself to this blessed ministry; and when it closed, she was left, a girl of thirteen, the sole comfort and chief companion of her father, now past the prime of life, broken in spirits and in fortune, clinging to this only child with doating and dependent affection. She now became an important member of the family in Pearl Street, with her desolate father, and her venerable grandparents, who were still living, depending themselves more upon her for their comfort than upon the only son that remained with them, a young man whose fine talents and affectionate disposition were perverted and ruined by sad habits. These were circumstances to call out all her energy, and make full proof of her judgment and gentleness. Mr. Pickard had for some time been embarrassed in business, and, from a state of easy competence, was then and afterwards reduced to the necessity of the strictest economy. Of his daughter's essential service to him in this respect, we have frequent intimations in his own letters; and not only by her prudent management, but also by her generous and active aid, as will be seen still more a few years later. For her father survived her mother eleven years, and during the whole of that period, though not always together, Mary was his efficient helper, and his devoted nurse in sickness, of which he had a large share.

For two years after her mother's death, she remained wholly in Boston, enjoying part of the time a new privilege, which she greatly prized,—admission to the best school for young ladies then in New England, or the country,—Dr. Park's. That she would improve such an opportunity to the best of her ability, we need not say. Of her proficiency as a scholar, there are no particular proofs. She was never a prodigy, but she never slighted opportunity or duty. She appeared always well, distinguished at least for faithful preparation and uniform accuracy. And especially was she distinguished for moral excellence. She was the friend and favorite of all. If petty difficulties occurred, Mary Pickard was the peacemaker. Her impartiality, amiableness, kindness to all, and perfect truthfulness, endeared her to the teacher and all the pupils; from several of whom we have had the testimony, that no one ever exerted a better influence upon any school.

The earliest letters we have from Mary were written in 1813, the year after her mother's death, and about the time of her first going to school in Boston. They are the letters of a school-girl, but not of a child. While there is in them no indication of remarkable powers, to which she did not pretend, nor her friends for her, they show a habit of reflection and power of discrimination, with a choice of topics not usual at that age. A few passages may be given, very simple and juvenile, but indicative of character.

"Boston, February 27, 1813.

"My dear N——:

"I am determined another day shall not pass before I answer your letter. I think it is the best way, when we receive a letter, to sit down immediately and answer it; at least I find it so, though I do not always practise it.... We talk so much when we meet, that there is little left to write, and I am now at a loss what to say. The folly of the fashionable world is an old story, and if not, is too vast a subject for our limited views of it. Of our school plan we have said much, but we can say more. I had no idea that such insignificant beings as we are, in comparison, could ever afford matter for so much conversation as there has been on this subject. Although opinions could not alter the case, yet it is certainly very satisfactory to know that our doings are approved by those whose good opinion we value. I look forward with much pleasure to the day on which we shall commence our studies. We shall feel very awkward at first, but it will soon be over, and then we must endeavor to keep ourselves exempt from the condemnation that falls on the whole school for the faults of two or three....

"I am reading 'Temper,' and like it much better than I expected to, having heard nothing in its favor, and, besides that, being prejudiced against it. I have condemned prejudice in others, but never felt the effects of it before; I dislike it now more than ever,—it is certainly a most unreasonable thing. I like some of the characters very much, and it is not as yet very tedious, but contains many good lessons. I find many that I can apply to myself, and (as usual) some to other people. It cannot, however, be compared to 'The Absentee' or 'Vivian.' Novels are generally said to be improper books for young people, as they take up the time which ought to be employed in more useful pursuits; which is certainly very true; but as a recreation to the mind, such books as these cannot possibly do any hurt, as they are good moral lessons. Indeed, I think there is scarcely any book from which some good may not be derived; though it cannot be expected that any young person has judgment enough to leave all the bad and take only the good, when there is a great proportion of the former. I know we are too young to hold up an opinion of our own, independent of the superior judgment of those older, and this I would not do. I have collected mine from observation, and, if it is not right, would thank any one to correct it; nor would I offer it at all to any one but you, or those of my own age."

That last sentiment will seem very juvenile to many young people of the present day, but it is none the worse for that. Nor by this writer was the expression of such sentiments restricted to that age; for modesty and deference, combined with self-respect and decision, were marked features and peculiar graces of the character we are presenting. They are features and graces of a strong mind. Superciliousness, in youth or maturity, is a sign of weakness. And it says little for the improvement or the promise of the present, if it be true that respect for experience, reverence for age, and meekness of expression, are rare qualities in the young. Mary was still young, when she wrote to her father,—"I am no advocate for destroying that delicacy which forms, or ought to form, so great a part of the female character. But such a degree of it as is not compatible with sufficient firmness to command one's self in danger, appears to me to be false modesty, or 'sickly sensibility of soul,'—beneath the dignity of beings endowed with power for higher feelings." Here is that union of humility and courage which marked her whole course.

In all her early letters there is an entire absence of that trivial talk about dress, parties, and the gossip of the day, so common at her age. Instead of it, we find remarks either upon moral and religious themes, or upon her reading and studies. In the very earliest letter we have, written in a child's hand, she speaks of her interest in the "Life of Washington, in five large octavo volumes," and expresses the opinion, that "the history of one's country ought to be the first historical lesson of a child." About the same time, we find her deeply engaged in an argument upon the moral influence of the study of astronomy; and her mind rises to the highest and the largest views.

"The hand of Almighty God certainly should raise in our souls such unbounded adoration and love, that our only object would be, to be worthy to appear before the presence of such excellent goodness, and partake of the joys of heaven. It seems unaccountable, that any one could for a moment raise his eyes to the sky and not be convinced of the being of some superior power, who rules and directs the paths of the planets and the ways of the children of men. If we for a moment transport ourselves to another part of the universe, and behold our little insignificant Earth in comparison with the rest, or with any other planet, and consider how highly favored it has been with the presence of the Son of its Creator, are we to think that we alone are thus honored, and that superior worlds are not endowed in the same manner with a knowledge of heavenly things? But I find myself getting into an argument, on which, though the subject may be interesting, the style of the writer must be tedious."

These extracts are from letters written to a friend near her own age, with whom there began at this time the longest and most confiding intimacy of her life, out of the circle of immediate connections, if indeed any exception need be made. To this friend are addressed some of the first and last letters that Mary ever wrote, and by far the larger number of all which we use for this sketch. It is an evidence of the faithfulness of her friendships, that from the date of the earliest letter we have, through nearly forty years, she wrote to that same friend, beside other occasional letters, "a New Year's epistle," every year, to the last in her life. And to her were confided her first and deepest trials, disclosed to no one else, and beginning while at school. There is something both ingenuous and magnanimous in such sentiments as the following, from a girl of fifteen, whom the death of a mother had placed in circumstances of peculiar responsibility, and often painful perplexity.

"I expose to you my weaknesses, my faults, my passions. There is but one thing of which I have the slightest apprehension. You may sometimes hear me blamed for deeds which you know are right. You will hear my lot in life envied, as apparently all that the reasonable wishes of any being could desire. And sometimes, too, busy Scandal, which honors even the most insignificant with her notice, will glance at me. Your generous, affectionate heart will prompt, I well know, on those occasions, some defence of your friend. But never give way to it; never whisper to the winds that she has any trials. It will necessarily involve the question, What are they? You are the only person to whom I ever communicated them, and my conscience almost reproaches me for it. I try to think my peculiar loneliness sanctions it, but my very uneasiness proves it was not strictly right, and I would not for worlds sin farther. You will bear with me. All this is foolish, but I must say it. I defy any one to tell from my appearance that I have not every thing to make me happy. I have much, and I am happy. My little trials are essential to my happiness. They teach me to value the only true sources of enjoyment this life can afford,—the affection of the good, the cultivation of the better feelings of the soul in the service of their Creator, and the joyful hope of a better, purer state of existence. Blessings and peace go with you, and pure, unalloyed felicity be your portion for ever.

"Mary."

In the latter part of the year 1814, Mary left Boston for Hingham, to be again in the family and under the tuition of the Misses Cushing. Of her character then, and the renewed impression made upon her instructors, a letter which we have recently received from one of them will give the best idea; though, from regard to the writer's wishes, we quote but a small part.

"I can hardly give you an idea of my feelings towards her, during the whole of her residence with us, without seeming to speak extravagantly. Every day's experience confirmed our first impressions of her, and showed in some form the sweetness of her disposition, her self-sacrificing spirit, and untiring devotion to the claims of those about her. She possessed such purity of heart, and elevation of principle, as were certainly uncommon at such an early period of life, and which, it seemed to me then, could only arise from a constant sense of the Divine presence, and an habitual communion with the Source of all good. Love was always, with her, the predominant feeling in her thought of God, and I have heard her say she never remembered the time when she did not feel that she loved God. This was said, you may be sure, not boastingly, but from surprise at hearing some one speak of the difficulty of giving the heart to God."

And now came a crisis in that inner life, which was always greater to Mary Pickard than the outward. Always thoughtful as well as cheerful, her interest in religion, and her wish to be wholly a follower of Christ, led her to an act, too rare with the young, and requiring, in school and college particularly, courage as well as principle. She desired to connect herself publicly with the Church. And the convictions by which she was brought to this purpose, with the views she entertained of the nature and importance of the act, we make no apology for giving, as fully as we find them expressed in her own letters; for there are older minds that might be instructed, and doubters who might be admonished and aided, even by so youthful a believer. Mary had received baptism in Trinity Church, Boston, but it is evident that in her moral training more heed had been given to the cultivation of piety than to adherence to forms and special doctrines. The preaching that she usually heard, in the church of her parents, did not edify or satisfy her; a fact which we give, without comment, as part of a faithful record, and as we find it in her own account to a son, in one of the last years of her life. The language in which she there describes her early religious wants is unusually strong for her, and might seem extravagant. We give only the result of her dissatisfaction with what she heard from the pulpit. "The final effect upon me was, by throwing me more upon myself, to open a new source of religious instruction to my mind; and I can now remember with great pleasure, and a longing desire for the same vivid enjoyment, the hours I passed in 'my little room,' in striving, by reading, meditation, and prayer, to find that knowledge and stimulus to virtue which I failed to find in the ministrations of the Sabbath." And then most earnestly does she exhort her son not to let these things, or any thing, tempt him "to treat sacred things with levity and disrespect."

Few minds have kept themselves, through life, more free both from levity and bigotry. At the time of which we speak, she seems to have thought only of her own unworthiness, her need of religion, and the greatness of the privilege offered her. A long note which she wrote to one of the teachers with whom she was living, and to whom she confided all her feelings, will explain the whole. It bears no date, but must have been written in the autumn of 1814, when she was about sixteen.

"Saturday Morning.

"Will you, my dear Miss C., pardon my addressing you in this way, when under the same roof; but as I could not speak on the subject I have now most at heart, in the presence of any one, I did not think it right to engross exclusively so much of your valuable time as would be necessary to say all I wish to. I could not feel satisfied with my own conclusions, until I had appealed to you, and I hope this will excuse the liberty I take. Though still young, I have tasted the bitter cup of affliction and disappointment, and have found thus early that all worldly enjoyments are incapable of promoting happiness, or even of securing present gratifications; and in every deprivation have felt the healing balm of religion to be the only source of consolation to the wounded spirit and afflicted mind. But I may, indeed, say with sincerity, 'It is good for me that I have been afflicted,' for it led me to reflect on the end for which I was created, to examine my own heart, and, by comparing it with the Christian standard, to prove its weakness and awake to a sense of my danger. A very little reflection convinced me I had been leading a very different life from that which was requisite to form the character of a true Christian, and that I must exercise my utmost powers to redeem the time which I had lost, and which could never be recalled. Though I cannot think the observance of any religious ceremonies sufficient to secure future happiness, unless the motive for their performance is founded on faith in the word of God, as revealed to us by his Son, yet they seem to me necessary, not only in a moral, but religious point of view, to the attainment of that degree of perfection which we are taught it is in the power of every one to attain.

"Ever since I have thought at all on the subject, it has been my earnest wish to be admitted a member of the Church of Christ. It is a duty which I cannot but think is of the highest importance, both as it is fulfilling the last request of one to whom we owe all we enjoy here or hope for hereafter, and as it continually reminds us of our obligations to obey his precepts, tends to make us better, and more worthy our high calling. If we assume the name of Christians, and obey not those positive commands of our Saviour which are in the power of every one who is sincere, how can we expect to receive a continuance of his favors? Fearing I was too young fully to comprehend the use and importance of so solemn a rite, I have delayed saying or doing any thing about it. I have thought much on it, and summed up all the reasons which appeared to me to prove it absolutely necessary to our happiness and well-being, and all the objections that arose in my mind against the propriety of young persons joining in it. I then read every book on the subject I could meet with, and found in none of them half as many objections as I had raised, and very few arguments in its favor which I had not thought of. Do not think it has made me think better of myself than I deserve,—far from it; it made me feel more sensibly my own unworthiness, when compared with what I continually saw I ought to be. Still, as I could not give up all thoughts of it, I determined to appeal to you. Tell me, my dear Miss C., if you should consider it a violation of the sacredness of the institution, to think I might with impunity be a member? I am well aware of the condemnation denounced on those who partake unworthily, and I tremble to think how liable I shall be to fall into error and sin, and how much greater will be my responsibility. These reflections have hitherto prevented my proposing it to my father or any one, and now almost make me fear I am doing wrong in writing to you. I am afraid I am presumptuous, and, did I not view it rather as a means of religion than the end, I should hardly suppose there were many who could say they were worthy of it. I cannot think there is any mystery connected with it, as some are so eager to prove, and its very simplicity renders it the more interesting and useful, and increases the obligation to perform it.

"Forgive me, my dear Miss C., if I have said any thing wrong, and correct me if you see any seeds of vice in me. Recollect I have been the guardian of myself too long not to have erred very much in my ideas of every thing; pity, and make me better, if the task is not too discouraging; and be assured, the purest love and gratitude of which I am capable will be the sincere offering of your affectionate young friend,

"Mary."

The self-scrutiny and humility evinced in this note prevented any hasty action. Mary seems still to have deliberated, and sought all the light and direction she could obtain. A long letter, of which we give a portion, to her true friend, N. C. S., in Boston, shows her state of inquiry and progress.

"Hingham, January 13th, 1815.

"You could not possibly have received more pleasure from hearing Mr. Thacher's sermon, than I did from reading your abstract of it. Nothing could be more satisfactory to me, who still doubted whether it would not be a violation of the sacredness of the institution, for any one so thoughtless and liable to fall into sin and folly to join in such a holy offering, with the good and faithful of the earth. But that was enough to convince any one who believed the obligation in any degree to be great, that it extended to young as well as old, and would be an effectual means of turning them from error to a knowledge of truth, would make them happy here, and be almost a security of it hereafter. And though the punishment of those who outwardly profess themselves disciples of Christ, and yet devote their time and thoughts to the world, is inevitable, I cannot but think it will be in a much greater degree inflicted on those who wholly neglect it, particularly when once convinced of its importance. We have both felt the power which only the sight of others performing this duty has had on our minds; what then will it be, when we join in it ourselves, and feel the direct influence of those heavenly rays, which enlighten the Christian at the altar of his God, and guide him in his dreary progress through the world to heaven! Surely then we should not hesitate; now, while it is in our power, it would be absolute wickedness to neglect the performance of such a reasonable and delightful act of duty.

"Mary."

But one doubt now remained in her mind; that caused by the many differences among believers, and the numerous branches of the Christian Church. But this she soon answered for herself, with her usual simplicity and largeness of view. "I have considered the Church of Christ to be one body diffused through the whole world, and that sects, form, and opinion made in truth no essential difference;—that all the various denominations of Christians on the earth were united in one spirit and one mind, in all the important doctrines of religion." Not long after, she received from her confiding friend an account of similar feelings in herself, together with an excellent note from the Rev. John E. Abbot, encouraging their serious purpose. Mary's reply follows.

"Hingham, April 1st, 1815.

"I do, indeed, my dear friend, rejoice with you in the unexpected and happy event your last letter informed me of. I had felt all your doubts and fears as though they were my own, and, I do assure you, participated in your joy with the same sincerity. How much reason have we to be grateful for this instance of the overruling Providence! Does it not sufficiently prove, that, if with sincerity and pureness of heart we undertake to perform any duty, we may rely on the assistance of the Holy Spirit to guide our steps, and to cause all things to concur to render it easy and delightful?

"I cannot tell you how much it increased my own happiness to know that you, too, felt happy; for there is in the sympathy of friends something that increases all our pleasures and alleviates all our pains. It is to this I owe half that I enjoy in this life, and without it wretched must be existence, even in prosperity, and all other earthly blessings.

"I believe I have mentioned often to you the desire I had of becoming one of the church here, if I could be sure of remaining here this summer. When I found there was no doubt of that, I had only to overcome the fears which a consciousness of weakness and liability to relapse into former coldness still kept alive in my mind. Now all have subsided, and I am convinced that it is dangerous to delay so important a service. From the moment I had decided what to do, not a feeling arose which I could wish to suppress; conscious of pure motives, all within was calm, and I wondered how I could for a moment hesitate. They were feelings I never before experienced, and for once I realized that it is only when we are at peace with ourselves that we can enjoy true happiness.

"... I think, all things considered, I was never more happy in my life. It was a bright, clear night, and the moon which rose just as I went to bed, shining full on me, seemed to reflect the tranquillity of my soul, and appeared to me an emblem of the mild light that was just dawning on my soul. I could not sleep, and actually laid awake all night out of pure happiness.

"I will not trouble you with any more of my feelings at present. On Sunday we were proposed, and the next Sabbath will see the completion of all my hopes and wishes relating to myself for two years past.

"I cannot at present write more, but will finish this next week.

"Mary."

The church with which Mary connected herself was the Third Church in Hingham, under the pastoral care of the Rev. Henry Coleman, with whom she speaks of delightful interviews, receiving from him the best instruction and counsel at that important period. She shows at the same time her habit of thinking for herself, as well as her liberal and humble spirit, in the casual remark, "Though I could not agree exactly with him in every thing he said, as they were not essential points I thought nothing of it, and received his advice with as much pleasure and satisfaction as could possibly be." The same month she records the completion of her wishes and her happiness.

"Last Sunday witnessed the accomplishment of my highest desires; for I joined for the first time with those who compose the church here, in commemorating the death of our blessed Saviour. The feelings it excited are not easily described, and as you will so soon experience them, you will thus be able more fully to conceive of them than by any thing I could say. I know you will derive much, very much satisfaction and happiness from it; and I sincerely pray that it may be to us both a means of becoming more like its heavenly Founder, and finding acceptance with God through his intercession. I wish you could have heard our dear Mr. C——. He was particularly interesting and affecting; his prayers, too, are better than any I ever heard (always excepting Mr. Channing); they breathe more of the true spirit of Christian humility than is commonly to be found in these days of pride.

"Mary."

About this time we find mention of an incident which appeared then of little importance, but to which subsequent events, though quite remote, have given so peculiar an interest, that it seems not right to omit it. Mary Pickard, still a school-girl, saw for the first time the individual with whom, twelve years after, her fortunes were to be connected for life, but with whom, during that interval, she had no intercourse. Henry Ware, then a theological student at Cambridge, was on a visit to Hingham, his native town, and passed an evening at Miss Cushing's. Mary does not appear to have had any conversation with him, but simply saw and heard him, and wrote to her friend in Boston a frank account of the opinion she formed of him.

"Hingham, April 9th, 1815.

"Again, my dear N——, I resume the delightful task of writing to you, which, I assure you, gives me a degree of pleasure next to that of talking with you, however you may judge from my writing so seldom. Since Saturday I have experienced a pleasure I never expected, the desire of which I have often expressed to you. I have seen, heard, and consequently admired, your Exeter friend, H. Ware;[1] and though his errand took something from the delight his presence would otherwise have completed, it was sufficiently great for the safety of so large an assembly of young ladies. He was as agreeable as he could possibly be, and fully satisfied all the expectations you had raised in my mind. He spent Sunday evening here, and as he is very fond of music, and it is usual for us to spend a part of this evening in singing, we sung psalms from dusk until eight, when he was obliged to leave us. He joined in all, and added very much to the harmony and melody of our little choir. On Monday evening, too, he was here, and much increased the good opinion that had been formed of him. I thought his face indicated the greatest purity and goodness; I never saw a more benign, delightful expression on any face before, and much less any thing like it in a gentleman. I will not, however, judge any one by their face, particularly as I have not proved myself a good physiognomist. Yet I cannot help being in some measure influenced by it. How can I look at such a countenance as his, and not be confident that there is a mind within correspondent to it? There is, though, a want of energy in it, which I hope is not in his character; but it is sometimes the case, that a love of poetry, and habit of writing it, effeminate the mind of man, while they only render more attractive and interesting that of woman.

"He came for his sister Harriet, who has left us, very much to my sorrow as well as that of all the family. She has an uncommon mind, and possesses much original genius: it is very seldom you see such proofs of it in one so young, as to put it beyond doubt, that, under any circumstances, love of literature would have been predominant. She is a great loss to us, and to myself particularly so, as I can never hope to have it in my power to cultivate her acquaintance as I should wish. But I must be content, and if I can only have the power of appreciating as they deserve those friends I now have, I think it will be my own fault if I am not happy.

"With love to all friends, I must conclude by assuring you of the firm affection of your friend,

"M. Pickard."

This was written the same month, and within a few days of the date of that remarkable religious paper, which Henry Ware wrote for his own sacred use,—"To be opened and read for improvement, once a month,"[2]—seen by no other eye, probably, until Mary herself opened it, as his widow! From this time they did not meet, as personal acquaintance, until the year of their marriage.

IV.

DISCIPLINE AND CHARACTER.

With all her deep happiness and cheerful aspect, Mary had many anxieties and trials at this time. These were caused by her father's loss of property and depression of spirits. Mr. Pickard seems never to have had a large property, but was connected with one of the best firms in Boston, and enjoyed a good reputation as a merchant and a man. In what way reverses came upon him, we are not informed; but the period of which we speak, just at the close of the war with Great Britain, may be a sufficient explanation. Either from his own letters, or through others, his daughter heard of his losses, and had written him a letter which we do not find, but of which the following reply indicates the character.

"Boston, April 17, 1815.

"I have just opened your letter. You are every thing that is amiable and good; it is not possible to have a better child. But you cannot enter into my feelings, because you know not my situation. I will not trouble you with any more complaints, if I can help it; I will only tell you that I have done nothing that should make you ashamed of your father. If I have not enough to pay every one their just dues, it is owing to misfortune and events that I could not control. No one, however, except the estate, is likely to suffer by me, and you of course will be a joint loser; the whole, I hope, will not be much. My anxiety is, how I shall get a living,—what I shall subsist on. Without any capital, I can do no business. I long for the time to come when I shall see you here.... I am about making inquiry amongst my acquaintance for employment. If I succeed, my mind will be easier; if not, what shall I do? I know not. I had a long talk alone with cousin N—— last evening. She tried to encourage me with the hope of being able to support myself, as we calculated you would, after some time, have enough to support yourself without mental or bodily exertion. Yet I know, my dear child, that you would exert both for me; but how much more satisfactory would it be to me to support myself while I am able. It is not the change of circumstances, but the dread of want, that depresses me. I did hope, too, that you would have been in a better situation; but you have a mind and spirits, I hope, to keep your heart at ease; for you will be esteemed for your virtues. You see I cannot help writing what is uppermost in my thoughts.

"Your very affectionate father,
"M. P."

We have not many of Mr. Pickard's letters, but all we have, even those in which he writes in rather an unreasonable mood, as if expecting too much of this endeared and devoted daughter, yet contain incidental expressions which show his exalted opinion and almost respectful regard for her, as well as a tender and grateful affection. He speaks of having shown one of her letters to a friend, who was "highly gratified with the seriousness and piety of your disposition; but she did not need that proof of it; and in the troubles and vexations of this world, it is a great consolation to me to have so good a child, whom I look forward to as the comfort of my declining years; you know how much your letters please me, and console me for your absence." This we can understand when we read the letter which follows, probably in reply to that which we have given above.

"Hingham, April 22, 1815.

"I did not receive your letter, my dear father, until Thursday afternoon, and cannot delay for a moment answering it. I should be sorry to think you considered me so weak as to bend under a change of fortune to which all are liable, and which does not affect the interest of my friends or myself, while a self-approving conscience is their support. I trust nothing which can befall them with respect to the world will wholly overcome their fortitude and confidence in the protection and care of a Supreme Being. I can, I think, enter in some measure into your feelings, and believe I can feel as you do with regard to being dependent on others. I am prepared for almost any trial; if my ability is equal to my desire of being of service to you in misfortune, I do not fear but that I shall be able to support myself, and at least not be a burden to you. I am sorry you think so much of my situation. I shall never regret the loss of indulgences which I have never been taught to consider as essential to my happiness, and which do not in any great degree conduce to it. I shall be content in any circumstances, while I know you have not brought on yourself calamity. I am not so proud that I should feel the least repugnance to gaining a living in any useful employment whatever; I feel that kind of pride which assures me that local situation will not disturb my peace within, and with that I could combat almost any thing. I can only regret the loss of property, when it makes me an encumbrance to my friends, and limits my power of communicating good. As to the former, I think, while I can possibly do it, I had better remain here, rather than burden any of my friends with my company, and I will retrench other expenses for the sake of being independent; for I do not think that any service I could do would compensate for the trouble I should give; and with regard to the latter, the will will be present with me, and though the money means were denied me, I do not despair of doing good in some way or other. I shall do very well; my only anxiety is for you, lest you give up hope of better times, and thus put a stop to the mainspring of human action. I cannot but regret that what belongs to the estate should be lost, for the obligations we are under already to the family are more than can ever be repaid, and obligations are to some people oppressive. I shall see you soon, and will then make some arrangements. Till then, I know not what to propose. I hope to hear from you soon. And do write in better spirits; it will do no good to be discouraged. With love to all, I remain your affectionate daughter,

"Mary."

Those only who have experienced reverses, or have seen parents suffer from them undeservedly, know how hard it is to sustain, beneath their pressure, a cheerful and buoyant spirit. We can moralize upon the comparative worthlessness of this world's goods, and call poverty and pain light evils. It is a false view. Poverty and pain are positive and great evils. Sin only is greater, and sin, it may be, is as often engendered by these as by the opposite state of health and affluence. In setting forth the dangers of prosperity, we are not to forget the temptations and conflicts of adversity. Honor to the man or woman, who maintains integrity and serenity in the hour of misfortune!

We mean not to intimate that the pecuniary perplexities of Mr. Pickard and his daughter were extreme. But we believe them to have been enough to test the power of character, and to throw a delicate and difficult duty upon a daughter, so young, and so connected with friends who were able and willing to help, but on whom she was not willing to lean. She preferred to lean upon herself, though not in unaided strength. Seldom do we find such evidence of early and entire reliance on a higher Power. She had made her election. With the deliberation and firmness of mature conviction, she had given herself to God, and was at peace. How complete, though quiet, was that surrender, and how full and permanent the peace, every subsequent year of her life bore witness. And there were those who saw this in the beginning, and predicted its future power. We are struck with the confidence expressed by judicious friends in Mary's "piety,"—a word of deeper and larger import than belongs to many beginners in the school of religion and life. It is an incomparable blessing, when a faithful and experienced teacher can write to a pupil thus:—

"Could I in any way serve you, how gladly would I do it! But when I take my pen to write you, and my heart would dictate something, which, to most of your age (particularly when so early deprived of a mother's care), might be useful, I am deterred by the thought of your maturity of mind, your well-regulated affections, and correct and dignified deportment. This is not flattery; you know me too well, I hope, to believe me capable of that, where my heart is interested. It is an opinion founded on a long, and for some time close observation. May you feel in your own bosom the reward you so richly deserve, and be sensible of those joys with which 'a stranger intermeddleth not.' So early disciplined in the school of affliction, your heart has felt the need of consolation which the world has not to bestow; and at a period of life when the follies and vanities of the world most commonly engross us, you have been led to an attention to those things which are unseen and eternal. God grant that you may be induced to persevere in the path of piety, to reach forward continually to higher attainments, nor ever rest satisfied till you have attained the glorious prize which is reserved for the followers of the blessed Jesus.... I should not, to many of your age, write so much on so serious a subject; but I believe you have a feeling persuasion of its reality and importance, and therefore will not deem me intrusive."

In the summer of 1815, Mary left Hingham, and returned to her home in Pearl Street, Boston, where another change had just occurred in the death of her grandfather, James Lovell. This left her grandmother very lonely, and for the remaining two years of her life Mary devoted herself to her care, and ministered to her wants, with the same assiduity and affection that marked her devotion in her mother's sickness. Not that she was wholly confined to the sick-room, or the house. Mrs. Lovell's health varied, and allowed occasional visits to friends in and near Boston, for several weeks together. One of these visits took Mary as far as Northampton; and in a pleasant letter to her father she gives a full account of her journey thither, a very different matter then from what it now is. Going from the presence of sickness and sorrow into that beautiful region, her heart expanded with joy and gratitude,—gratitude to God, and to those generous friends whose guest she was, and whose hospitality she describes in a way that would leave no doubt to what family she refers, even if there were not a direct mention of one whom so many love to recall. "Mr. Lyman is, without exception, the most agreeable man I ever met with; and if I could only overcome feelings of restraint which his infinite superiority makes me have before him, I might be able to enjoy his conversation more. I may overcome it, but as yet I cannot, and therefore fear I appear stupid." This diffidence she never did wholly overcome, and we can conceive of its having been very great, at that age. Yet it seems never to have prevented her from going forward to the performance of any duty, or appearing with propriety and dignity in any position. She had a keen relish for all the beauties of nature, and no less for the refinements and pleasures of society. But her highest enjoyment, even at that age, was evidently sought and found in the company of the devout, and the joys of religion. Her father gently reproves her, in one of his letters, for indulging too much in "sombre" thoughts, and talking of "trials presenting themselves everywhere." But it is evident that it was to his own trials that she referred, and his depression may have extended sometimes, though very seldom, to her. He himself says of this state of feeling, "I was not without fear that I had imparted it to you, which would grieve me much."

During the long period of her grandmother's sickness, Mary formed a new attachment, opening to her a fountain of the purest enjoyment. She was a constant attendant on the preaching of Dr. Channing. When a child, she loved to go to his church with that relative and devoted friend of the family, who, though of the same age as her mother, still lives to mourn the loss of all of them. Led by that hand, which was to her as the hand of a mother to the very end of life, (may we not so far depart from our rule, in regard to the living, as to give the venerable name of Ann Bent?) Mary listened very early and intently to the man who has moved multitudes of every age. As she grew up, her evident and strong preference for his preaching over all other is said to have been the subject of "a little affectionate bantering on her mother's part," while to her more rigid father it was so little agreeable as to cause at times some trial of feeling and a conflict of duty. But where duty pertained to God and the whole existence, she never doubted long. Her decision was taken deliberately, with respect and gentleness, but with a force and faith that never wavered, and never failed to supply strength and consolation in her varied trials. Indeed, it was amid trials, as we have seen, that she first consecrated herself to Christ, soon after her mother's death. And now that she was daily watching the decline of another life very dear to her, at the bedside of her aged grandmother, her letters are chiefly filled with accounts of her vivid interest in the preaching she hears, and the effect it has upon her character. Two of these letters we give together, as relating to the same subject, though written several months apart.

"Boston, Sunday Evening, Sept 15, 1816.

"How frequently have I heard it said, that we never feel the true happiness of having a friend more than when, overwhelmed with feelings it cannot control, the heart seeks relief in the sympathizing bosom of that Being who alone can comprehend them; and never, my dear N——, did I feel this truth more than at the present moment, never did I feel more eager to open to your view my whole heart, to show you the emotions excited in it, for I feel sensible that I cannot describe them. It will not surprise you that Mr. Channing's sermons are the cause; but no account that I can give could convey any idea of them. You have heard some of the same class; they so entirely absorb the feelings as to render the mind incapable of action, and consequently leave on the memory at times no distinct impression. That in the morning from this text, 'He that forsaketh not all that he hath, cannot be my disciple,' was calculated more than any thing I had then heard, to exalt the Christian character; but that this afternoon was as if an angel spoke,—'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Learn of me, for I am meek and lowly of heart, and ye shall find rest to your souls.' Happiness, or, as it is here expressed, 'rest to the soul,' does not, it is evident, depend on our situation, as may be proved by a slight view of the condition of mankind in general. We see them constantly aspiring to something beyond what they possess, but which, when attained, adds not to their peace, but rather increases their discontent....

"I doubt whether I have succeeded in giving you any idea of what Mr. Channing's sermon really contained, as I cannot remember any thing of it but the impression it made on my feelings, and I have, I find, given you rather a transcript of them than any of his original ideas, as you will readily perceive. The object of it, however, was to prove that the only real happiness to be enjoyed in the world was to be found in that peace of mind which a true and lively faith in the wisdom and mercy of God necessarily inspires in the Christian, and without which all the pleasures this world can give will fail to convey to the heart even one transient gleam of real enjoyment. Could you only have been here, you would, I know, have been much benefited by it; but you could not feel it as I did, for you do not so much require it. My reason and conscience have always told me that it was not right to let any of the trials I have met, and still meet with, destroy for a moment my peace; and though they have sometimes conquered my weaker feelings, yet there are times when I find my own strength so insufficient that I am almost tempted to doubt whether it be in my power to attain. This morning, I felt more than ever my weakness, from having had a long and unsuccessful struggle the whole of yesterday with myself. That the precious privileges this day has afforded me are not lost upon me, I hope to prove in the day of future trial. Forgive my egotism, but I know to whom I write.

"Mary."

"You said to me, as we were returning from meeting to-day, in answer to my observation that 'I had been depending on this day during the whole week, and had unexpectedly realized all the feelings I anticipated,' that you, too, had expected much, thinking that Mr. Channing would give us the sermon he did. I have often thought that the very great pleasure we take in hearing him preach has given us other feelings and motives in our attendance on church than ought to be allowed by the devout Christian. The good which is to be obtained from one of his sermons particularly is indeed a great object, and sufficient to induce us to attend the hearing of them whenever there is an opportunity; but in our eagerness to hear the sermon, to admire it, and endeavor to improve by it, the original intention of public worship, I fear, is in a manner lost on us. Do we, when we go to the house of God, feel that we are as it were entering his more immediate presence? He is, it is true, present with us in all places, and at all times; but in the world it is not required, neither is it practicable, that our whole thoughts should be devoted to any one subject; but when we go to the house of worship, is it not that we may, by shutting out of our minds the world and all that it contains, give to the Lord of the Sabbath every thought? Was it not for this end he gave us the day, and renews our strength every week? We are called together to worship, not merely with our lips, but to unite every thought and feeling in adoration. It is a privilege thus to be enabled to call our minds entirely from the cares and troubles of life; it gives to those who are oppressed by them some idea of heaven, when all the trials which now torture them will be for ever forgotten; and to all it should be esteemed a high and holy privilege, setting aside the delightful instruction we receive, thus to hold communion with Heaven, for I can compare it to nothing else. It seems often to me, while in the hour of prayer I give myself up to the thought of heaven, as though I had in reality left the world, and was enjoying that which is promised to the Christian. I fear, however, these feelings are too often delusive; we substitute the love of holiness for the actual possession, and often deceive ourselves. But if we can keep our reason unclouded, we have nothing to fear from feeling too much. I would not be understood to mean, that the delightful, improving preaching we are in the habit of hearing is not a good motive for carrying us to meeting; but it is not enough, if it be the only one; if the happiness of an unreserved devotion of thought to God is not sufficiently great to induce us to seek every opportunity of enjoying it, I fear the true, vital piety, which is the only support of religion, is imperfectly gained by us.

"I have not time to write more. I doubt if I have explained myself intelligibly, but more of this at some future period. I presume there is an appearance of vanity in one paragraph, which I will some time explain.

"Mary."

This fervid religious interest and enjoyment seems to have filled her heart, and absorbed her thoughts, more and more, until, in the following summer, it led to a personal interview with Dr. Channing, of the most interesting kind, to be described only in her own words.

Boston, July 10, 1817.

"There is a certain state of feeling, or I may now say passion, in which the heart must either find relief in utterance, or burst; when all the powers of mind and body are suspended, and thought, feeling, sensation, are all centred in one sole object. It is at such moments as these that we feel the true value of a friend who will submit patiently to our detail, and sympathize in all. I have just had a long—(I do not know what to call it)—with our dear minister. You know how long I have wished, yet dreaded it. That I should ever have dreaded it appears now a most astonishing fact, except that I knew it would humble me to the dust. And why should I not be so humbled?

"It chanced that grandma was too unwell to see him; and I, though not in the most composed state of mind that can be imagined, was to sit down alone with him, fully determined to improve the opportunity and say all that I had so long wished. I put on as collected an appearance as could possibly be required, and, trembling at the very centre of my heart, met him with a smile of joy. Indifferent subjects soon entirely subdued all kind of internal embarrassment, (external, I did not permit,) when, to my great annoyance, C—— walked in! O that I could have rendered him invisible,—deaf, dumb,—any thing, for the time being! But patience triumphed; I contrived at last to let him understand that I wished him far away. He took the hint, but when he rose to go, Mr. Channing did so also! I could not but detain him. How I did it, or what followed on my part, I know not; I heard all he said, I laid every word carefully aside in my mind to be enjoyed at some future period, but how foolish, how weak, how every thing irrational I was, I cannot, dare not, think. I told him as well as I could, with what views and feelings I presumed to deviate from the path in which I had been led by my parents, what he had done for me, and what I hoped to do for myself. I could not have been intelligible, but I will not regret that I attempted, though I could not succeed. I am relieved by what he said of many unpleasant, oppressive feelings. I felt that I was detaining him, or I might have been rather more collected. What a state has he left me in! O, could I for ever preserve the remembrance of what now fills my heart, could I ever feel as I now do, that I am one of the least of all beings, capable of being better but shamefully neglecting my best interests, awfully responsible for the inestimable privileges I enjoy, but wholly unmindful of them.

"Dearest N——, I am wrong to impose on your patience, but I am too selfish to resist. Forgive this sentence. I do not doubt your interest, but I may talk too long. This is not the fervor of sudden enthusiasm; no, I have long felt my sinfulness, but the excitement of talking to Mr. Channing has made me now utter it. Give me your prayers, give me your advice, assist me in elevating my heart to higher objects, purer joys, than this world can give. I love it too well; I want the severing hand of trial to rend asunder the thousand evil passions which connect me with it.

"I have scribbled this at your desk; this quiet retreat has calmed me. It is, perhaps, fortunate that you were not at home, except that you would have been saved this fine specimen of what an egotist can write. O dear, how weak I am! excitement is so new to me, that it almost deprives me of the use of my understanding, or I should not thus betray myself. I know not what I am coming to; I was very foolish yesterday; I have been worse to-day. Do come and see me to-morrow and lend me a little sense, or if you cannot spare it, exercise it yourself over the mind of your senseless friend,

"Mary."

During this season of peculiar experience, Mary sought the confidence, and enjoyed the sympathy, not only of the one friend to whom the last letters were written, but also of her late instructors in Hingham. The correspondence between them is of the most confiding character, and shows a mutual respect and sense of obligation in pupil and teacher. "Talk not of gratitude, my dear Mary," the latter writes; "has not every kindness we have ever had it in our power to show you been more than cancelled by your unremitting assiduities to serve and please us? The uniform disposition you have ever shown to promote the ease and happiness of all around you, will long remain a sweet remembrance of one whose image is connected in my mind with every softer virtue, accompanied by that strength of mind which would enable you, if called upon, to sustain uncommon trials. No, I shall not, I cannot, be disappointed in you, my dear young friend; you will be all that your opening character now promises, because you have built on a sure foundation. If my life is spared, I anticipate much pleasure from the continuation of a friendship thus commenced. May it be increased and strengthened while we sojourn together on earth, and may we have the happiness of exciting each other to a higher standard of excellence than is generally adopted by the world, and thus be prepared for the society of those pure and holy beings we hope hereafter to join." These expressions of confidence and encouragement were probably induced by the trying circumstances in which Mary was then placed, partly from her father's misfortunes and feeble health, and partly from the weight of her responsibilities in a household where there was not only sickness, but other and sorer trials. She went very little into society, and was thrown entirely upon her own resources, in the midst of arduous and delicate duties. Some of her struggles, and the sources of her peace, are intimated in the following letters to Miss Cushing.

"Boston, June 19, 1817.

"As I can neither see you nor hear from you, my dear Miss Cushing, I must write you, if it be only to say how much I think of and desire to see you. I know too well that I do not deserve any indulgence from you, but there is something so solitary, and at times almost overpowering, in the idea that those whom we have best loved, with whom we have passed happy hours of intercourse and sympathy, are, though still dear, divided from us, not perhaps by distance, but by circumstances which we cannot control, that I am almost tempted to repine that such must be our situation. You will, I know, be ready to ask why I have so neglected the only means in my power of continuing that intercourse? I would not complain of it, but I have little time, and so many occupations which the call of duty bids me not neglect, that I seldom write to any one, and always in so much haste that I should be ashamed to send such epistles to you. Beside all this, I have so little intercourse with the world, or those in it in whom I think you would be interested, that I must, from a dearth of ideas in this poor brain, write almost wholly of self, the most odious and wearisome of all topics. But this very isolation makes me depend so much on every little iota of external excitement, that I should be satisfied, or rather content, with any thing in the form of a letter you would find time to give me....

"I have felt, and I believe have expressed to you, or Miss P——, a kind of discontent sometimes operating on my mind at the want of opportunity to become what I have vainly thought I might be. But this is all over, and I am satisfied that I must be content with a very low degree in the scale of knowledge. But I trust I may be good, though never great, and am confident that the peculiar situation in which I am placed is one more calculated for me than any I could choose for myself. Trial is necessary to me, and I am happy in it, except when I am conscious it is not improved as it should be. It is not for us, who have so many blessings, to murmur if our faith is sometimes put to the test; did we view things aright, what now seems judgment is in truth mercy. What should we be, were we not sometimes reminded of our sins and the weakness of our minds? Surely, then, whatever may be the trials which bring us to a true sense of our accountability to our Father in heaven, they are the kindest expressions of his goodness. I never could have any gloomy views of religion, and the more experience I have of its cheering influences in the hearts of its votaries, the more I am convinced that it is the only sure guide to happiness even in this world; how much more in another!

"You will forgive me for writing you just what happened to occupy my mind. It is an indulgence that I cannot resist, to be able to communicate a few of my feelings and thoughts. I fear you will think I impose too much on your goodness.

"Mary."

"Boston, August 20, 1817.

"My dear Miss Cushing:—

"There are, I believe, moments in the lives of all human beings, when, from some cause or other, the heart is saddened by a feeling of peculiar loneliness, which, though perhaps rather a disease of the imagination than the effect of real circumstances, is nevertheless irresistible. I have felt this in the gayest period of my life, and it is not strange that I should now often experience it. Leading a perfectly monotonous existence, my resources of animal spirits are not entirely sufficient to supply the call of duty and the hour of solitude too. And when evening closes, and my beloved charge is laid peacefully to rest, excitement ceases, and I am thrown on myself for pleasure. Then it is that I long to be with friends, whom I can only visit in imagination; then I long to annihilate distance, and talk with you. It is, I know, imposing on your goodness to attempt to write you under the influence of such feelings, but it is an indulgence I can hardly resist, convinced as I am that, when you are assured it is a relief to a poor solitary, your benevolent heart will pardon me. I would not convey that I am unhappy in this situation. O, no!—there is such a thing as being 'pleased, and yet sad'; and though sometimes

'The heart will feel, the tear will steal,
For auld lang syne sae dear,'

yet I rejoice with joy unspeakable that the present is still filled with many privileges and pleasures, and that I can with perfect trust refer the future to Him who appointeth all things in mercy. I wish most sincerely I could communicate something interesting to you, to redeem my miserable letters from the charge of perfect egotism, but I live so wholly out of the sphere of the interesting part of the world, that I am as ignorant of all that passes within it as those who know not that it exists. It is this reason which has often withheld me from writing you when indeed I wished for my own sake to indulge in it, and I think you will be fully convinced of the wisdom of my forbearance after the perusal of this.

"M.L.P."

And now another trial impended, to be followed by other and important changes in her condition of life. In the autumn of this year her grandmother died. For the event itself, so long expected and not to be lamented, she was prepared. But some of its circumstances were unusually trying, and she well knew that its consequences might be still more sad. Yet how little these considerations affected her, in comparison with the moral aspects and spiritual lessons of the change, may be seen in her own account of the last sickness, to N. C. S.

"Boston, Sunday Night, October 12, 1817.

"You have so long indulged my selfish propensity of communicating to you every feeling that chances to be excited in my heart, that I find it difficult, when under the influence of any peculiar emotion, to resist the ever-present desire to impart all to you. But this would be the height of folly and weakness, and I therefore contend against it with all my powers. There are, however, certain kinds of feeling of such a doubtful nature, that the agency of some external power is absolutely necessary for the proper management of them. Of this nature, I am persuaded, are those by which I am now overpowered; and lest I should be too much led away by them, I must beg your assistance in ascertaining their origin and tendency. This may seem too systematic for any one who feels much, but the violence of the tempest has passed, and that deadly calm which always succeeds the raging of the elements naturally inclines the mind to thought and reflection.

"I have lived for the last few months in the hourly contemplation of a most striking picture of the end of human life, the termination of all its joys and sorrows, the annihilation of its hopes and wishes. This could not fail to impress with sadness a mind in full possession of its powers of enjoyment, and for a time to give it almost a disgust of all those pleasures and pursuits which must so soon fail before the dim eye and feeble energies of approaching age. It had, in a great degree, this effect on me; for the moments have been when I would willingly have surrendered life rather than live in the expectation of such an end,—to outlive the ability to engage in its duties. I now tremble at the thought of ever having suffered such feelings for a moment, to possess my mind. Continued and deep reflection on the object of all this, the comparative nothingness of every thing in this world, the hopes and prospects of another and better, meditation on the spiritual life, and occasional experience of the real happiness of that elevation of soul above earthly things which religion alone can impart, have overcome this melancholy, and sometimes produced almost a feeling of triumph. I have this evening been almost overwhelmed with a variety of emotions, of which this was the most prominent. Grandma has thought herself dying, and has been conversing with me on her approaching change with that most heavenly calmness which those only who rely on the mercy of God, through the merits of his Son, can experience at this trying hour. This, together with joining in prayer with her that we might all welcome this hour as she did, and her final parting with all in the house, has elevated my mind so much above this transitory scene, that I can scarcely believe I shall ever be so weak as again to be engrossed by it. I cannot describe the state of my mind. I never felt so before, though I have often imagined that others have. It is almost a kind of transport at the thought that this mortal shall put on immortality, that there is within us an ethereal spark which can never be extinguished or grow dim, capable of rising superior to the pains and weakness which bend these frail bodies to the ground. O, it is a joy unspeakable! Viewed through this medium, death loses its sting, and the idea of a glorious immortality alone presents itself with the view of its approach.

"But alas! I can place no dependence on the continuance of my feelings beyond the moment that excites them. My life is a mere vision; the world in which I act has no connection with that in which I think. My pleasure, my happiness, is so far independent of the objects around me, that I can hardly associate them together. Having little else to do than meditate, I exist almost in imagination, and communicate so little with others on the subject of my thoughts, that it seems like living two beings; the greater part of my time is passed in this ideal world, and I am consequently unfitted to mix in the real one in which I am placed. This is a misfortune and a fault. Which has the greatest share of blame? It is most unfavorable to true Christian humility; for, as Mr. Channing says of the effects of a diseased imagination, 'We feel superiority to the world in ascending the airy height, and pride ourselves in this refinement of the mind. After arraying ourselves in the robes of glory, we cannot take the lowly seat which Christianity assigns us.' Thus, then, although this elevation above the objects of this vain world may be a right spirit when it rises from the pure flow of real piety, if it be only the enthusiasm of the moment, which rises for a time and then vanishes away, an abstract theory which would not be practised upon in the hour of temptation, it had better never have been. When we have once been imposed on, we know not what to trust. All my purposes of goodness and high resolves are as yet but theories, which I fear I should never put in practice should temptation assail me. O, I dare not be thus happy!

"Mary."

V.

CHANGES AT HOME.

The first change consequent upon the death of old Mrs. Lovell, was the leaving of the house in Pearl Street. This, to Mary, was not a small matter. It was not the mere moving of furniture, nor the living in one street rather than another, of the same town. It was the loss of the earliest and only HOME that she had ever known; and none are to be envied who cannot enter into the feelings which such an event must awaken in a heart like hers. With little of the romantic in her nature, and as great independence of the merely local and external as is often seen, her love of family and early friends, her memory of childhood and all its associations, the very changes and sufferings which had made so large a part of her life, were all identified with "that house" as the place of their birth, and bound her to it by the strongest chords. Within a month of the day of her grandmother's death, she wrote her last letter there, which, with the first that was written out of the house, will show what she felt, and why.

"Boston, November, 1817.

"It is with many new and peculiar feelings that I attempt to write you for the last time from this blessed spot, rendered doubly sacred to me from having been the scene of that intimacy which ever has been, and I trust ever will be, one of the purest sources of happiness which it has pleased my Heavenly Father to bestow on me.... It has been one of the happy effects of the trials which, during the last few years, have fallen to my lot, to produce a more unreserved acquaintance between us than under any other circumstances could have been effected. I bless them in all their influences, but particularly in this, that they have brought me the knowledge and affection of such a friend. I should blush at the recollection of the numberless follies, weaknesses, and sins which this frail heart has discovered to you, but I wish you to know me entirely; the candid confession of faults is the greatest proof of confidence I could give. But that delightful intercourse which has so much conduced to this must for a time be broken off, perhaps never again to be renewed in this changing world. Change of situation will necessarily preclude the possibility of that continued intercourse of thought and feeling, which has been the joy of the past. I cannot admit the idea that this will weaken the bonds that unite us, much less can I think it will break them. But I have been the creature of situation; my character (if any thing I possess can be entitled to the name) has been moulded by circumstances peculiar in their nature, and which will soon cease to exist. What I shall be in the wide world into which I am going to enter, I know not. I hope, yet fear to change. Without a guide to lead me in the right path, I fear my inexperienced steps will stray into some of the many fascinating, delusive snares which are found in every direction. My course has hitherto been over an old and beaten track, secure by its remoteness from all temptation. What, then, shall I do, when the whole host of the world's allurements are presented at once to my weakness?

"I wish I could describe to you the feelings which the very prospect of leaving this house excites in this poor, weak heart,—so weak that it cannot subdue or control its emotions. It would seem romantic and visionary to any one who had been accustomed to change; but this house supplied in a great measure the relation of instructor, parent, and friend. And it is true, that in every part are recorded by association the admonitions of those friends I have known in it, or lessons which the experience of repeated trials has impressed in indelible characters on these scenes. Here, when temptation assailed, and this frail heart was on the point of surrendering to it, would the remembrance of former good resolutions, presented by the very walls around me, recall my wandering virtue, and strengthen me to new exertions. And to that sacred retreat, that sanctuary of all my joys and sorrows, I owe, if not the creation, at least the preservation of the best feelings I possess. There I find the history of the most important moments of my life, for in that spot did the first sincere and heartfelt aspirations of my soul to its Creator find utterance; and there, too, have I always found support under trial, in prayer. It were an endless work to recount all the associations which attach me to this only home I have ever known; it would be to give you a minute account of every transaction which has taken place since I lived here.

"Mary."

Boston, December, 1817.

"For the first time since I left that loved spot in Pearl Street have I seated myself at my desk; and, although my object in now doing so was a very different one, I cannot resist the impulse which the sight of it gives, to renew the employment, so wont to be pursued at it, of pouring forth a few of my feelings to my friend. It is so long since I have had an opportunity to do so, and so various have been the occurrences, and still more various the feelings which it has been my lot to experience in the course of the last two months, that, though my mind is full of what I wish to communicate, I am as much at a loss what to write as if all was vacancy. This poor little, unconscious desk has carried me back, against my will, to scenes which it were wise seldom to think of. The last time I wrote at it was the last evening I spent in the I 'oaken parlor,' when all was sad and solitary. But I cannot dwell on it. I find in the record of that evening prophecies which are hourly fulfilling. I felt deeply impressed with a sense of insufficiency to meet with, and bear aright, the temptations which a life of indulgence would present. I felt that I was not fit for society, and I feel so still, but more sensibly, more truly, for it is now the lesson of experience, sad indeed. But a truce with such feelings;—it is not of them I wish to write. This wicked desk has conjured up the old complaining spirit which so used to haunt me whenever I attempted scribbling to you. I am happy, contented with any change that has or may take place. I only ask a less selfish, more disinterested frame of mind,—to be more independent of the opinion of others, when a consciousness of sincere endeavor to do right acquits me of actual transgression. Selfish are all my regrets, all my trials, and wherefore, then, trouble another with a detail of what self alone can sympathize in, or ameliorate, or cure? I will not;—for once, I will follow reason rather than inclination.

"The more I know of the world, the more I see of the beings who constitute what is so called, the more the hopes and wishes which excite and keep alive their energies sink into insignificance, and the more my own restlessness and anxiety about the cares and pursuits of life excite my astonishment and contempt. We surely were not placed in this world solely to be occupied by its allurements, or, without reference to the design of our Creator in placing us here, to pursue that which seems to us the most easy and pleasant path. And with our reasons convinced, how can we so unweariedly pursue that phantom happiness which has here no fixed abode? We acknowledge that nothing here can satisfy us, and yet vainly delude ourselves with the hope of soon attaining some ideal joy which, like the philosopher's stone, will convert all into solid happiness. One would think I had been disappointed in some fond hope, or found too late my fancied joy a dream. But no, I am not disappointed, for I have never anticipated; and if aught I have said savors of this temper of mind, I would recall it.

"Mr. Colman advised me never to write in the evening, lest I should deceive myself and my friend with an exaggerated account of what in the light of day would prove false. I am half asleep, and therefore will take his advice, and I already find myself on the verge of the gulf,—self-deception.

"M. L. P."

To some it will seem strange, that one of such faith and principle, with no proneness or taste for the follies of the world, should express fear of "fascinating, delusive snares," or think for a moment of the "whole host of the world's allurements." But this will be understood by those who remember that strength does not lie in a sense of security, nor wisdom in assurance. It seems to have been ever a part of Mary Pickard's wisdom, to own her weakness. And more than this, the evil that she feared was not that coarse, palpable thing usually called "vice," but the invisible, subtle evil, so serious to the sensitive and pure mind, though by the many lightly regarded. "I fear not actual vice," she said at this very time, "but to become thoughtless, forgetful of duty, unmindful of my highest interests, is to my mind a more deadly sin than many which are accounted by the world crimes. It is this I most dread. My conscience, or, should that fail, my friends, would save me from the first, but who can control the thoughts of my heart?" Thus fearing, thus armed, she went out into the world, beginning at this point her life of self-guidance. Of her means of support we know little. She was not dependent. From her grandparents, to whom she had been so true a child, she received enough to enable her to assist her father in his depression, though it is evident that he took no more than was absolutely necessary, and that she retained enough for her wants, more than she used to the time of her marriage. This could have been accomplished, however, only by a uniform and strict economy, whose necessity she never regretted, except as it curtailed her charities.

And now began a life of business and of motion. Since her return from England, at the age of five, Mary had been from home very little, and only for her schooling. Hereafter she is to become a traveller, to a greater degree than was then common for a lady, and greater than she desired. Her journeyings, we infer, were always more for others than herself; either for the gratification of friends, or in aid of her father. For she seems to have become, in various ways, his active as well as domestic helper, and was intrusted by him, we should judge from their letters, with important business. For some purpose of this kind, in the year following our last date, she went, for the first time, to New York. And the account she gives of the preparations and the journey, while it shows what changes there have been since, shows also how much there was on her mind and her hands. She speaks of getting but four hours for sleep from having "so great a variety of occupation,—so much for my poor, weak head to think of." And then, half playfully, half in earnest, she writes of being "at last equipped for a journey probably of two months." But we must give a part of the letter itself; showing, as it does, how near to her, even in her busiest moments and most fatiguing labors, were the higher cares of the mind and the soul.

"I am glad of having a great deal to do; any thing that will call my little powers into exercise gives me a transient feeling of consequence, which, as it is highly flattering to vanity, produces rather pleasant sensations. I will not enter on the subject of leaving home, and setting out on an expedition fraught with untried temptations, and presenting even in the most favorable view a scene of life little calculated to satisfy my taste or warm my heart. But I believe there may be instruction found in every situation, and I hope that seeing eyes and an understanding heart will be given me, to discern and improve it. I cannot tell you how much more I feel than I ever did before, at leaving home;—I cannot; it is in vain to attempt so vast a subject at such a time. I have been highly favored the last two Sundays in hearing two of Mr. Channing's most delightful sermons, which I hope will not be soon forgotten. Last Sunday was the anniversary of many eventful days to me. The first Sabbath in September has for many years been a memorable day to me, and this last, I think, exceeds them all. It is three months since I have been at home on Communion-day, and the coldness which I had felt creeping through my very soul gave me a feeling of hope that I should find something to excite and elevate my affections. I never felt more entirely humbled to the dust, or more sensible of the immense privilege we enjoy, in having such a man to guide us on our way. But I am so excessively weary that I cannot write more,—scarcely to assure you of the warm affection of your

"M. L. P."

The journey to New York, by way of Providence and Norwich, was "a week's work," though it seems to have been all used in travelling, but with many "adventures" and delays incident to the beginning of steamboats,—against which, notwithstanding the discomforts and perils, Mary expresses herself "not so prejudiced that I should be unwilling to step on board one again." The letters she writes from the great city, so new and strange, are almost exclusively business letters to her father, and his replies show that he had given her important commissions, to be discharged in person, and in her own discretion. Directions are given for the sale or purchase, not only of muslins and moreens, but also of skins, saltpetre, and the like. And at the end of several weeks, in which she seems not to have indulged herself in much recreation, she speaks of returning as soon as she "has seen the city."

But instead of returning, she was induced by a tempting opportunity to go still farther from home, and with no time to get her father's permission,—a liberty evidently new on her part, and receiving at first severe reproof from him. The incident is not important, except as showing their relation to each other, and the manner in which she incurred and endured (being now a woman) the only harsh language that we find addressed to her by her father,—though it is clear that he always inclined to be exacting. The trouble in this case was, that he first heard from another of her being seen on her way to Baltimore, when he thought her safe with friends in New York, if not on her way home. The fact was easily explained. A gentleman with whom she was intimate invited her to accompany him to Baltimore, where she had long wished to visit a cousin newly married and settled there; and, with the approval of those with whom she was staying, she accepted the invitation as suddenly as she received it, "and in two hours was in the stage for Baltimore," to ride night and day till she arrived there. As soon as possible after her arrival, she wrote to her father all the circumstances, giving her reasons in a way that should and did avert his displeasure entirely. But unfortunately he had already heard of the runaway by accident, and one is forced to smile at the manner in which it affected him. Not waiting to hear from Mary, he instantly wrote to the lady in New York with whom she had staid,—"I am exceedingly vexed and mortified that she should do any thing so foolish, and cannot conceive how she will be able to justify herself; had I had any idea she would have been so indiscreet, I would not have consented to her leaving Boston. I have been expecting daily to hear what was likely to be done with some muslins she had the charge of; but instead of attending to that, she is flying like a wild goose about the country. These girls in their teens [Mary was just twenty] should not be let out of their leading-strings; nor would her's have been let loose, but from confidence in her discretion." Yet in company with this letter he sent a note for his daughter, which begins with saying he can hardly call her "dear," but ends in a very different tone; and the first letter he receives sets all right. His only anxiety now is to have her with him, coupled, however, with a fear as to her companion home, and again making us smile by a prediction which has been singularly reversed in the fulfilment. "If you are well, pray come by the first good opportunity. I am afraid you will wait till the end of the month for the parson; your being so fond of parsons is rather ominous, and you had better almost be any man's wife than a parson's." The parson referred to was Mr. Colman of Hingham, now returning from a visit to Baltimore. It is a pleasant conclusion of this little episode, and offers a hint to children as well as parents, that, when Mary found how much her father had felt, without blaming herself for doing what seemed right and a duty, she expressed such sorrow for the pain she had given him, in terms so respectful and filial, as to turn all his severity against himself, and increase his admiration and love for her. The next time he refers to her fondness for the "clergy," it is in a vein of pleasantry which seldom relieves his merchant-like letters. "Could you not, my dear, enliven your letters by writing of persons and things which you have seen? I think your letters are too much tinctured with what may be called moral philosophy, for so young a person. You are so fond of the clergy, you will get into a habit of writing like one of them, and if you were to turn Quaker, I have no doubt but you would preach yourself. Tell us something of Baltimore, how it is situated, &c.; and, as Mrs. Slipslop says, something of the 'contagious country.' Pray take care of your own health, and get the family well soon."

The last words refer to the actual cause of Mary's protracted absence. On returning to New York, intending to go home by the first opportunity, she found her good friend, Mrs. Harman, whom she was visiting before, dangerously ill, the husband absent, and the family in great confusion and trouble. At once she became the director and nurse,—offices which she seemed destined to fill wherever she went, as her subsequent life will show. All thought now of herself and her plans yielded to the present duty. And not an easy duty could it have been, as she describes the severity of the mother's sickness, the care of difficult children, and her responsibility in another's house and a strange city. As soon as they were in a condition to be left, she returned to Boston, though Mr. Pickard even urged her to stay longer, for rest and her own gratification.

For a year or more Mary and her father remained together in Boston, with no change or incident to be noticed. They were living at board, so far as we find, though they may have taken a house, as he seemed very anxious before her return to be alone with her, having an aversion to company, and preferring her society and care to all other.

In her correspondence at this time, the prevailing theme and object, as usual, were religion and its influences, for herself and others. We cannot but observe the preponderance of this theme, and yet its perfectly natural and healthy tone. With nothing dark or melancholy in her religious views, with an habitual horror of ostentation and cant, she lost no opportunity to cherish and diffuse an all-comprehending faith. The letters which follow, addressed to her constant friend, declare their own occasion and design.

"Boston, August 12, 1819.

"There was something in the strain of your last letter to me which has given me some feelings of anxiety. You refer to the course of medical discipline which has been pursued with Mr. —— with expressions of regret, which, though natural, must add greatly to every other painful feeling that his present situation, and perhaps loss, must inevitably excite. I cannot reprehend you for what I know but too well is the natural impulse under such circumstances; but I would, if it were possible, point to a healing balm for that worst of all wounds,—fruitless regret.

"I am no fatalist, but the continual influence of an unerring Providence is a truth which was early impressed on my heart, and which daily observation has confirmed and strengthened. The simple order of nature speaks it with a powerful voice; the sacred pages of God's own book proclaim it in terms which cannot be misconstrued; and would we impartially review our own lives, should we not see in them incontrovertible proofs of an unseen power, that guided and directed many things for our happiness which our blindness would have wished otherwise? And are we to assent to this truth only when our minds can clearly see its reality? Are we to withhold our confidence in Him whom we have always found mighty to save, because we cannot in a single instance see its practicability? O, no! far be it from us, who profess to acknowledge the being and attributes of a merciful God, to shrink when he puts our faith to the test. Are his so often repeated expressions of love towards his creatures mere empty sounds to deceive the credulous, or assist the imagination in forming a perfect model of moral sublimity, but to wither into airy nothing when we dwell on them for support? This we would not, most certainly, admit in our actions, and why should we even in our thoughts? Surely, believing, as we do, that his promises are sure and steadfast, we may in the darkest hours of adversity find consolation in the thought, that, however mysterious may be his decrees, there must be some good result, some benevolent design, concealed beneath the most doubtful appearances.

"Cowper has beautifully versified this idea in his hymn, beginning

'God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform';

you will find it in Belknap. Read it for the sake of one whom in all trials it has animated and consoled. Forgive me for dwelling so long on this subject. Do not infer that I think it new to you, but it is one in which I have felt most deeply, on which, too, I have had the most severe contentions with the spirit that warreth within, and one which, of all others, it is necessary for our happiness and goodness to establish in our hearts, that it may effectually influence our lives.

"Mary."

"Brush Hill, September 22, 1819.

"It is now a month since the date of your last letter, during which time I think I have at least once written you; but our intercourse is now so different from what I would desire at this peculiarly eventful period, that it seems as if I did nothing, if I do not tell you every day how much depends on its events. I have been with you in a happy vision, and awake to the sad disappointment that it is but a dream, and to the consciousness that for a long time my unfruitful pen will be my only means of communication. It would be weak to repine at what is inevitable; I will not give way to it. How often have you told me that you were almost tempted to pray for trial, that you might know the true state of your religious life, that you might have your faith put to the test, and the veil of self-deception taken from your eyes! Often have I prayed that, whenever it should please the Disposer of all things to send to you sorrow and affliction, you might find strength and support where least expected, not from your own resources, but in that arm which is mighty to save to the uttermost all who seek. It is not, however, simply in the belief that whatever He appoints is right, that you are to receive his dispensations; difficult as is the task, we must not rest satisfied with ourselves until we have learned to receive with cheerful acquiescence what the world calls trials; until we have learned to view all events as tending to the same great end, and be thankful for what is denied, as well as what is received; knowing that there is but one great object in each. This may at first seem too high an aim, even above human powers to attain. But it calls not on us to give up natural feeling, only to guide it aright, and the higher our standard of excellence is fixed, the greater will be our efforts to attain it, and our success unquestionably proportioned to it.

"But why talk to you of what you have already more knowledge? Forgive me; I lost, in the interest I felt in your present happiness, the remembrance that you were not in want of counsel on a subject on which you have already experienced enough to feel its importance. But do not, my dear friend, look only on the dark side of the picture; do not suffer your mind to lose its activity, because confined at present to one subject. It is not to contract our feelings, but to expand and teach them to enter into the feelings of others, that we are made thus to experience what it is to suffer. Should it not quicken our efforts to alleviate, to our utmost endeavor, those who are tried also, and by a cheerful example lighten the hearts of fellow-sufferers? I have felt, and know therefore too well, the tendency of severe trial to enervate the mind, and lead us insensibly to give up our ambition to act on any other subject; but our general duties are not the less imposing, because a particular one requires more attention, nor are we to give way for a moment to the impulse of self-indulgence, because we feel any peculiar right to it.... All this is unnecessary, but you can conceive how deeply I feel interested in the result of this great trial of your Christian faith. I know its difficulties, therefore can appreciate its triumphs.

"Mary."

"Boston, 1819.

"I leave the dismal beginning of a letter, intended to excite your compassion for my suffering under the confinement of a cold, and it would be rather mal apropos, after what has passed, to proceed in due form to give an account of myself during the long period since I last saw you. But in order to preserve the unity of time and place, I must first revert to the accident which brought us together so opportunely. I will not pretend to defend the prudence of the action, but acknowledge it was rather the impulse of strong desire to give some one a little pleasure, than the sober dictate of reason, and I felt that, in M——'s solitary state, she would be glad to see any one. I know it was wrong in one point of view, but right in another. I was rewarded for a severe sickness, as far as regarded my own sufferings, should one have ensued. I had a very pleasant ride, and became more acquainted with J—— than I could in any other way. I was agreeably surprised to find in his conversation so much depth of thought and knowledge of mankind. I am glad of any opportunity to extend my acquaintance with character, in its infinite variety. There is no human knowledge, I am persuaded, which has so great an influence on our happiness. We learn to estimate ourselves more justly, and in the formation of our own characters we are enabled to discriminate between right and wrong more accurately; for in nothing are we more liable to confound them, than as respects our own feelings and motives. Is it not wilful blindness that leads us so often to ridicule in others what we unconsciously practise ourselves? Why are we not as cautious to ascertain the motives of the conduct of others as of our own? We console ourselves, when we have done any thing which to the eyes of the world appears weak and foolish, with the thought that our motives are good, and with a consciousness of having done what was right. All else is of little importance; but did we believe that our friends were as much influenced by appearances, in their judgment of us, as we are in ours of them, I doubt if the approving smile of conscience would always compensate for the loss of the good opinion of those we love. Let us not, then, judge solely by the conduct of any what are their real characters; peculiar circumstances may prevent even our most intimate friends from disclosing to us their particular reasons for every action; but in that case, if it be a tried friend, it were surely a proof of friendship to believe that it is at least felt by him to be right. And with regard to people in general, let charity have its perfect work, and let us think all are free from deliberate faults, till we have good reason to suppose otherwise. This is, perhaps, if understood literally, rather too liberal a plan for this world of sin and wickedness; but as far as is consistent with reason, and our previous knowledge of men and manners, is it not just to judge of all as we would be judged? I have felt the want of this spirit of impartial justice, and speak from experience in some respects; in one, I hope never to be tried. I have been what you call mysterious; could you understand me, you would, I am sure, approve. Believe me, I am not governed by caprice in my treatment of friends; if any thing may have appeared so, there has always been a motive, and I feel that I may confidently rely on your friendship for all charitable construction....

"I am in a sad state. I long to see you, in hopes of procuring some remedy in your better regulated mind. I am so much under the dominion of certain sickly feelings of late, that I begin to think my mind will never recover its healthy tone again; active employment for the good of others is the only preventive for such disorders. I have not at present any prospect of such a means towards my own recovery, but trust the vital energy of my being is not quite extinct, and that ere long it will rise and subdue the weaker powers.... I have just thought that it is the spring-like feeling of the day that has such a weakening effect on my mind. Why do we indulge so much in idealism, instead of the real pleasure of our existence? I have no opinion of this giving way to imagination in our estimate of life.

"Mary."

In the month of October a death occurred which awakened all her sympathy, and the sympathy and sorrow of a large community. The Rev. John E. Abbot, whose life and character Henry Ware has made familiar to us all, died in October, at his father's in Exeter, where Mary's friend was staying as a relative. To both of them he had been a Christian helper when they most needed Christian counsel and encouragement. His short life was, indeed, a blessing to all who knew him, and his death full of "joy and peace in believing." Again was the pen taken, and solace offered.

"Boston, October 15, 1819.

"I attempted, my dear friend, to write you on Tuesday, for I felt then that, all being over, I could calmly write of what had passed, and direct your feelings and my own to the future. But I knew from experience that a few days' delay would find you more in want of a letter; as the necessary exertion which attends a scene like that you have passed through occupies the whole mind while it is necessary to support it, but leaves, when it is passed, a vacuity which needs some external power to fill it. Perhaps I too easily found in this an excuse for leaving my letter unfinished, and now that I review it, I blush at my own weakness. I sought to relieve my own heart, instead of strengthening yours. I have been with you every moment since I last wrote you, and too fully realized all that you have suffered. At the moment I was writing you, that pure spirit was taking its flight. I felt it as by intuition, and needed not further confirmation. But it was a relief to know that his blessed spirit was for ever beyond the reach of pain and anguish; that it was exalted to its native home, there to realize all that his brightest hopes could anticipate of a glorious immortality.

"I feel an almost total inability to write you on this subject. Could I talk to you, there would be time to enlarge on all the thoughts which it suggests. But they are so various, so interesting, so overpowering, that I know not on which to dwell. His virtues are too deeply imprinted on our hearts to receive any additional weight by enumeration. We can only go forward with them to that world where they shall meet a reward proportionate to their value. The remembrance of his character, while it awakens every emotion of affection which he excited while on earth, sheds on the heart a light which unfolds to the eye of faith its glorious perfection in heaven. Nothing in him can have escaped the mind of one so closely connected with him; friends need not to be reminded of what is imprinted in indelible characters on their hearts. But the thought that what we so loved and cherished is gone for ever from us, that the form by which we have held communion with the spirit is hid for ever from our view, the chilling realities of death and decay, as they appeal to our purest earthly feelings, are the most difficult to contend with. Our brightest visions of the future have a most powerful drawback in the horror with which nature shrinks from the sad appendages of death.

"It is this, I think, which more than any thing else makes us look forward to our own dissolution with instinctive dread, and leads us to avoid, if possible, every thing that reminds us of it. But when we view it as it really is, but a step in the ceaseless progression which is to carry us on to eternity, as a mere change of the external habitation of our spirits, a removal of the greatest impediments in our progress towards perfection, then, indeed, it loses all its terror, and we think of our friends who have passed through it as absent only in body, but present in spirit. Our own souls, though still connected with an earthly load, form by their derivation from heaven a part of the spiritual world, and in proportion as they become purified from the corruption of the world, they approach the state of those beatified beings who have finished their course. And therefore, though separated from them in this world, we are allied to them more closely than earthly ties could bind us, and must patiently wait for the fulfilment of our Father's plans for our joyful removal to them. This is, indeed, a new incentive to exertion, to prepare ourselves for this change. I have feared it might supersede a still higher motive; but how far it may be permitted to influence us, I dare not determine. That our earthly affections may be a means of leading us to the Creator of them and of all our powers of thinking and feeling, I believe must be true, or they would not have been given us as sources of such pure enjoyment here. But their tendency to make us forget all other considerations, to absorb those thoughts which should be directed to higher objects, is the trial which always attends every means of worldly enjoyment we possess, and as such should be combated with our utmost powers....

"Yours, most truly,
"M. L. P."

In the summer of 1821 Mary went with her father to live in Dorchester. And the change from town to country, and from a life of business and care to the free and still enjoyment of nature, seems to have had both a favorable and unfavorable effect upon her mind. Unfavorable in part, if we may trust her own account of herself. In this account, however, there is a nearer approach to morbidness than we have before seen, and a kind of self-disparagement, which must have been sincere at the time, but was not, we think, a part of her essential character. Humble she was always; truly, deeply humble; yet no one knew better than she, or acted more upon the truth, that genuine humility says very little about itself. And the expressions of it which appear in the letters that follow were made, we are to remember, to a confiding friend, to whom she declared all that she felt, though it were but the feeling of the moment, and the next moment recalled. She says herself, in this connection,—"I believe I have given an extravagant detail of my danger; and I may be under the influence of one of those fits of distempered mind, to which I have always been prone." If this were so, it shows the more what efforts she made, and how completely she brought every such disposition under the sway of principle, so that few who knew her ever suspected, we imagine, that any effort was necessary.

But we are ourselves overstating, it may be, the disposition to which we refer. Wherever it appears, as here, it is connected with such just and exalted sentiments, that it seems incidental and unimportant.

"Dorchester, June 18, 1821.

"The first line which I date from this place is to you, my friend, to whom my first feelings, on all occasions of self-interest, turn for sympathy. Your friendly curiosity is awake to know what effect a new kind of life is to have on a character which I know you feel of some importance to yourself. I would not imply that this selfish reason is the only motive of your interest, but I seek rather to find in it some pretence for indulging myself in the egotism which is creeping over me; and which led me to this desk for relief. How much will one short week of quiet reflection teach of our own hearts! How deceived are we, if we imagine we know ourselves thoroughly, when we have been but partially exposed to that change of circumstances and situation which alone can develop character even to one's self! I have found, indeed, just what I anticipated, that the change from constant activity to perfect stillness and inaction would of course produce a vacuity which time and habit would alone overcome; but I knew not the whole weakness of my mind. In the bustle of a busy life (idly busy, perhaps, but not the less exciting) I had almost lost sight of my natural propensities. Accustomed to find objects to occupy my powers wherever I turned, I mistook the simple love of being employed for real energy of mind, and therefore did not even apprehend the want of power to direct these energies to whatever I pleased. But it is not as I thought. My natural turn of mind (if I may so call what is perhaps more a weakness of heart) is for that calm, saddened view of things, which seeks enjoyment from the contemplative in character, and lives rather on the food of imagination than reality. I never found in words a more accurate description of the prevailing mood of my natural feelings than in that exquisite little poem, 'I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad,'—yet not of an uneasy, discontented temperament, but simply inclined to the purest refinement of melancholy. Trials which called for vigor of mind and cheerfulness of manner, a situation whose duties required the full employment of time which might otherwise have been wasted in cultivating this propensity, and perhaps a little pride lest those who could not understand it should discover it, and I hope a principle which taught me to wage war with what must interfere with higher duties,—all these combined to stifle the propensity, and I sometimes thought had almost extinguished it. But now, removed from those occupations which demanded thought as well as action, thrown entirely upon myself, with every thing around to inspire the enthusiastic indulgence of fancy, my imagination has suddenly taken the reins, and I find it will not be without a struggle that reason and principle will recover them.

"I suppose I must set about some new study or dry book, if I cannot find some animate subject to interest and fix my mind. There is a little deaf and dumb girl just opposite us, and if I knew the process I would teach her to read. I must have something to do which will rouse my mind to exertion. I have employment enough, but it is not of my mind, and that is unfortunately one which will retrograde if it does not progress. I am delighted with our situation, and cannot describe to you the sensations of first realizing that I am living in the pure, unconfined atmosphere of nature. It has a power, which I hope familiarity will never efface, of elevating the heart to Him whose 'hand I see, wrought in each flower, inscribed on every tree.' It is a privilege which I hope I shall fully estimate, to be thus reminded at every glance of the love and power of our Father in heaven. I am grateful for that goodness which has appointed me so much of the purest enjoyment of life, and I would testify it by devoting all my powers to his best service. I was not made for solitude of heart, and I would find all that my heart requires in the love of divine perfection. I think Foster will do me good,—'On the Epithet Romantic.'

"I have just been taking a delightful walk, as the sun was setting gloriously, and I think if you were only with me I should enjoy it tenfold. I wish you could arrange matters to come out with father one night before you go, and we will go to Milton.

"Mary."

"Dorchester, July 25, 1821.

"I wrote you last rather a monotonous round of sedentary employments, occasionally interrupted by a visit to the city, or a ride about the country. On the whole I enjoy life highly, although my present mode is so novel a one, that I am sometimes at a loss to decide whether it is actual enjoyment or negative indulgence of ease. But country life is a privilege I estimate most highly; that I can at all times, when I raise my eyes, find my thoughts so forcibly directed, by all I behold, to that 'still communion which transcends the imperfect offices of prayer and praise'! I am persuaded that it is far easier to cultivate a devotional spirit here than in the confusion of life, and to have a deeper sense of the presence of God in the heart. Feeling is little, to be sure, unless it fortifies for action; but in the hour of trial, we find great assistance in recalling past exercises, and in spiritual as well as temporal concerns habit is a powerful coadjutor. That high-wrought state of feeling which some of the splendid appearances of nature often produce on a heart which has once felt the power of piety, is ridiculed as enthusiasm of the most dangerous kind; and I do not myself think it is any test of religious character; but as far as the enjoyment of the present moment is of any importance, what can exceed it? We are, indeed, too apt to feel that we have been on the mount, when it was but a vision which we saw; but where it does not so deceive us, nothing but a good effect can result from its indulgence. I recollect part of a description of this state of mind in Wordsworth's Excursion, which from its accuracy has remained in my mind, though I forget the scene which suggested it:—

'Sound needed none,
Nor any form of words; his spirit drank
The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form
All melted in him; they swallowed up
His animal being; in them did he live,
And by them did he live; they were his life.
In such access of mind, in such high hour
Of visitation from the living God,
Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired.
No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request.
Rapt into still communion that transcends
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise,
His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power
That made him; it was blessedness and love.'

"I have got Samor to read, because you recommend it, and am shocked to find how unfit my mind has become for every kind of application in the way of reading. I know you think I am greatly deficient in that kind of literary taste which fits one for an agreeable companion,—and I feel most sensibly that it is true. But I am fully persuaded that if the sentimental requisites of an interesting character are only to be derived from books, I must go through life the plain matter-of-fact lady I now am; it is too late for me to work a reform.

"Mary."

Not long afterward, an event occurred of no little interest and importance to Mary,—the marriage of her true friend, now Mrs. Paine, who went to reside in Worcester. In a letter dated May, 1822, we find a full expression of the thoughts and wishes caused by this event, but of too personal and private a character to be used. The letter closes with an allusion to herself, showing that she had trials and experiences of her own, not to be disclosed to the public eye. She speaks of the previous winter, as "a remarkable era, never to be forgotten. Its perplexities have passed away, but its blessings have increased and become consummated. We have all found it an important period, and to some of us the most so of life. How far it has improved us, He who searcheth the heart alone knows; but for myself, I feel that it has been a scene of more mental suffering than I ever before knew. You have seen it, and will not misunderstand me when I say that, had I been more indifferent, I should have escaped much torture. But it has been a good lesson for me."

There are few greater demands upon the exercise of a sound discretion and practical wisdom, than the giving counsel and exerting a right influence on sceptical minds. Nor is it often that such minds are willing to open themselves, and confide their doubts or indifference to a Christian friend. Unfortunately, Christians are apt to be either too careless in their conduct, or too morose in their manners and severe of judgment, to make a favorable impression on the sceptical, and win their confidence in the assurance of a generous sympathy. We dare not conjecture how much of the infidelity of the world, and the unhappiness of the unbelieving, is owing to this cause. We are sometimes driven to the fear, that Christians themselves may have as much to answer for as those whom they exclude for their unbelief, and whom they fail to impress with the power of their own faith, or the beauty of their holiness. We have many intimations that this was felt peculiarly by her of whom we write. And it is one indication of character, and of the aspect and influence of her faith, that many came to her freely with their doubts and difficulties. Some of the particular cases cannot be published.

But where no names are used in her account of them, nor a hint given of the persons intended, there can be no impropriety in offering the facts as related. The reflections with which she accompanies them may be profitable to both classes of minds, the believing and the doubting.

Under date of August, 1822, Mary writes to her former instructors in Hingham, giving with other incidents the following case of hard indifference, if not infidelity.

"This leads me to a subject upon which I want assistance. I have lately met with a person of my own age, who, though living in a Christian land, under the public dispensations of the Word, from the more powerful influence of those with whom she has lived and the want of education, is as it were wholly ignorant of what religion is, in any form, except as it is in some way connected with going to church, but without the least feeling of what that connection is. She is not deficient in strength of mind, or capacity to receive instruction on the subject, but without any idea of the necessity of any other principle of action than she already possesses; that is, a firmness of purpose proceeding from natural decision, and a patience under trial, because experience has taught the weakness and uselessness of irritation. Now this seems to me an opportunity of doing some real good. I have almost unlimited influence over her from the strong affection she feels, and, as my opportunities are few, I cannot neglect this one without reproach. But that dreadful consciousness of incapacity will place its iron hand on my wishes. I am aware that much might and ought to be done, but that much, if not every thing, depends on the first impression. She must be made to feel the necessity, in order to be excited to the pursuit of piety; and how this is to be done I know not. Never did I feel so forcibly the imperfection of the characters of Christians, as on this occasion. To be able to point to one example of the power of religion in producing that uniform loveliness of character and happiness of life of which it is capable, would do more than volumes of argument to such a mind and heart. It has made me shrink at my own unworthiness of the name I bear. Could you find a moment to assist me in this undertaking, you would confer an unspeakable kindness.

"M. L. P."

Another more decided and serious case came to her knowledge about the same time,—a case of avowed atheism, confided to her for relief, and most kindly and wisely met by her; so that, while she supposed no effect had been produced, the work was going on, and an intelligent, troubled spirit came out of darkness into marvellous light. This success, which seems to have surprised her, was apparently owing to the beauty of her own religion, and the harmony and happiness of her life, which the doubter could not fail to see, which indeed first induced the confession, and was more effectual than any formal arguments; another evidence of the power and responsibility of the Christian course and character. "What a responsibility did this trust impose on me!" Mary writes; "for I knew that no human being but myself was aware of it. It was too much to bear alone; I was unequal to it, I dared not attempt it for a time, I knew that so much depended on the very first step in such cases."

The counsellor to whom she would gladly have gone for aid, her beloved pastor, was then absent, travelling in Europe for his health. He returned the following summer; and the account she gives of that happy event, familiar as the facts may be to the readers of the Memoir of Channing, will be interesting to many, as the impression of one who saw and heard for herself.

"Dorchester, August 25, 1823.

"My Dear N——:

"I have just returned from passing the day with E——, and although it is late, and I am very tired, I cannot resist the strong desire I have to send you a few lines by her to-morrow, that I may give you some faint idea, at least, of what you would have felt, had you heard Mr. Channing yesterday. But to begin at the right end of the tale, I passed Thursday in town, and learned that Mr. Channing would possibly come in a vessel which was expected daily. On Friday I was at Nahant, and saw a ship enter the harbor which might be that. Saturday I went to Newton, and on my return was told that he had actually arrived, and was to preach the next morning. I could scarcely credit it, and it was not until my arrival at home, when I received a note from George requesting me to come in to hear him, and pass the day in Pearl Street, that I could be convinced it was actually true. I went in on Sunday morning, and with what sensations I saw the church filling, and every one looking round in anxious expectation, you may perhaps imagine; it was a feeling more of dread than pleasure, lest the first glance at his face should destroy all our hopes. He wisely waited until all had entered, and when his quick step was heard (for you might have heard a leaf fall), the whole body of people rose, as it were with one impulse, to welcome him. He was much affected by this, and it was some seconds before he could raise his head; but when he did, it made the eyes that gazed on him rejoice to see him, seated in his accustomed corner, looking round on his people with the most animated expression of joy glowing on his face, and with the evidences of improved health stamped on every feature. His skin was much burned, to be sure, which may have given him an appearance of health that did not belong to him, but the increase of his flesh and the animation of his countenance promised much.

"Mr. Dewey commenced the services as he used to do, but when, after the prayer, Mr. Channing rose and read his favorite psalm,—

'My soul, repeat His praise,
Whose mercies are so great,'

I could hardly realize that he had been absent, his voice and manner and action were so exactly like himself in his very best days. He stood through the whole psalm, and seemed to join in and enjoy every note of the music. He could not control a smile of joy. But of what followed I can tell you little. You have heard him when he felt obliged, as then, to dismiss the restraints of form, and speak freely the thoughts that filled his mind, and have perhaps often thought with others that he went too far, was too particular, too personal; but yesterday, I believe the most uninterested person present could not find fault. I thought it was the most deeply affecting address I ever heard; it was also deeply and decidedly practical. There are few occasions which will authorize a minister to excite the feelings of his audience in a very great degree, and none which can make it allowable for him to rest in mere excitement. But when their minds, from any peculiar circumstance, are particularly susceptible, I know no reason why it should not be permitted that they be addressed familiarly and affectionately on the subject of it. But you need not that I should defend Mr. Channing from the charge of egotism. You understand his motives too well to require it.

"His text was from the hundred and sixteenth Psalm: 'What shall I render unto God for all his mercies? I will offer the sacrifice of thanksgiving, I will call on the name of the Lord, I will pay my vows unto the Lord now in the presence of his people.' Returning, as he said, under such peculiar circumstances of mercy to his home and his people, he trusted no apology was necessary for waiving the common forms of the pulpit, that he might speak to his people as to his friends, that he might in the fulness of his heart utter its emotions to those who, he trusted, could understand and sympathize with them. As he slightly reviewed the views with which he left us, the mercies that had followed him, and the blessings which were showered on his return, he seemed almost overpowered with the fulness of his feelings, and I feared he would not be able to go on. But his voice rose as he said, 'And now what shall I render for all these benefits? I will first pay my vows unto Him, whose mighty arm hath been stretched out to save, whose never failing love hath everywhere attended me.' The ascription of praise which followed was more truly sublime than any thing I ever heard or read. His solemn dedication of his renewed life to the service of Him who had borne him in safety over the great deep, who had sustained him in sickness, comforted him in affliction, and crowned all his gifts by giving him strength to return to his duties, was almost too much to bear. It was a testimony to the power of religion, which spoke more loudly than all the books that ever were written to prove it. But he meant not to speak of his past experiences merely to relieve his own heart; he had but one great object in view, the good of his people, and he would not lose sight of that even when the fulness of his own feelings might almost be allowed to engage his whole mind. He could not be expected to enumerate all that he had learned during his absence, but one thing he could assure us; that at every step, under all circumstances, in every country, and with every variety of character, he had become more and more convinced of the value and necessity of the Christian revelation."

The last of that succession of bereavements which Mary was so early called to meet, and by which she was left as alone in the world, was now at hand. Since the death of her mother, in 1812, when there devolved mainly upon her, at the age of fourteen, the care of a dispirited and feeble father, and two aged grandparents, with other members of the family in a most trying condition, she had lived either in the sick-room, or in a press of domestic cares and business avocations. That these often made a severer demand upon her strength and patience, as well as affection, than any one knew at the time, or indeed ever knew, appears from various intimations in her letters and life. And all this was now to be brought to a crisis by the death of her father, leaving her without one near relative, or proper home. They had been boarding for some time in Dorchester, in the family of Mr. Barnard; where she received, as she says, "the greatest kindness and affection,"—and she felt the need of it. But let her give the circumstances in her own words.

Boston, November 1, 1823.

"My dear Friend:—

"I have been wishing this whole week to find time to write you, but it has been wholly impracticable. I have been in a perpetual agitation from sundry unexpected occurrences and continual interruptions from visitors. In fact, at no moment of my whole existence have I more wanted your counsel and sympathy. You know it is my lot to be assailed in more than one direction if in any, and it has been more remarkably the case now than ever.... I thank you most sincerely for your two good letters; it was more than I dared expect, and it was a cordial to me to receive the kind expression of your sympathy, though I should not have doubted its existence without it. You say you 'have heard but little of me,' and it was scarcely possible that you should hear of the immediate circumstances that attended my trial. It was so sudden that I was, as it were, alone, and I have feared that, in indulging myself in writing to you of it, I should give way too far, and distress and weary you. I have realized more than I ever did in any of the various changes I have met with, that 'the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb,' and even in the very extremity of trial we can be strengthened to support all with calmness.

"For the first three days of my father's sickness he seemed to have only a severe cold and slightly disordered stomach, and though I had called Dr. Thaxter, it was more to satisfy him that the medicine I gave was necessary for him, than from any doubt that I could do all that was needed; for he had often appeared more sick, and I had administered to him without any advice. On the morning of the fourth he appeared to be a little wandering, but remained quiet until night, when he was very violent for two or three hours; and the following day I was told by the physician that nothing but a miracle could preserve his life until the next morning. I heard it calmly, I believe because I could not realize it. He did not seem to be conscious that he was sick; he did all that I asked him to, but did not seem to know me. I soon found that the doctor's prediction was but too true, for symptoms of decay increased very rapidly, and at three the next morning he breathed his last, as a child would go to sleep. Not a struggle indicated the approach of the destroyer. I held his hand, and gazed at him until I was taken from him senseless. No one was with me but Mr. B——, and Mr. E——, his son-in-law. I recovered myself in a few moments and found Mr. E—— fainting; this obliged me instantly to rouse myself to action, which was all mercifully disposed, and I sat down quietly with them for the remainder of the night, giving directions when any thing passed my mind, or remaining silent, knowing all would be done just as I wished.

"It would have seemed dreadful to me had I anticipated passing through such a scene with only two gentlemen, who a few months before were perfect strangers to me; but it never passed my mind that I was not with my nearest friends. I could not in volumes tell you of all their kindness. It was one of the striking testimonies of God's merciful care of me, that He placed me with them. Indeed, His goodness towards me has been most wonderful, and above all, that He has enabled me to feel it continually; even in the awful stillness of that night I never lost sight of it. I could feel as it were His arm beneath me; and I can truly say I never experienced that fulness of heavenly peace which results from undeviating confidence in Him, which I then did. It was an hour of peculiar elevation which I can never forget, and which I trust will ever be a source of unfailing support, as it must be of gratitude. What beside could have sustained me amidst its horrors? All that I could call my own was departing from me, and I was standing as it were alone in the universe; but I felt that I was the object of His care who was all-sufficient, and I found in that consciousness a calmness which nothing could move. I stood firm and erect, though the storms of life seemed to have concentrated their power to overthrow me, and I felt that the Power which enabled me to do this would never forsake me, for it was not my own. We may talk of the resolution and fortitude which some possess, but what would it all be at such an hour? Nothing,—less than nothing. I gave up all reliance upon myself, or I should have utterly failed. Every thing was directed with the utmost mercy. Even his unconsciousness, which I thought at first I could not bear, was a mercy to him, for how much was he spared by it; he could not have left me alone without a severe struggle.

"I am now fixed for the winter, and shall soon feel, I doubt not, as much at home as it is possible for me to feel; and if the greatest kindness and affection that ever were shown to any human being can make me happy, I shall be so, for I have it.

"With love, I am yours,
"M. L. P."

VI.

VISIT ABROAD.

Mary Pickard was now alone. Every member of her own family had gone, and she had witnessed and smoothed the passage of every one. She had only entered mature life, but her twenty-five years of experience and change had been equal to double that period of common life. Already had she learned the great truth, which to many comes late, if at all,—

"We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial."

Heretofore she had always had an object to live for,—some one dependent upon her affection and exertions, to whom it was happiness enough to minister. Now there was no one; and we wonder not that she said, "I seem to hang so loosely on the world, that it is of little importance where I am." It was indeed a singular providence which at this moment opened to her an entirely new field, yet one wholly congenial with her tastes and wishes.

Her only relatives on the father's side were in England, connections whom she had seen only as a child twenty years before, but had always hoped to see again. And not for her own gratification only, but that she might be of service, if possible, to those who were in depressed and obscure condition, as some of them were. This consideration, which would have offered least inducement to most young minds, perhaps have kept them away, was an incentive to Mary, and gave her a right to find in the opportunity a duty as well as a pleasure; especially as the occasion given her was itself an opportunity to serve an invalid friend. The circumstances will appear in the following letters to Miss Cushing and Mrs. Paine.

"Boston, March 8, 1824.

"My dear Miss Cushing:—

"If sorrow for sin is any ground for forgiveness, I trust you will grant it to me, for my shameful neglect of you. Do not think that forgetfulness or want of interest has led to this; you know me, I trust, better than to believe that, and you know my faults too well not to be able to account for it, from my too deeply rooted habit of procrastinating. Often during the past winter have I thought, if I could only see you, I should be sure to find the guidance and sympathy which I have longed for; but when I thought of writing to you, I felt the selfishness of troubling you with my own perplexities, knowing that, as my mind was so much occupied by them, I could not compensate you for it by any other communications I could make. The last six months have indeed brought to me a constant struggle of feeling. Left as I was to choose my own path on the wide ocean of life, with health, strength, and some means of influence, the responsibility which it imposed to use to the best possible advantage the powers that God had given me, to promote the end for which I knew they were given, was almost overpowering,—and at times I would have given myself up willingly to the control of any one who would relieve me from the burden. I have experienced in so many striking ways the great goodness of God in giving me light to guide, and strength to sustain me in hours of trial, that it is, I know, but practical infidelity to doubt for one moment that his protecting influence will still be extended towards me, if I try my utmost to attain a knowledge of duty, and persevere to my best ability in the path which conscience dictates. But the difficulty is, that, though in great events where we see at once that no human power can aid us we cannot but acknowledge that He is sufficient for all things, we are too apt to lose sight of this truth in cases in which human agency must be exerted, forgetting that God is as surely the operating cause in one case as the other. When it appears that our fate may be determined by a single word which we feel the power of uttering, we can scarcely help thinking that upon our own heads must be all the consequences which may follow; and thinking thus, we must realize our weakness and insufficiency.

"All this has been preying upon my mind, and its effects have been deplorably contracting to my thoughts. I have, indeed, been outwardly much occupied by various pursuits, trying to do something for others, but my thinking has been nearly all for myself. This is my only excuse for not writing you more, and I think with this specimen you will be satisfied that I have not before attempted it. I believe that all the events that befall us are exactly such as are best adapted to improve us; and I find, in a perfect confidence in the wisdom and love which I know directs them, a source of peace which no other thing can give; and in the difficulty I find in acting upon this belief I see a weakness of nature, which those very trials are designed to assist us in overcoming, and which trial alone can conquer. Whatever is in store for me, I trust that I shall not forget that the first and only important object of existence is to promote, as far as my powers may extend, the cause of holiness. That every one, however humble their station and limited their capacity, has some power to do this, I doubt not, as I find in every line of God's word a command to do so; and I pray that my feeble efforts may be fully devoted to this end.

---

"March 15. What changes a few days may produce in one's prospects! Little could I think, a week ago, that the conclusion of this letter was to tell you, that in less than another week I should be floating on the vast ocean, on my way to England. But so it is, and I hope that the suddenness of the determination to go has not shut from my eyes any very important consideration against it. It seems to me like a dream, for it is only in my dreams that I have ever thought of it as a possibility. I have wished to see my relations there, having always kept up a constant correspondence with them, and felt very much interested in them; but since my father's death, I have viewed the accomplishment of this wish as an impossibility. But now that so good an opportunity has offered, I cannot hesitate to accept it. I seem to hang so loosely on the world, that it is of little importance where I am, as it regards duties, and it is an advantage to enlarge one's ideas, which I feel ought to be improved. To tell you all that I feel at leaving home would be impossible; it is a most solemn undertaking, and when I glance at the possibilities connected with such a step, it almost overwhelms me.

"I wish I could see every one of you once more. My heart is indeed too full to tell you half that I wish.

"Yours most affectionately,
"M. L. P"

"Boston, March 13, 1824.

"My dear N——:

"I have been sitting many minutes with my pen in my hand and paper before me, trying to bring to myself sufficient resolution to tell you the new and surprising turn which has taken place in my wayward destiny. I have been so long the creature of circumstances that you must be prepared for changes of all kinds in my lot; but I know not how it will strike you when you learn for truth, that in one week from to-morrow I sail for England. I thought that I was entirely willing to go, but as I find myself telling you of it, and think that it is utterly impossible for me to see you again, my heart sinks within me, and I almost shrink from it. In fact, this is the first moment I have realized it. I knew nothing of it until the day before yesterday, when Edward Robbins sent to me, to say that his physicians and friends advised his taking a voyage, and that, if I could go with him, it would decide him to take their advice. I had thought of the subject so much, that I was prepared at once to answer. It is a very desirable thing for me to visit the few relations which I have there, and I could never give up the expectation and endeavor to accomplish it. My dependent state was the only barrier, as I could never go unless under the protection of one of the few male friends from whom I should be willing to receive such an obligation, and it was so unlikely that either of those few would ever think of going, that I had but little hope I should ever realize my wishes. But this proposition at once removed all difficulties. Our families have been so long connected, and Edward himself has been so particularly kind to me through life, and more than ever since I have been without a parent's protection, and is in every respect so exactly calculated to make one feel willing and happy to be under obligation, that I could not but feel that now was the time (if ever) for me to accomplish this great object. Doubts about the sufficiency of my means, and some scruples about my right to employ them in this way, made me hesitate a few hours; but in less than four I decided, with the advice of all whom it was necessary to consult, that it was right to improve the present, as all future opportunities were uncertain. That it cost me a deep inward struggle to make my feelings acquiesce, you will not doubt. The first day I felt like a child. I could not glance even at the reasons which favored my going without sad and overpowering retrospection, and the thought of the uncertainty of the result, the thousand possibilities involved in such a change, almost turned my brain; and yet every one was wondering how I could look so composed and keep so still. It is singular how much little things sometimes concur to aid us. It was Thursday, and I was just going to lecture, as Mr. Robbins came in with his proposal. I went still, and Mr. Walker gave us one of the most delightful, strengthening sermons upon the influence of the Spirit, and the all-sufficiency of trust in its guidance, that I ever heard in my life. I believe no other subject could have fixed my attention, and it did fix it most effectually.

"I know it is utterly impossible that I should see you, therefore I will not dwell for a moment on the thought. I have, of course, a great deal to think about, although little personal preparation; but I must leave every thing in which I have the least concern just as I should wish if I was certain I should never return. God only knows what the future will bring to me, but I hope to find myself wholly willing to yield myself to the disposal of his providence. We think of these changes for others, and feel little doubt about their safety, but when the case becomes our own, it is another thing. To embark on the wide ocean in a little, frail vessel with perfect calmness, requires a firmness of faith of which no one can boast until they have stood the test. I have no fear of it now, and I trust I shall find that the ground of confidence in the all-powerful God, which the experience of my life has given me, will be sufficient to support me in all events. I am willing to be put to the test, for if all that I think I feel is but delusion, I had better discover the delusion before it is too late.

"We have taken passage in the Emerald. If I feel alone here, I don't know what I shall do in a land of strangers. We go to Liverpool, and probably immediately to London from there. I go with very moderate hopes about seeing the wonders and beauties. I must be satisfied with seeing people, not things. I shall have no right to travel much, and shall have no advantages not common to the most insignificant; nevertheless, if I can attain my principal object, all the rest will be unexpected gain. It is most probable we shall be gone a year, but it is possible we may return in the fall.

"What a variety for one poor soul in the last four months! It absolutely makes me giddy to think of it all. But what a source of comfort is it, that in all things I have sought guidance where I believe it is ever freely given; and I do believe, whatever is the event of all this, it must be the direction of Him who knows and governs all things I must not write more.

"Yours most affectionately,
"M. L. P."

A particular friend in Milton, one of the truest and noblest friends that Mary or any one ever had, describes her as at this time "worn to the bone" with care and trial; and then breaks forth in praise of her, in unmeasured terms; adding, "Yet, with all this superiority, where is the other being on whom any poor fool can repose with such trust and confidence, as on her? My meanest thought is not checked in the utterance, because her mind is so flexible it stoops to the lowest. I am only afraid of adoring her, so I may as well hold my peace." This was said in earnest, and is one of many expressions of admiration and affection called out by her departure.

Of her progress and occupations abroad, our knowledge is drawn exclusively from her own letters. These, therefore, we shall use freely, leaving them to show their connection as far as they can, and make their own impression; begging the reader to remember, however, that they were all written in the haste of travelling or the fatigues of watching, and that their literary merit or public appearance was the last thought to occur to the mind of the writer. She wrote a great deal, and we confine our selection chiefly to passages relating to personal experience, rather than descriptions of places or works of art. For these last she allowed herself little time, though keenly alive to the enjoyment of all grandeur and beauty, and giving passing indications of her power of appreciating and delineating.

Arriving in Liverpool in April, she was made to feel at home immediately, by the kindness and sympathy of a kindred mind, in one to whom Dr. Channing had given her a letter, and whose name and sad fate are familiar to many,—Mrs. Freme, daughter of the Rev. Dr. Wells, who settled in Brattleboro', Vermont, where she afterward perished by fire. Mary's account of her interview with that excellent woman is characteristic, as her first interest in a new country.

"London, April 19, 1824.

"In Liverpool, I went with Mrs. Freme to visit the Female Penitentiary, and took a long walk with her. She had relinquished an engagement out of town to go with me, and I know not that I ever felt more grateful to a stranger in my life. She is an uncommonly sensible, kind woman, extremely interested in the encouragement of all good works, a warm Unitarian, and a truly liberal, benevolent Christian. I never enjoyed any thing in my life more than the conversation I had with her. I had begun to feel the want of that free intercourse upon those subjects upon which we can speak only to those who we are sure are equally interested in them; and in a strange land, to meet with one who not only entered fully into every thing I wished to say, but carried me on to higher, more improving and elevated thoughts, was indeed a privilege."

"London, May 6, 1824.

"My dear Ann:—

"It was a great deprivation to me to be unable to write at sea. I hoped to have had a large packet for the many kind friends who aided and blessed my departure, expressing something of the gratitude which overpowered me. I have sometimes feared that you thought me insensible to it all, for I dared not try to utter even a word of what I felt lest I should lose my self-possession entirely, and trouble them more than my thanks would please them. God alone knows how fully I appreciated it all, and when I look back upon the period which elapsed after my father's death until I left you, I know not how to speak my astonishment that such a one as myself should have been so signally favored. For your Aunt Nancy I can only say her reward must be beyond this world; nothing that I or any one here can do, is adequate to it. Never was a human being so blessed with kind friends, and could I feel that I had been as grateful as I ought to have been, I should be happy. But the entire absorption of every thought in self, during the past winter, is now a subject of much reproach.

"I had time to think of all this during the long days and wakeful nights on the voyage, and I do assure you I took a new view of every thing connected with it. Whether it was the absence of every thing else to interest my mind, or the natural increase of our attachment to all objects when we are going from them, I know not, but there were moments of acute agony, when I thought of the return I had made for the kindness manifested towards me. How often I longed to be for a little time on the little stool in the drawing-room, giving utterance to my spirit! There was so little in the monotony of sea-life to interrupt the train of one's thoughts, that I could not sometimes get rid of an idea which possessed me, and I often woke up, wearied with the continuation of one and the same dream, night after night. But I did enjoy a great deal at sea, there was so much to elevate the mind in the very situation; and the want of confidence which I felt from the first evening in the head of the concern tended most powerfully to raise my thoughts above all second causes, to the One Great Cause and Supporter of all things. Never did I so deeply feel our entire dependence upon the power of God, never did I so fully realize the impotence of human skill, as when I saw it contending with the winds; and yet there was something ennobling in the idea, that human skill had contrived and taught to guide such a vehicle as a ship upon the trackless waste of waters; and while we trace all this power to the original source of it, we cannot but feel that He has given to us a noble nature. Often when the sea was rising in immense waves on every side, and the ship tossed about as though it were but a little shell which the waters would soon overwhelm, have I felt as I never before did the immense value of that religion which was able to calm all fears, and raise the mind to a state even of enjoyment, under such terrific circumstances. What but a firm confidence that, whether we live or die, or whatever event befall us, it is in Infinite Wisdom that it is so, can give this composure? Shall we not then hold fast and cherish such a faith? shall we not seek to understand its nature, and endeavor with our whole hearts to ingraft its principles upon our characters?

"Tell me as much about Mr. Channing and his sermons as you can. I went to chapel on Sunday with Mrs. Kinder, but heard very poor preaching, to very poor houses. But Mr. Channing told me just what to expect, therefore I was prepared for it. Poor as it was, however, the delight of finding myself once more in a place of public worship overbalanced all, and when I heard the same tunes sung to the same words which I had heard in Federal Street, it was a little more than I could bear firmly. I am charmed with the whole Kinder family; they are too literary to make me feel able to communicate the least pleasure, on account of my ignorance upon all literary subjects, but they are every thing that is kind, and very agreeable, and I find a good lesson for my humility when I am there.

"Mary."

"London, May 26, 1824.

"My dear Friends:—

"For the first four weeks I resisted all the entreaties of my cousins to go to them, because Dr. R—— was so depressed and ill, and it was so bad for Mrs. R—— to be left alone. But the third week Dr. R—— improved very much in health, and somewhat in spirits. And though he offered me many great inducements to accompany them to Leamington, I could not think it quite right to do so, as my society would not be as necessary to them as it had been, and they were going to a fashionable watering-place. I had seen nothing of my own friends, and as Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Morton had asked me to stay with them when I first arrived, I took the liberty of accepting their invitation for a few days.

"I believe I told you I had a kind letter from Uncle Ben, and have since had a visit from his son, who heard of our arrival, and came up the next day, in true Lovell style, to take me home with him to Waltham Abbey, near Enfield.

"Through the kindness of Mr. Kinder's family I have had many privileges. By their intercession I have been admitted to Newgate, and though Mrs. Fry was not there, I was very much gratified. I met with a young Quakeress, who was rather handsome, was very intelligent and kind, and has been very attentive to me. Mrs. Fry is too much out of health to go often, but I am to be informed by my little friend when she next goes.

"Walking to Newington with the Kinders, to return a call, they asked me if I would go with them to see Mrs. Barbauld. To be sure, it made my heart beat, but I could not say no. It was indeed a privilege, and I wish I could tell you all about it. She spoke with great feeling of those of our ministers whom she had seen,—Buckminster, Thacher, and Channing. Having never seen Mr. Thacher's sermons, I had the honor of sending them to her, and of writing her a note. A note to Mrs. Barbauld! What presumption! Yet I was asked afterward to dine with her. She is remarkably bright for her age, speaks of death with the firmest hope, and I really felt as if I were communing with a spiritual body. Though now eighty-two, she possesses all her faculties in full perfection. Her manner is peculiarly gentle, her voice low, and very sweet.

"I went with the Kinders to see some rich Quakers, who are very active in the school concern, and also to a meeting of the British and Foreign School Society, where I saw the Duke of Sussex, and heard some fine speaking. They go upon the Lancaster and Bell system, and truly wonderful is their success and usefulness. I have heard Madame Catalani, and some of the finest singers, at a concert at the Opera House, and was as much amazed as it was possible to be, notwithstanding all I had heard. But some of those with less power pleased me more. No one can equal her, or be compared with her. Braham sung with her, with a full band, and her voice was heard above all; it is tremendous, for the house is immense, and she entirely filled it. At a meeting of the Sons of the Clergy at St. Paul's, I heard some very fine sacred music. About thirty little boys sang the high parts, and chanted the responses. The church was very full. The Duke of Clarence, Lord Mayor, and a goodly company of the dignitaries of the Church, filled the seats of honor. Nothing could be more solemn than the whole scene, and when at parts of the service the whole congregation joined in the chant, the dome rung with the sound, and one almost looked to see if the statues around were not roused.

"Do you fear that my head is growing giddy, with all this variety? At present there is no danger. My thoughts turn too often homeward, to be very much engrossed by any thing here, and my heart will feel sad when I think of the time which must elapse ere I see it again."

"Broadwater, Worthing, June 11, 1824.

"My dear Cousin:—

"On Saturday, the 29th, I received a letter from Dr. R—— saying that Leamington did not agree with him, that Mrs. R—— was quite unwell, and they begged, if possible, that I would come to them the next day, with some plan of proceeding for them, for he felt wholly unable to decide what to do. After some debate with Mrs. S—— I concluded that it was a duty to give up all my own views, and do what I could for him, as there was no one else who could assist them in this land of strangers. Accordingly I wrote him that I would join them on Tuesday, as it was not in my power to make such an entire change in my arrangements before. I had just prepared on Monday to start, when another letter arrived, saying they should be in London at night.

"We propose going from here to the Isle of Wight, and round to the western part of England, Bristol, Bath, and Wales. I hope on the way to have a peep at Mrs. McAdam, who is now at Plymouth, for it is rather tantalizing for us to be kept so long separated. I would not have believed that any thing would have kept me so long from my friends after I had found myself in England. But it is well to be obliged to control our selfishness in England, as elsewhere. The little I have seen of my relations has only increased my desire to know them and be loved by them. My reception at Uncle Ben's was more like that which I hope to have at home, than any thing I could have expected in this strange land. He is a warm-hearted old man, with all the best of the Lovell feelings in full vigor. He was very much attached to my mother, and retains a stronger interest in his Transatlantic relations than I could have thought possible after an absence of fifty years. He was very much overcome at seeing me, and wept over me like a child. They demand three months, at least, from me, but I am afraid I shall not have half that time for them. You don't know how delightful it was to be among people who seemed so like my own home friends."

"Broadwater, June 11, 1824.

"My dear Ann:—

"You have been sorely afflicted indeed, doubtless for some good purpose. I am rejoiced to find by your letter that you are disposed to view it so, and improve by the chastisement. I hope it will lead the way to a more free communication with our good minister. It is a great privilege, and one which ought to be improved. I have learned since I have been here to estimate our advantages in this and all other religious affairs, as I could never have done at home. In London, it seems to me that there is no more connection between minister and people, in the Established Church, than if they had no influence whatever to exercise; and among the Dissenters I have met with, the case is not much better. They are so scattered, and wander about so much, that it is difficult to have much intercourse, or keep up much interest among them....

"I have heard but one sermon since I have been in this country which made the least impression upon my mind, and that was from one from whom I expected nothing that would satisfy me. This was Mr. Irving, whom Mr. Channing mentioned as the popular favorite in London. He is a most singular-looking Scotchman, a pupil of Dr. Chalmers, and now so much the fashion, that tickets of admission are sold, to enable those who wish to hear him to go in before the hour when the doors are thrown open. Even in this way it is like the theatre of a Kean night, and for two hours before the service commences the crowd is immense. His manner is very like Kean's, most impassioned, and when he commenced I turned from him in disgust. But there was that in the subject and substance of the sermon which made me forget the manner in which it was delivered. It was, I understood, one of the least flowery of his productions. I shall never forget it, I think; but I would not be obliged to go to such a place for the best sermons that ever were written. It was just like the theatre or some great exhibition.

"You cannot think how I long, when the Sabbath comes round, to have an ear in Federal Street. I find, as Mr. Channing warned me, that travelling is a sad enemy to the cultivation of religious knowledge and improvement; it does so derange the regularity of one's habits of thinking and acting. The day is too confused, and the nights too wearied. But there is much in the experience of every day to excite a strong sense of gratitude to that Providence whose care is extended over us in all places; in the consciousness which we must have, even when the idea of separation from those we love presses most heavily upon us, that there is One, ever present, whose love for us is infinite. Yet it is not of feelings that I ought to speak; I could fill volumes with the variety of thoughts which every day suggests, but I am learning to do without the communication of them."

From Broadwater the party of four went to the Isle of Wight, and made the usual circuit, in their little open carriage, through that charming region, "with nothing wanting but health, and with that deficiency all was a blank." Dr. R—— was too unwell to enjoy any thing, and Mary herself, for a wonder, speaks of suffering from a cough which she had had a month. But it did not prevent her from making what she calls "a break-neck excursion" up a precipice of about four hundred feet, at the southern part of the island. Of the country she gives a glowing description, for which we have not room. On leaving the island, Dr. R—— found it necessary to return to Broadwater for medical advice, and Mary, who had arranged to meet some of her relations at Plymouth at this time, readily, though not without regret, gave up her own plans, and went back with the family to Broadwater. The place had little interest for her, and she writes of "useless idleness" as a new thing to her, and uncomfortable. But others did not think her presence useless, nor did she fail to find employment. From the wife of the clergyman, who had lately established schools in the parish on a new plan, she learned a good deal of the national system of education. After a short time, Dr. R—— determined to go to Paris, and she accompanied him. But of Paris itself she saw very little, being chiefly devoted to the care of her friend. And except for him, she had no wish to be there. "It may seem strange," she writes, "that I should not wish to see Paris, but the pleasure of every thing depends upon the circumstances which immediately surround us. Yet I am very glad I came, for, though I cannot be of much use, any one is better than none."

Their stay in Paris was short. In view of all considerations, Dr. R—— found it best to return at once to America, and sailed that same month from Havre, Mary remaining to make her visit to her friends in England. Her next letters are from Chatham.

"Chatham, September 7, 1824.

"My dear Ann:—

"You may easily suppose that my sensations at leaving Havre were not the most cheering. I knew that I could have been of but little comfort to our friends on the voyage, but I could not help wishing that it had been so ordered that I might have returned with them. There was something, too, so very lonely in the idea of being left in a strange land, with no chance of escape for a certain length of time, even if my friends should take it into their heads to dislike me; and worse than all, under my own sole direction, to govern myself and my actions only by my own judgment. Indeed, I did feel as though I should almost shrink from the effort it required; but this did not trouble me long. I thought of the mercies of my past life, the great goodness and preserving care which had 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."

VII.

SCENES OF SUFFERING.

Very different from its beginning was the termination of the pleasant tour through Scotland. Mary felt it a duty to suppress all longings to go on with her good friend, who was soon to leave the country. Gladly would she have returned with her to America at once. But the great purpose, certainly one of the chief objects, for which she had gone abroad, was not yet accomplished. Her father's only sister, who had been left a widow in a very destitute condition, was still living in a distant and obscure village of Yorkshire. Mr. Pickard had made an annual provision for her support while he lived, and his daughter determined to carry out his intentions, so far as she could. Yet she felt that no aid in her power to send would be as much to her poor aunt as a visit, and she had been anxiously looking for an escort to the place, which was so remote as to make it hardly prudent for a lady and a stranger to venture alone. She was therefore the more ready to accompany her friends to Scotland, as on their return they would go within eighty miles of Osmotherly, her aunt's residence. Accordingly she parted from them at Penrith, and went the rest of the way alone.

The visit that followed forms the most remarkable, and in some respects the most interesting and important, chapter in the story of her life. Instead of three weeks, which she had set apart for this purpose, she remained three months at Osmotherly. And it is not the least noticeable fact in that experience, that she wrote on the spot a very full account of the whole, in the midst of cares and the sight and sound of sufferings which are ordinarily allowed to excuse, if they do not wholly prevent, any use of the pen or effort of mind. But we will not anticipate. Nor will we interrupt the narrative, which we have drawn from various letters, by any comments of our own.

"Osmotherly, September 2, 1825.

"My dear Emma:—

"I wish I could relieve your mind about my undertaking and prospects as quickly as my own was set at rest. I will not recapitulate all or any thing that I felt at parting from you yesterday, but you know me well enough to believe that it was with no common degree of regret and anxiety, which the uncertainty of the path before me tended not a little to increase. But I did recollect that I had never yet been forsaken in any difficulty; supposing the worst, there could be no fear of real evil, and anxiety and distrust only made all that real which might after all be merely imaginary. In order to obtain the quiet feeling which this view of things should create, I turned my attention to my fellow-passenger, who proved a very respectable, well-informed woman, and my only companion to North Allerton. Her experiences helped to make me more comfortable, for she had come from London alone, travelled all night, and had a very long distance farther to go. She said she found no difficulty in travelling alone, and gave me some useful hints upon the subject. Our route lay over a different road from that by which we approached York, and as the day was so fine, we had a more tolerable ride than I expected. At North Allerton I found a quiet room at the inn, and a civil landlady,—went directly to the post-office, where a long and delightful letter from Jane McAdam awaited me. Not a word there of my aunt's letter, and I then went to a gentleman, through whom I had formerly transmitted letters to her, and found that he had sent the day before a letter from her to me, and that she was then well. This set me quite at ease, and I took a chaise and rode hither with a comparatively light heart. And then I wished it had so chanced that you could have taken this ride with me, for a more beautiful one I have seldom seen. This town lies upon one of those hills which we saw at a distance towards the east the day we rode from Richmond; and the ride from North Allerton is a gradual ascent, giving at every step a more extended view of the rich country which we passed through, with the additional beauty of numberless little streams which we could not see, and highly cultivated hills rising on one side to a great height.

"I found my aunt much better than I expected, and, as you may suppose, almost overpowered with joy to see me. I did wish you could have seen her,—a small, thin old lady, with a pale complexion, like Aunt Whipple, and the very brightest black eyes, which sparkle when she speaks with a degree of animation almost amusing in such an old lady. She lives in a comfortable little two-story cottage of four rooms, which far exceeds any thing I ever saw for neatness. I find that I could not have come at a better time to do good, or a worse for gaining spirits. My aunt's two daughters are married and live in this village; one of them, with three children, has a husband at the point of death with a fever; his brother died yesterday of the small-pox, and two of her children have the whooping-cough; added to this, their whole dependence is upon their own exertions, which are of course entirely stopped now. One of the children, a year and a half old, is with the grandmother, but so ill with the cough that she is almost sick with taking care of it. It has fortunately taken a fancy to me at once, and I can relieve her a little. But worse than all, one of her sons had come home in a very gloomy state of mind, and all her efforts had failed to rouse him to exertion. I hope to be more successful, for he seems willing to listen to me. You may suppose, under such a state of things, I shall find enough to do. My aunt's mind is in a much better state than I expected, and if she does not get worn out with care to do more for me than ever was done for any body before, I shall be most thankful that I came. She tells me of many neighboring places which it would interest me to visit, as resorts of my dear father, and I think, next week, if possible to get a vehicle, I shall take her off upon a jaunt round the country for a few days, in home style, driving myself.

"I have not seen half the multitude of cousins that I find are to be seen, but so far they are kind and affectionate, and disposed to make me comfortable and happy. I feel just like a child who has left home for the first time; the change is so sudden and so great, that the last eight weeks seem to me very like a dream of some distant age, and a most interesting one too. I never was more thankful for the varieties of life through which I have passed, for without actual experience I never could have adapted myself to the new order of beings I now have to deal with. I shall find full employment for my fingers, in making my poor aunt as comfortable as I wish to leave her.

"Yours,
"M. L. P."

"Osmotherly, September 8, 1825.

"My dear Emma:—

"Watching all night by a death-bed is but a poor preparation for writing; and yet I am not willing to lose the first leisure moment that I have had since I wrote you, lest you should be alarmed at my long silence. But I think, from the account I gave you of the state of affairs here, you will naturally conclude that I should have had constant occupation, and will not be uneasy about me. I have indeed found quite as much employment for mind and body as either were able to perform, and have not had one moment to devote to you, although my heart has been with you, and my thoughts have often followed you. The poor sick man, of whom I told you, has been growing worse daily, and it was with feelings of almost joy that I last night closed his eyes, knowing that his sufferings were at an end; and yet he is so great a loss to his family, that I seldom knew a case in which it was so difficult to feel that 'it is right.' His wife, who is but a slender woman, is left with three little boys, without a penny to support them, and almost without the power of gaining it, for the youngest, which is but three weeks old, is dreadfully ill with the whooping-cough. She is a calm and patient sufferer, however, and it does one good to see how trouble can be borne by the most unlettered and uninformed, when the spirit is right. I have not been able to do much for him, but the little baby has been my constant care, and I have got to loving it dearly. Every thing around me is sad and sorrowful, and nothing but the effort, which it is absolutely necessary for me to make, to cheer and assist others, gives me the least pleasure. My poor aunt, weakened in mind and body by continued and most severe afflictions, is almost a child; her son is nearly insane, and keeps her in constant fear lest he may destroy himself; and the trials of this poor daughter are enough to break her heart. Another of my cousins is well married, and wishes me to be with her at her quiet and happy home; but I cannot think of deserting this post, however painful, for any prospect of ease to myself. In fact, it seems to me that posts of difficulty are my appointed lot and my element, for I do feel lighter and happier when I have difficulties to overcome. Could you look in upon me, you would think it was impossible that I could be even tolerably comfortable, and yet I am cheerful, and get on as easily as possible, and am in truth happy.

"This village is the most primitive place I ever was in, and a very obscure, out-of-the way place; the inhabitants almost entirely of one class, and that of the poorer kind of laboring people, ignorant as possible, but simple and social. You may conceive of their simple manners, when I tell you they 'never saw such a lady as Miss Pickard' among them before; and of course Miss Pickard is an object of as much curiosity and speculation as if she were Empress of all the Russias; but they are kind-hearted and civil. The peculiar situation of things has taken me more among them than I should have been in twice the time, under common circumstances, and it has been a good exercise for my faculty of adaptation. I have succeeded, I believe, in pleasing them, for it seems as if they only vied with each other in trying to do the most for me, and I really think, if they had a parson to write the 'Annals of their Parish,' the arrival of the 'American lady' would stand as the most remarkable event in the year 1825. This amuses me, and gives me an opportunity of doing much good with little trouble, for it gives me influence; and, moreover, it shows me human nature under a new form. But I am entirely destitute of every thing like companionship, and having had so much in this way lately with you, of the most satisfactory and delightful kind, you will readily believe that I must feel a great deficiency. There is not even a clergyman's family for me to associate with, for the curate of the place is of the very worst class of that set whose existence is a standing disgrace to the Church; an ignorant, drinking man, as careless and negligent of the duties of his station as if he considered it of no consequence whatever. I hope to have a little leisure soon, and then reading and writing will make up to me in some measure for the loss of society; but as yet I have literally had to work hard, and have not found time even to look at 'the journal.' I have a nice, little, quiet room, however, and feel quite at home in it.

"I have thought much, very, very much, of your voyage back without me. I will not say I regret the circumstances which have led to my disappointment, for it seemed to be my appointed path, and when one follows the dictates of conscience it must be right; and when it is right, why should we wish it otherwise? But I am weak, and there are times when the thought of another six, perhaps nine, months' absence from home, with all the uncertainties which attend the future, makes my heart sink, and the tear start, in spite of myself. Yet it could not be otherwise; it would have been wrong to have neglected coming here. I am more convinced of this now than ever, for though it was said that I could do as much good by sending money as by coming myself, I do not think so; and though I may be thought foolishly scrupulous for subjecting myself to the evils I must meet with here, when I might have avoided them, I am sure I never could have felt satisfied that all was done for my poor aunt as well as it could be, unless I had seen and managed it. But I am allowing myself in talking of self in a most unwarrantable manner; you will pardon me, in consideration of the difficulty of giving up at once the habit of self-indulgence which your kindness has created and fixed."

"Osmotherly, September 10, 1825.

"My dear Emma:—

"I do not mean to act modest and beg a compliment for it, but in sober truth you do overrate me. Just because you happen to have seen more deeply into my 'inner man' than you are wont to do with others, and have your feelings strongly interested, you let them carry you off, upon their liberal and expanded wings, to a region of romance peopled by ideal spirits with which you identify your poor friend Mary, who has in truth no business there. But I do indeed rejoice, if the experience which God in his goodness has given me has been in any measure useful. I do consider it a privilege to have learned so much of His character and will as in the wisdom of His providence He has enabled me to do, though it has been by fiery trial. I feel responsible for the right use of such a privilege, not only for my own, but others' good; and if in the fulness of my heart I have been tempted to show you more of myself than a cooler judgment would have approved, I trust that it may not have been without its advantages to both; to me, in teaching a lesson of humility; to you, as a warning, perhaps. But I must not yield to this propensity to egotism; I have too much beside to talk about.

"Our poor man was buried yesterday, and, as clergymen rarely come here, my cousin thought she would have her infant christened on the same day. It was a most affecting sight. I stood as its godmother at her request, because I could not refuse her at such a time; but it is too great a responsibility to be lightly taken. The child, however, cannot live, for it has begun already to have fits with its cough.

"September 12. In three days you are to be gone from the country, and I shall not have this means of communicating. Dear Emma, you cannot tell how much I shall miss you. You seem to be a connecting link with home, which I have a fearful dread of losing. I don't know how it is, but these coming six months seem to me a worse separation than all the past eighteen. Yet do not think, because I feel so sad about not going home, that I dread staying. You know enough of the interests I have here, to feel satisfied that I shall have much to occupy me pleasantly. It is only the protracted separation from home that I feel sorry for, and that is unavoidable, and will perhaps prove best on many accounts. Farewell."

"Osmotherly, September 13, 1825.

"Dear Emma:—

"I had determined to write last night, as I found it quite out of the question to attempt it in the daytime. I had been up with the little boy a great part of the night before; yet I knew I could keep awake writing, I wanted to do it so much. But in the true spirit of Polly Pickard, attempting more than any one would think reasonable, I was quite persuaded that, as I was to sit up, it was as well to do all I could; and as poor cousin Bessy had not had a quiet night since her child was born, and was going to sleep alone in her house for the first time since her husband's death, I thought it would do her good, and me no harm, to sit up in her parlor, and take care of the baby in the cradle, that she might have a little sleep, and not feel alone. The dear little baby had been better than for some time, during the day, and I doubted not it would lie in the cradle or on my knee very quietly, except during its coughing fits. Bessy went to bed, but the poor little creature grew worse, and coughed itself into a fit, in which it lay so long that I thought it dead, and awoke its mother; but its little heart began to beat again, and it seemed to be reviving, though slowly, and I sent her off again. It appeared for some time to be recovering, but all at once it sunk away and died in my arms, so peacefully and sweetly that I could scarcely be persuaded that it had not fallen into a still slumber, or had another fit. But it was indeed gone, and when I could bring myself to give it up, I arranged its little body for its last home. I don't know when I have had my feelings more excited. It was a lovely little creature, and I have nursed it so much since I have been here, that I found it had become an object of great interest to me; not a day has passed that I have not given three or four hours to it, and it was always so quiet with me that it seemed almost to know when I took it. The circumstances of the family, too, made it singularly affecting that it should be taken away, and the suddenness of its death seemed almost to bewilder me. Its poor mother is ill, and between comforting her and coming home to my aunt, who is very feeble, I scarcely know how to find time enough for either. I have been up three nights since Wednesday last, and, with two children to manage, I am almost mazed.

"I have tried to write this morning, for the baby was not out of my arms a moment last night, but I cannot collect my thoughts,—I don't know what I mean to say. You must state the case for me. Could you look in upon me you might wonder I was not crazy, but I shall do very well when I get a little sleep. Do not feel uneasy about me; I am not in danger of being sick, unless the prophecies of the old women here will kill me, for they think, I believe, that I am too kind to live, and they shake their heads most knowingly,—one proof among a thousand how much more frequently our characters are estimated by the circumstances in which we happen to be placed, than by any other criterion. Do write, to the last minute. I cannot bear to part with you in this unsatisfactory manner, but indeed I am incapable of any thing more; my eyes are dazzled as I write, and I must lie down. I shall write by the packet of the 24th from Liverpool, so that you will hear of me almost as soon as you get home; and I pray God that in safety and health and increased happiness you may all reach 'that haven where you would be, with a grateful sense of His mercies.' May God for ever bless you, my dear, kind friend, and strengthen you by His grace to pursue with success that path of virtue and holiness which it is your wish to follow, and enable you to perform all the duties which lie before you, consistently with His divine will, and worthy of His acceptance. This can only be done by humble reliance upon Him who is the way, the truth, and the life, for guidance, support, and reward. He alone can enable us to do that which we ought to do, and, feeling our own weakness, let us rely with faith upon His promises, neither doubting nor fearing the certainty of their accomplishment. But I cannot write or think; I seem to feel that 'bonnie little bairnie' in my arms still, and my nerves are something shaken. The worst of the whole is that poor, unhappy young man, whose low moans are continually sounding in my ears; but I send him away to-morrow for his own sake, as well as ours, and all will go well. Again, dearest Emma, Heaven bless you! Ever your

"M. L. P."

"Osmotherly, September 14, 1825.

"Dear Emma:—

"I have had a grand night's sleep, and am better to-day,—should be well, but for this lazy feeling, and a dull headache. Don't fear for me. I do not think I am going to be sick, and it will be for some good purpose if I am. I could not regret what I have done; I could almost say, as Mr. Thacher once said, 'I had better live a shorter life, and a useful one.' But I am not inclined to throw away life either; I enjoy it much, and think it right for all to endeavor to preserve it, for we may all do some good if we try, and that is reason enough for keeping it, were there no enjoyment to be had; as there is, even for the most distressed. But I must leave you, for I am not able to write more.

"... We buried the dear little baby to-day, which has been a wet, uncomfortable one, and I do not feel the better for the exposure, but on the whole am very well; nothing but a trifling cold, scarcely worth minding. I feel with you that it is as well, if not better, that I should stay. But you must not judge of its importance by cousin Jane's representation; her warm heart runs away with her judgment where she feels so much.

"A truce with your 'feelings of inferiority.' Who scolds me for the same feelings? It is Pride, my dear, depend upon it. I know it of old. Do not let it triumph.

"Ever sincerely yours,
"M. L. P."

"Osmotherly, October 3, 1825.

"My dear Emma:—

"I have just received your farewell blessing, and could you look in upon me, and know the peculiar circumstances and situation in which I am placed, you would not be surprised that it has made a very child of me, and that for the time I feel as if all my connection with my home and its interests was severed by your departure. I would not write under these impressions, for I know it is a diseased state of mind, did I not fear that, unless I improve this one leisure evening, I shall not have another opportunity of writing for a long time; and I know you will be anxious to hear from me, from the uncomfortable feeling which you express at not receiving late letters. I did at first regret that I had not written upon the chances of your being detained, but on the whole it was best that I did not, for I could not at any moment since my last date have relieved your anxiety, had I told you the truth, and I think your imagination could not picture any evil so bad as the reality has been.

"But to proceed in order. I wrote you last, I think, the day after the dear little infant was buried, and I believe I mentioned to you that I had taken up my night quarters with my poor cousin Bessy. She had never been left alone since her husband died, and now that she had no longer her baby to occupy her attention, she felt her desolateness more forcibly. I therefore gave the day to my aunt, having Bessy and her two little boys as much with us as possible, and passed the night with her. She was the most patient sufferer I ever saw; not a word of repining ever escaped her, and she went about her occupations and duties with a steadiness which spoke a determination to sacrifice every selfish consideration to the good of her children. Scarcely a tear could be seen on her cheek, and a common observer would have accused her of want of feeling, if he had not understood that the settled calm which sat upon her face might hide more real agony than is ever shown by any 'sounds of woe.' Her resolution astonished her friends, for they knew her to have a very timid and self-distrusting character, and the situation in which she was thus suddenly placed would have appalled even a stout heart. But I saw the true state of the case. When the duties of the day were past, and the necessity for exerting herself over, and all at rest but ourselves, she felt at liberty to indulge herself in talking of that of which she would not speak to any one beside; and I found that what seemed insensibility was in reality a degree of fortitude and resolution which I never saw equalled. I thought it best, too, to encourage her thus to open her heart, for I believe that concealed grief is always the most destructive to the mind, and her situation really required the advice and assistance of any one who could aid her, as she was inexperienced and felt her own deficiencies to a most overpowering degree. She had had but little instruction upon religious subjects, and would listen to my reading of the Scriptures, and detail of my own experience of the power of religious consolations, as if a new light were opened to her soul. I did not then know how much she was affected, but the readiness with which she adopted advice upon the subject gave me much hope that it would in time become as valuable to her as it had been to me.

"I told you that her infant was only a fortnight old when her husband was taken ill, and only a month when it died. Its mother had never recovered her strength, and distress having destroyed her appetite, and watching deprived her of sleep, she was as thin and weak as possible, and but ill able to bear the consequences of the sudden death of the child. This, added to a cold which she took, made her very feverish, and the absence of the physician from town obliged her to confine herself to such simple remedies as we could prescribe, to avert further evil and restore her strength. But the benefit which she derived from them was but temporary. A week from the day upon which her baby died, while passing the afternoon with us, she was taken very ill, and it was with great difficulty that her brother and myself carried her to her own house, only a few rods distant. I lost no time in administering the prescriptions of the physician, and for a few days she seemed to mend; but I soon felt convinced that her disease was the worst form of typhus fever, and was sure that she had not strength to get through it. The doctor confirmed my suspicions, but told me that such was the dread of it among the country people, that, if it were known, I should be left to myself, for no one would come near the house. I had not then required any assistance, for I was very well, and, knowing her situation to be a critical one, did not like to trust her to any one beside. By some means, however, the story was sounded abroad and spread like wildfire, and the suspicion of (what was in fact the truth) the two brothers having died of the same disorder added to the evil.

"The day after Bessy was taken, Jemmy, her youngest child, a boy of three, fell ill too, and though it was doubtful whether whooping-cough or typhus had the greater share in his malady, to the fearful minds of the villagers it was all one and the same, and the family were thought to be doomed to destruction. One by one fell off from coming near the house, till I at last scarcely saw a person except the doctor during the day. This I did not mind, for I preferred being constantly with my cousin, and the actual labor of attending her was not great; she took but little, and all the help which I wished for I had. She died, however, on the 30th of September, eleven days after she was taken, and during that time I had never left her, night or day, except to change my clothes occasionally at my aunt's. I had watched with her seven nights, and been up part of every other; for so accustomed was she to my care, that she did not like to be touched by any other person. I had sent the two little boys to their grandmother's, and the youngest was very ill during the whole of his mother's sickness, and still continues so. My cousin's little cottage was so small, that I felt unwilling that any one should sleep in it, lest they should suffer from infection; and often did I sit up with her alone in the house. I had been so exposed to the disease that I felt no fears for myself, and I believe this helped to preserve me, and the good doctor watched me very narrowly. I could not in a month tell you half the interesting circumstances attending this trying scene. Her senses never forsook her for a moment, nor her deep sense of gratitude to God for the mercies which he had bestowed on her amid all her sufferings. It seemed to her His immediate providence which had sent me to them just at this time, and her expressions of affection and thankfulness were indeed most delightful to me. It does appear most singular that I should have come just now, for the fact is, poor Bessy would have suffered for want of a nurse, beside many other necessaries, had I not been here. Her mother was fully occupied with the little boy, and her sister too distant, and of too much importance at home, to be with her, and the people of the place are too ignorant and frightened to have been all to her that she required.

"It was necessary to bury her immediately; and thus is this family entirely broken up, in the short space of three weeks, by the death of both its heads. She left her children to my sole direction and care, and the settlement of all their affairs, so that I have still much to do, beside the care of the sick child. His grandmother is almost worn out with it, and left his mother's death-bed only to nurse him. I have now stolen away from him for an hour to visit this deserted place, and am sitting by the fire in the lonely parlor, without any other being in the house but the eldest boy of seven, who is amusing himself by my side, interrupting me now and then by saying, 'Cousin Mary, you will let me live with you, wont you?' Every thing is still without, and so strongly is my poor cousin's voice associated with every thing I see around me, that it would not require any very strong effort of imagination to fancy I still heard her blessing me from what is now, I trust, her abode of peace and joy. But I must not indulge myself in writing about feelings, for I have much else to say; but I really think, since the last solemn evening that I spent alone in the old oak parlor in Pearl Street, I have never felt so forcibly the mutability of all earthly things; and had I any one to listen, I could talk all night upon the subject.

"This is by far the most primitive, uncivilized place I was ever in; I cannot liken it to any thing I know at home, for even Worthington has lawyers and a clergyman's family to redeem it; and, moreover, the general inhabitants of our little towns have more information and education than is to be found in these out-of-the-way villages, to which the modern improvement of national and free schools has not yet been extended. I am glad to see all the varieties of life, but under present circumstances this is a very solitary one. Were it not for the physician's visits, which he kindly makes every day, I should live totally without conversation in its true sense. The people are good and honest-hearted, and treat me as if I belonged to a higher order of animals,—and this is a novel situation! I am very free from complaints, and take care not to do more than I feel able to, and if I am superstitious in feeling that Providence directed me hither at this time, it is a useful superstition, inasmuch as it gives me a feeling of security that I shall be guided and strengthened to accomplish the work appointed for me. Do not fear, but hope and pray for me.

"I cannot tell you how much your visit to Burcombe gratified me; you could not have obliged me more, for I should have been so suspicious that my own description of it and its inhabitants might be a partial one, that I doubt if I should really have done them justice at home: Jane was as much pleased with the effort you made to see them, as any one could possibly be, and more pleased with the visit itself than I choose to tell you. I have most kind letters from the family at Penrith, offering to come for me whenever I give the word of command; it is a delightful rest to look forward to, but it will, I fear, be long before I can avail myself of it. The thoughts of home are to me now something like the dreams one has of heaven, in the twilight hours between sleeping and waking; I dare not form any definite picture, and yet the idea will not be wholly discarded. But with so much around me to make me realize the uncertainty of life, and exposed to actual danger every moment, how can I presume even to hope? May I be able to say from the heart, 'Thy will be done.'

"Mary."

"Osmotherly, October 23, 1825.

"My dear Cousin:—

"I wrote Emma a hurried letter a few weeks since, giving an account of my poor cousin's illness and death, and then hoped that I should soon be able to tell a happier tale, to relieve the anxiety which that might have produced. But it is not yet in my power, and I should not venture to write at all, did I not hope that all your uneasiness on my account will find an antidote in the confidence which daily experience increases in my heart, that He whose arm is mighty to save, and who has hitherto protected me from all danger, will still extend to me his fatherly care, and guide and guard me under all the events of his providence. You will readily believe that I have need of this confidence to strengthen me, when I tell you that I am writing this by the bedside of the eldest of those two dear little orphans whom my cousin left in my care. His little brother had scarcely recovered from his fever, when I was obliged to leave him to attend this poor child with the same fever, and have now been for more than a week his sole nurse, night and day.

"But to give you an adequate idea of the peculiarly trying situation in which I have been placed for the last seven weeks, I must recapitulate the story, which you may perhaps have gathered in unconnected details from my letters to Emma. It is indeed a melancholy one, but proves to me most painfully that our steps are oftentimes guided by a wisdom from above, far beyond our own limited conceptions. You know that one of my objects in coming to England was to try to do something more than I had hitherto been enabled to, for the comfort of my poor old aunt, and you will not therefore be surprised that it was my fixed resolution not to return until I had an opportunity of ascertaining how to do this most effectually. When at last I did get here, it was with the expectation of staying only just long enough to see that she was made comfortable. I knew nothing of her family even by name, and of herself only that she was old and feeble, and subject to fits of extreme melancholy. I had not any anticipations of pleasure, except from the feeling that I was doing what my dear father would have done, and fulfilling one of the duties of my life. My father had been her idol through life, and, as I have now found, almost her sole dependence; her children could do little for her, and the relations she had in England knew nothing of her. She was of course most delighted to see me, and prepared to devote herself with all her faculties to my comfort. But, poor body, she stood in need of all that I could do to comfort to her.

---

"I have written this in the intervals of attendance upon the little boy, and, as you may perceive, at different periods, for I seldom sit five minutes at once. It is now the 25th, and I am happy to say he is a little better; but I scarcely dare hope, he is of so feeble a constitution. I left him yesterday under the influence of opium, so that I was sure he would not miss me, to go to North Allerton, seven miles distant, to meet old Mr. McAdam and my cousin S——, who had come from Penrith in their carriage for me. They did not come hither, fearing that strangers would be but intruders in such distress, but stopped at North Allerton, and sent an express to me on Sunday night, begging me to return with them if possible, for they had known of all the sickness which surrounded me, and feared I should suffer from contagion. It was most kind in them, and I should have been most happy for the release could I have gone with an easy conscience. But it would have been worse than inhuman to have left this poor little sufferer, beside that much of the business which I have undertaken is unfinished, and I should not think I had done my duty until I had settled these orphans permanently. But I thought I ought to go to them to explain this, as I should have been afraid to have had them come here, and I took a chaise and passed the day with them. My patient did not wake up enough to know I was away, and it was quite a refreshment to me. Am I not most fortunate to have such kind friends in this strange land? It is a comfort to feel that I have such a resting-place when my labors here are over, and cheers me even in this most solitary of all the situations in which I have ever been placed. Were it not for the good little doctor who attends my patients, I know not what I should do. My cousin cannot leave home for an instant, and my poor aunt is overwhelmed with all these distressing events, added to the continual trial which the melancholy young man is to all of us. I get on without much fatigue, however, and have not yet been obliged to sit up all night; and with the sleep which I get whenever the little fellow is quiet, I do very well. He has been very much out of his head the greater part of the time, but very patient when he is sensible. It is now ten days since he became ill, and you may suppose he is somewhat attached to his cousin by this time, and I to him. O, if you could look in upon me, what would you say!

---

"October 30. You would pity me now if you could look upon me, for I have this night closed the eyes of the dear child whom I was watching when I wrote the above. He seemed better daily after my last date, and on Friday, the 28th, sat up and appeared in every respect on the recovery; his appetite was good, his fever reduced, and his strength improving. He awoke on Saturday early, and begged for his breakfast, ate a light one, and fell asleep. His nose had bled a little the evening before, but not much; but about eleven, he suddenly threw off from his stomach such a quantity of blood, as proved to us that there was some internal rupture in the head. This continued through the day and night, increasing in violence. No earthly power could save him; all was done that could be, but certain spots which appeared upon him soon after the bleeding commenced decided the physician that he could not live. He lingered until this evening, and died from absolute exhaustion at ten o'clock, of what is called spotted fever here;—and I laid with him after the spots had come out, without knowing what they meant. It is a great shock, for I felt almost secure that he was getting better, and his poor grandmother is nearly distracted. This seems to affect her more than all; being under her own roof, it is brought more home to her senses, and it is indeed shocking to lose five of one family in so short a time. I am sitting up, while a woman, who has been with me through this dreadful day, gets a little rest by the side of my aunt; but as I was up last night, I am in such an agitated state that I am not fit to write. To have seen four human beings die in the short space of eight weeks is enough of itself to solemnize one's mind; but with all the additional circumstances which have attended these, no wonder that my heart is full to overflowing. This was a fine boy, and you know that the endearing ways of a sick child are most engaging under any circumstances, and when that child is an orphan, and dependent upon one's self entirely, the interest is indeed intense. I never met with so violent a case of fever, and the poor sufferer was sensible to the last of all its horrors. One cannot indeed lament for him, for he would have probably had but a hard life. Little James is now indeed alone in the world, happily too young to be conscious of his loss; but it is very affecting to think of his being deprived of father, mother, and two brothers in eight weeks, and left so perfectly alone.

---

"November 2. I add a line to say that I am quite well, therefore do not feel anxious about me. There are very many cases of the fever in the village, and as I am almost the only person in it who is not afraid of infection, I still have full employment in assisting the poor sufferers. My cousin's little niece is still very ill. I have indeed been wonderfully preserved and strengthened. Heaven save me from presumption, but I cannot help feeling that I could not have lived through all that I have, unless God had protected me.

"Yours affectionately,

"M. L. P."

We need not attempt to add any thing to this simple and affecting narrative of events that seem to belong to a more remote place and period than England and our own day. With all their naturalness and the stamp of reality, it would not be difficult—as indeed has been done—to clothe them with the drapery of fiction, and weave them into a romantic, improbable tale.

But the tale is not all told. The scene shifts at this point, only to be succeeded by another not unlike, nor far apart. Near the end of November, Mary was released from present duty at Osmotherly, took a reluctant leave—yes, with her generous and clinging affections, a reluctant leave—of the family in which she had closed the eyes of five members, and was carried by eager, anxious friends to Penrith. There, in the bosom of a charming household already known and dear to her, every thing within and without presented as strong a contrast to the situation she had just left, as words could express. Her own words give us some idea of it, in the first letter she wrote after leaving a place associated "with images of danger and death," and leaving it, as she supposed, for ever. But the very next letter after that surprises us with the old date of "Osmotherly"; and we find that hardly a month had passed before she was recalled to the same spot, the same painful responsibilities, and far greater danger than before, as the result proved. But again we leave her to tell her own story.

"Penrith, Cumberland, November 29, 1825.

"My dear Cousin:—

"After all my melancholy letters from Osmotherly, you will be glad to receive one of another date, and under happier circumstances. My last letter was just after the death of the dear little boy, and I then thought I should be able to leave there very shortly; but it was not until the 26th, (after I had been there twelve weeks instead of the three which I intended when I went,) that I could arrange matters so that I could give up my charge conscientiously; and, after all my efforts, I could not succeed in settling the business for my poor, unfortunate cousin. I left it, however, in a fair way for completion, clothed the dear little orphan for the winter, and placed him with his aunt, making all the arrangements which my limited means allowed for his future support; and notwithstanding the incessant trial which I had there, I assure you it was not without many painful feelings that I took leave of the place, for ever. I had been for the last five weeks constantly with my aunt, and could not bear to leave her in the solitary situation to which she was reduced by the death of so many of her family. My dear little Jamie had become an object of affection to me, heightened to an extreme degree, since he was, like myself, left without parents or brother or sister. I longed to take him as my own, for he is a child of very uncommon capacity, and I fear will not have the education which he deserves. But I could only commit him in faith to Him who is the Father of the fatherless, who will not suffer even the least of his creatures to want his care. I think I never shall forget his screams of agony when he saw me drive away; I thought his little heart would burst. But childish sorrow is soon over, and he will forget me long before I shall cease to love him.

"According to an arrangement previously made, my cousin S—— met me at Greta Bridge, in her grandfather's carriage. I came to that place on Thursday in a postchaise, passed the night, and came on hither the next day, so that I had only about thirty miles to ride alone, and as I got a postboy from the neighborhood to drive me all the way, I felt perfectly safe, and found no inconvenience whatever. Nothing can exceed the kindness of this family to me; indeed, I am made to feel that I am at home with them as if I had always belonged to them. After all I have had to suffer, it is almost like the rest of the Sabbath to the weary laborer, and if kindness and petting will cure one, I shall soon recover all I may have lost during my dreadful siege at Osmotherly. To be sure, I am almost bewildered at the change from constant anxiety and labor to a state of perfect idleness and indulgence, but I will try and make a good use of it; and I feel so entirely convinced that this most amazing preservation of my life must be for some useful end, that I think I never can fall into an insensible or cold state again. I was almost glad to stay from here, until I was quite sure I had not suffered from infection, for although I cannot feel much faith in the doctrine of contagion, I would not run any risk of communicating the disease to others. It is the opinion of many physicians here, (and my little doctor among the number,) that change of air may bring out the fever which would lie dormant in the system for a long time without it, and he warned me not to feel too secure until I had tried it. But I do not yet feel any symptoms; weak and weary I am, but not feverish, and having no fear am the more safe.

"But do not think I am so much occupied by the distresses I have experienced here, as to be unmindful of those which have visited my friends at home. Your letter of the 20th of October, and Ann's of the 18th, reached me on the 16th of November. The account of poor Maria's death shocked me very much, and made me long to fly home, that I might, if possible, do something for her dear little children. I wish I could assist them, and feel that there is no one of the family to whom the duty of doing it is so great. I beg you will use my name in any case in which you think I could act with usefulness, and if God spare me to return to you, I promise you I will fulfil all you may engage for me to the best of my powers.... It tires me so much, that I can scarcely write intelligibly. God bless you!

"Mary."

"Osmotherly, December 31, 1825.

"My dearest Friend:—

"I have often welcomed this anniversary with delight; but under all the various circumstances in which it has found me, I think I never felt the value of the privilege which it gives me of writing to you more deeply than I do at this moment.

"But I will first account to you for my being again at this place, the very name of which is no doubt by this time associated in your mind, as it is in mine, with images of danger and death. Of the events which took place during my former visit here, you have no doubt been informed by my letters to Boston, and of my departure from it, as I thought for ever, for the hospitable abode of my kind friends at Penrith, where I was enjoying much when I last wrote home. I intended staying with them until the middle of January, when Mr. McAdam's appointed journey south would secure me an escort to Birmingham, and I was, among other things, anticipating writing this under the influence of the same most delightful society which was operating upon my mind on this night last year. But I was doomed in this, as in many more important concerns, to feel the uncertainty of all calculations for the future; for on the 23d of December I received a letter from the physician of this place, written at the request of my aunt, who was apparently dying of typhus fever, begging me if possible to let her see me once more. I knew there were many reasons which made it important that I should come, if that were indeed her situation; and at the advanced age of sixty-eight, with a most feeble frame, I could not dare to expect a favorable termination. The risk of returning to such an infected region was, of course, much greater than my former residence there, but thus summoned I could not hesitate, and my good friends, even more fearful and anxious than I was, could not attempt to dissuade me. It was indeed an appalling undertaking, knowing so fully the evils to which I was coming which could not be avoided, and all that might ensue could not be kept out of sight.

"It was, I assure you, with many solemn thoughts, though hid by cheerful looks, that I took my leave, probably for ever, of that good family, and got into the mail alone on the morning of the 26th. My route lay across the dreary hill Stanmoor, and, as I had not even a single companion the whole eighty miles hither, you may be sure my cogitations were many and various. Among other things, I was struck by the singular coincidence which has always given to Christmas week a peculiar interest; neither could I fail to consider, on recollecting the various circumstances that had occurred in it, how deep was my debt of gratitude to that Being who had guided me through them all in safety. Dear N——, this is an overwhelming thought, and one which every day's experience forces upon my mind with increasing power, a power of which, it seems to me, it would have been impossible to conceive under any other than the very peculiar circumstances in which I have been, and, it would seem, am still doomed to live, while in this country. Imagine me, at this distance from all to whom I have been accustomed to look for dependence, a being alone in creation almost, literally alone in this strange land, making an excursion of eighty miles across the country, partly in coaches, partly in postchaises, without a being to protect me or appeal to, and upon such an errand,—and yet as safe as if a host were escorting me, calm, quiet, and perfectly easy as if I were taking a ride to Hingham; and then tell me, if the confiding spirit which our sacred religion creates in our souls is not worth all that we could possess besides.

"I arrived here in eight hours after I left Penrith, and found the poor old lady rather better, and not a little delighted that I had cared enough for her to come. She has had many and severe trials through life, to which those of the last summer were but a sequel. I was the only one of her own relations with whom she had come in contact for many years, and the poor soul's heart warmed towards me with the whole force of her long shut up affections. I at once installed myself as sole nurse in the very room in which I had watched the progress of disease and death upon that poor child, whose case I mentioned in my letter to Emma; and here am I now writing you by the light of a rush candle, with my little work-box for a desk, almost afraid to breathe lest I should disturb my aunt's slumbers. We two are the only beings in this little cottage, for I have sent her sons out to sleep, as a precaution against the fever, and put a bed into the corner of the room for myself. Could you see me acting in the fourfold capacity which I adopt in this humble cottage, you would hardly believe me to be the same being, who, a week ago, was installed in all the honors of a privileged visitor, amid the luxuries of Cockel House, acting 'lady' solely, to the utmost of my ability. It amuses me to find how easily it all sits upon me, and how readily we may adapt ourselves to varieties of situation and find something to enjoy in all. Aunty is much better, and I think there is a good chance for her recovery, at least to as good a state of health as she was in before this illness. I feel little evil in the contrast, great as it is to myself, except a slight cold, which the very sudden change in the weather, from warm and damp to excessive cold, has brought me. The fields to-day are covered with snow, the first time I have seen them so in this country, and it looked so homeish, and so much like your happy home the last time I saw it, that I have been enjoying the sight highly to-day, while every one beside was looking blank at it. I am in one respect more comfortable than when I was here before, for I have one companion. The 'little doctor' has his only sister to keep his house, and she has already made herself most important and agreeable to me; she has only been here a week, and being as much a stranger as myself, we have some feelings in common. She is a very lovely little creature, twenty-one only in years, but older in experience. Her manner is suited to the style of her face,—gentle, winning, and at the same time indicating cultivation and elegance of mind. Without the slightest shade of affectation or consciousness of beauty, she not only gives me a new study of character, but is a most convenient and pleasant associate; living in the next house but one, I can call upon her at any moment. Something always comes to me in all situations to prove to me the care which is taken even of the most insignificant; and surely the whole of my experience in this place has been but a continued lesson of it. Indeed, I certainly have great cause of thankfulness, for that only dark passage in my progress since I left home, trying as it was, was full of admonition. It showed me a part of the great plan of creation of which I knew little or nothing before, a class of beings whose characters, duties, motives, and views I had never before understood; and above all, it showed me how perfectly the various links in the great chain of existences are adapted to aid, and strengthen, and apply to each other, adding another to the many proofs of the Supreme Wisdom which formed and governs all.

"The only remnant of my poor cousin Bessy's family is a boy of just William's age; he was ill at the time his mother died, and became my immediate charge until his brother was taken sick, and grew so fond of me that it was long before even his aunt, whom he had been used to seeing, could make him content to be separated from me. He is a very engaging child, bright, and of a noble disposition and temper. The similarity of our situations was enough to make me feel more than common tenderness for him, his dependence upon me increased it, and his strong attachment to me completed it. I think I never felt so much for a little creature before, and were it not for the great distance I should have to take him, I never would leave him behind. I thought he would have broken his little heart when I drove away, and when I came back his ecstasy was really affecting; he ran round me, jumped up in my lap, stroked and kissed my face, as if he could not trust to the evidence of one sense, and at last burst out a crying, 'Uncle Mady wont go away again; Uncle Mady live with Jamie every day, wont you, Uncle Mady?' He had always a trick of calling me 'Uncle.' Do not think I am made melancholy by all this. I have no recollection of ever having the same degree of good spirits as I have been blessed with for the last six months,—I may say nine; and save my longing for home, I have had no cause to wish any one thing relating to me different from what it has been. God grant that I may not be tempted to great presumption! I hope my wishes are humble, though my confidence may be great.

"May God be with you, my dear friend, and guide and guard, and bless you, through the year on which we have now entered, and for ever,—is the earnest prayer of your sincere

"Mary."

But with all her cheerfulness, and self-forgetting, heroic courage, Mary was not proof against danger and disease. It is well for us to learn that the laws of nature are not suspended nor diverted from their course, even by the strongest faith, or for the sake of the most noble and useful laborer. Such a laborer there was here; but it was hardly to be expected that she would pass unharmed, the second time, through such exposure, fatigue, and painful anxiety. If the transition was great, at first, from that barren and comfortless place to the luxuries of Penrith, the change back again must have been peculiarly trying. She speaks of the difference between the two places as equal to that between the most sumptuous dwelling in Boston and the farm-house at Brush Hill. Nay, the contrast there was yet greater; for the common cottages in Yorkshire had no floors for the first story, except of clay and sand. Such was the house in which all that previous sickness and death had occurred, and in which the nurse and servant of all now found herself again. Sending away to another house the melancholy and moaning young man, and fixing up a bed for herself in a corner of her aunt's small room, she endeavored to keep herself from the night air, particularly as the weather, after a long course of warm rains, became intensely cold. But in vain did she shun exposure. There was work to be done out of doors as well as in, and no one but herself to do it. A sudden and severe cramp seized her, and she at last fell upon the floor, when alone in the night, and there lay a long time, utterly helpless, striving to make her groans heard by some one in or out of the house. This left her in a state of extreme debility, from which nothing could for a long time raise her. She would make it appear a light matter when it was over, but it is evident, from her own expressions and other facts, that she was in great danger.

"Penrith, February 10, 1826.

"My dear Emma:—

"Your last letter was a cordial to me, and came at a time when I greatly needed it; for I was actually suffering under all the evil which you were fearing for me when you wrote it,—confined to the chamber of that little cottage which I have described to you, weak and languid, the mere shadow of what I was when I parted from you. But for the cause and effect of my last visit to Osmotherly I must refer you to my letters to N. C. P. and Mrs. B——; you know I cannot bear to tell the same tale twice, more especially if it be a melancholy tale.

"But do not imagine me to have been in a very forlorn and disconsolate predicament, for I had many blessings to rejoice in all the while. The sun shone brightly all the day full upon the windows of our comfortable, neat apartment, furnished with what, in her former prosperous days, had been the furniture of the 'spare chamber' (the museum of precious articles, you know) of Aunty's 'bien house'; Aunty sitting by the fire in her easy chair, her bright eyes glistening with the exhilaration of returning health; and my ladyship lying on the bed, thin and pale enough I grant, but in as high glee as strength would permit, and not for one minute depressed; if any change came, it was for the better, and my nurses remarked that my worst days were my gayest ones. Then I had two visits each day from the 'little doctor,' the very essence of good-humor and cheerfulness, and as I had in reality but little pain, I could manage to enjoy a good deal. Besides, I had the comfort of a female companion, with whom I could associate with something like equality of feeling. This was the sister of the 'little doctor,' who had just come to Osmotherly to keep house for him. My dear little Jemmy, too, was a source of great amusement and delight to me; he had improved even in the short time I had been from him, and showed some new and interesting trait every time I saw him. I left all behind me, however, on the 30th of January, not without many regrets as you may believe, for I felt it was now certainly for ever; and no one can part from those who have been kind to the utmost of their power, however small that power may be, without sad feelings. This is certainly a great drawback upon the pleasure one takes in travelling, and I sometimes think, when the time comes that I must do the same to all I have known here, I shall wish I had never come. But I do not like to think of it.

"I am indeed much better than I could have dared to hope, but I always gain fast if at all, and this week of eating has made a great change in me. I cannot tell you how I rejoice at this, for I began to be heartily tired of my fictitious character; I did not realize my identity when toddling about, catching hold of chairs and tables like a child just going alone, as I did last week; I longed to shake myself of the encumbrance, or that the scene would drop, and let me scamper away, Mary Pickard again.

"I am glad you have seen this house, for it will aid your imagination a little; but you can scarcely conceive of the appearance of comfort which pervades this room as it is now arranged. The gentlemen have all deserted us, and just now Aunty George, Selina, and I are seated in true spinster style round a large fire in the drawing-room up stairs, (which by the way was any thing but comfortable when you saw it,) Aunty at full length upon the sofa reading on one side, Selina on the other writing, and I in the front doing the same, at the same table with her. Around us are arranged, in the most convenient places, piano, flowers, tables covered with books, writing-desks, &c., ottomans ditto, all sorts of comfortable chairs,—easy, rocking, &c.; in the corners, shelves with collections of shells, minerals, and other odd things, to say nothing of the living ornaments. It is the very picture of comfort, and I could tell you of certain sensual luxuries which make their appearance upon the centre-table, some three, four, five, or perhaps six times a day, now that I am prohibited from descending to the dining-room; but that would destroy the intellectual charm which must hang round the image of Aunty George. Mrs. McAdam writes me that she received your letter, and really begins to imagine herself a 'monstrously agreeable woman.' You must have given her a good dose, I think. She has been in a fine taking about this illness of mine, but is cooling a little, now she finds I am not satisfied with less than four meals per day. How shamefully I have treated Emma's kind letter; but there is no end to my wickedness of this sort. I must not begin with confessions, but end them by confessing myself very tired, and ever your sincere friend,

"M. L. P."

"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."

So ended the visit to England. How unlike most visits there! It is not often that two years are spent abroad chiefly in confinement with the sick and devotion to the dying. We wonder not that Mary Pickard thought that such employment was her "destiny." More appropriate does the word seem than the common term, "mission"; for that expresses too much of design and consciousness to be associated with her. She projected no large plans, or distant enterprises. She simply held herself ready for the work to which she might be summoned, abroad as well as at home, and with an ambition as easily satisfied at home as abroad. All her ministrations might seem to have been accidental, if any thing were accidental;—the occasions sought her, more than they were sought by her. Yet in some way or other the occasions were sure to appear, and equally sure to be used. Nor were her charities merely those of the hand, or of time and toil alone. There was benevolence, as well as diligence. No one knew, no one will ever know, the amount of her direct gifts at Osmotherly. But we know, from various sources, that they were free and large. And by no means were they restricted to her kindred. There is reason to believe that the whole village shared her bounty; in moderate measure, of necessity, but in decided liberality. From the nature and power of the disorder, a general panic prevailed, aggravated by ignorance and superstition, and followed by improvidence and want. We have seen the statement, that a large proportion of the inhabitants either perished or became helpless and a burden. And when the sufferings of her own connections ceased, by death or recovery, Mary went out to do what she could among the diseased and destitute generally. She toiled till the alarm abated, and aimed particularly to remove from the minds and dwellings of the people those fruitful feeders, if not sources, of the calamity,—superstition and uncleanness. Is it too much to believe, that Osmotherly will always feel the blessing of that Providence which sent there the "good lady"?

It was a beautiful termination of her whole experience among that people,—whose very dialect differed so much from hers, that they could scarcely understand her words, but easily read her actions,—that, when she recovered her own strength sufficiently to take a final leave of them, the whole village came out in a body, young and old, and escorted her on her way.

VIII.

NEW RELATIONS.

Mary Pickard returned from England in the summer of 1826, and was warmly welcomed by her many friends in Boston. Her last home before going abroad had been at Miss Bent's in Washington Street, where she now went, and stayed through the fall and winter with the exception of short visits to friends in the vicinity. Thronged with visitors, and occupied with business of her own which she never left to others if she could do it herself, she had no time for large correspondence, and we find few letters for some months. But there are brief notes which show the fulness of her enjoyment and gratitude, enhanced by the recollection of the trying scenes through which she had passed, but which she rarely named and never magnified, as we are assured by some who were constantly with her. The mercies of the past, more than the trials, filled her thoughts. "My whole absence has been but a succession of mercies, for which I could not in a long life show the gratitude I feel; and this the greatest of all, the safe restoration to my beloved home and blessed friends,—it is indeed overwhelming. I have been borne through afflictive trials by that Power which alone can enable us to bear them; may I also find the same strength sufficient to keep me firm and uninjured, amid the greater trial of prosperity and joy." This was said to one of her former instructors in Hingham, with whom she spent a week in November, reviving the memory of the "first awaking of the mind to high and holy thoughts and resolves."

To the trial of prosperity of which she speaks, she may have been exposed at this time, if at any. She had returned after a long absence, in which she had accomplished all that she proposed, and more than to most minds would have seemed possible. She was again in the midst of endeared and delighted friends, more free from care and solicitude for others than she had ever been before; her society sought by a larger circle of devoted and admiring acquaintance, paying her marked attention. There was every thing to gratify, and much to flatter. And she was happy, very happy,—"more lively and joyous, I think, than at any time of her life," writes an intimate friend. But she did not remain long unemployed, or live for herself. She sought other objects of interest, places and ways of laboring for those in need. She took classes of poor children in more than one Sunday school, and visited the houses of the poor during the week; of several families in Sea Street she is said to have taken particular care through that first season, though a season crowded with engagements of friendship and society, and occupied before its close with an unexpected and absorbing interest.

The last night of the year, Mary made one of that great congregation who listened to that discourse of Henry Ware on the "Duty of Improvement," which few who heard have forgotten, and of which one hearer has said, "No words from mortal lips ever affected me like those." We may conceive the emotions with which they were heard by her, in whose mind religious concerns were always paramount, and who already, as we have reason to believe, was compelled to feel a personal interest in the preacher. For we now approach that event which is considered the crisis of a woman's life, and which was certainly to change the whole aspect of a life that was felt to be peculiarly insulated. But we may be anticipating. No engagement yet existed, and in the letter written after the services of the "last night" to one who was never forgotten on that occasion, there is no allusion to new events, unless in the close.

"Boston, December 31, 1826.

"Were I by your side, dearest N——, I might be able to satisfy myself by talking; but when I think of committing to paper what I wish to say to you, I am almost discouraged, and have a great mind to give up the attempt. I do verily believe I should for once play truant, and shut up my desk, did I not fear, should I do so, that the ghost of the departing year would start up in visible form before me and pronounce a fearful malediction upon me for my apostasy. Indeed, so wedded am I to old customs, and really superstitious about the fulfilment of certain vows, that I should not dare to hope for peace or prosperity for the year to come, if I allowed myself to yield to the tempter.

"When I look back only upon the past month, I feel as if it were the work of an age to give you any idea of its interest; and when the year, nay, years, of which I wish to speak come in array before my mind's eye, it is not strange that I know not how to begin, or how to confine myself to the limits of a sheet of paper. You know, however, enough of the circumstances of the past year to understand something of the feelings which this period has brought with it. Perhaps I am inclined to exaggerate the peculiarity of the events of my life, which, after all, may have been no more exciting than every body meets with; but be that as it may, there can be no harm in magnifying the blessings. And as there is more hope of attaining a high degree of excellence, if our standard of comparison be high (even if it be beyond our reach), so I will hope that the more enlarged is our estimate of our subjects for gratitude, the more deep and heartfelt will our gratitude be. It does seem to me, that no being can have more for which to give thanks, than I have in past and present blessings; and that no one can fall as far short as I do of the effect that should follow such a belief.

"I have been reading the letter I was writing you at this time last year, and it does make me tremble to the very soul, when I contrast my situation now with what it then was, to think how much is required of one, who has been saved from such peril, and brought back to so much good. But it is in vain to attempt to tell you what I think or feel at this hour. One idea above all the rest will rise, and this you will join me in,—that the proofs which the experience of the past year gives of the never-ceasing, all-sufficient care of God should make us look forward with perfect trust to whatever the future may bring, without a doubt that all will be well that He directs,—that our weakness will be strengthened, our fear removed, and our spirits sustained and soothed under all trials, if we will but rest in faith upon his almighty arm. I have felt this so much, that I had begun to be presumptuous, and almost thought that no possible temptation could make me doubt its sufficiency. But I dare not hope so much. I find there are temptations of which I have hitherto known nothing, and under the influence of which I may have to learn a new lesson. It is said of Bishop Sewell, who once most strangely departed from his faith, that his fall was necessary to teach him humility, and improve his character. Perhaps it may be so with me. If I do fall, I hope it may have the same good effect.

"I have wished to-day, as I often do, that you could have an ear where mine was. Mr. Channing gave us a most useful sermon this morning upon the office of Christ, from the words, 'I am the way, the truth, and the life.' Mr. Gannett this afternoon upon the retrospect of the past,—good and solemn. And this eve, notwithstanding the violence of the snow-storm, Mr. Ware's house has been filled to overflowing, to hear his usual address. It was one of the most eloquent and impressive I ever heard from him; a powerful exhortation on the necessity of Progress, delivered with an energy which gave it great effect. I have heard but one of those discourses before this, but I should think it a most profitable service. The occasion is certainly one by which all who are capable of feeling seriously must be solemnly impressed; and the great interest which is generally felt in Mr. Ware gives him the power of making a good use of such a predisposition. And now that it is possible that he may accept the call to New York, his influence is greater than ever.

"I have passed a quiet, delightful week at Hingham, made my long talked of visit to Mrs. P——, and returned on Christmas day to be quiet at home (if possible) until I go to you; and yet I ought to be stationary for a time for business' sake. I need not tell you how much you have been in my thoughts during the past week, so strongly are all the singular events which have taken place in it associated with you. It has not been suffered to pass without its own special interest; to me it has indeed been full.

"Most heartily yours, with best wishes for the coming year.

"M. L. P."

The year 1827 opened upon Mary differently from any previous year of her life. Its first month was to witness the consummation of a purpose, which could not be lightly regarded by a mind like hers. Strange that it can be by any! Yet we have such reason to fear it, that we deem it a sufficient apology, if any be needed, for disclosing her own thoughts at this time more fully than might otherwise seem right. Sure we are of her permission, whose conversations on the forming of a connection so often made the subject of trivial jesting were as free as they were serious. By nothing earthly is the social or moral community more deeply affected than by the prevalent views of Marriage, and the feelings with which its momentous obligations are assumed. And when there are revealed to us by death, under that seal of sacredness which deepens our conviction of their sincerity, such sentiments as those which Mary Pickard brought to this relation, our view of duty, and even of delicacy, moves us to impart rather than withhold them. Not that we suppose them peculiar to her, or that she has given them any remarkable expression. They may be common to every right and earnest mind. But various considerations prevent their being publicly presented with that personal reality which adds so much to their power. Thankful would all be, and none more than those perfected spirits of which we now speak, if the young and the mature would take exalted and sober views of the holiest and happiest relation in life.

Mary's views were expressed to her two most intimate female friends, the same night; to one in a short note, to the other more at length.

"January 30, 1827. Dearest Emma, I am not willing that any other than my own pen should communicate to you the events of this day. I would not that you should think it possible for me, under any circumstances, so far to lose my identity as to be unmindful of the feelings of one whom I so love; and though it requires some effort, I will do the thing with my own hand. Know, then, dear E., that a change has passed over the spirit of my earthly dreams, and, instead of the self-dependent, self-governed being you have known me, I have learned to look to another for guidance and happiness; and, more than that, have bound myself, by an irrevocable vow, to live for the future in the exercise of the great and responsible duties which such a connection inevitably brings with it.... You need no explanation, nor have I time to give any; it would require one of our long nights to trace the rise and progress of the influences that have thus terminated. At present, the idea of the change I am making is so solemn, so appalling, that my faculties are almost paralyzed.

"Boston, January 30, 1827.

"My dear N——:

"I have been sitting with this sheet before me for the last half-hour, trying to find out in what way to begin the long and eventful story which I wish to convey to your mind as clearly as I see it in my own. I am in truth hardly able to write at all, from absolute exhaustion of body and mind, and therefore am driven to the necessity of beginning at the end of the chapter, lest I should not have time to tell the whole. Will it be an entire surprise to you to hear that this day has been to me the most important of my whole life, the turning-point of existence, the witness of my solemn and irrevocable promise to unite for the future my fate with that being, who, when we last met, I thought was doomed to be a stranger to me for ever? It seems, indeed, like a dream, and yet it is true, dreadfully true, that I have taken upon myself great and unknown duties for which I feel incompetent,—true that I have gained the best blessing life can give.

"You need no explanation to teach you the progress of this in my own mind, for you know me well enough to read it without book, and you may easily imagine how I feel at such a crisis. O, it is solemn, it is awful, thus to bind one's self for life! and yet I am conscious my whole heart is with the act, and my happiness intimately dependent upon it. This feeling of distrust and fearfulness will soon pass away. I have not been used to its interference in any case where I have known it was my duty to act; it is only when we seem to have the direction of events in our own hands, that the feeling of doubt as to what is duty weakens our confidence in our success. You will say, feeling must be the guide; and so it must so far as this, that we may be sure that that path is not the right one to which it does not impel; but there is danger of its tempting to the wrong one notwithstanding, and it cannot be safe unhesitatingly to follow its impulses.

"Mr. Ware goes to New York on Thursday, for four weeks, to preach; he will, I suppose, return by the way of Northampton, and I hope you will not object to a visit from him on the way. But I must put an end to this. I am in truth unable to write more.

"Yours most truly,
"M. L. P."

The relation thus viewed by a Christian woman has often one aspect, as in the present instance, which is thought more delicate and unapproachable than any other. Mary was to take the place, not only of a wife, but of a "step-mother,"—a name that should be redeemed from the inconsiderate and unjust odium to which it is commonly subjected. Why should that odium attach to this, more than to all unfaithful use of the conjugal relation? Does not this, the more difficult office, exhibit proportionably as many noble wives and true mothers as the other? According to the difficulty and the delicacy, is the greatness of the trust and the merit of fidelity. Let honor be rendered where honor is due; and let no vulgar prejudice or unkind prediction hide a beauty and excellence of woman that are less rare than may be supposed.

In aid of these thoughts, as well as in illustration of the character we are delineating, we are glad to be allowed to quote from two letters of Henry Ware himself; the first bearing the same date as Mary's just given, the other written after a more intimate acquaintance. They are both addressed to his sister at Northampton, to whom he had confided the care of his children while they were without a mother. The mother whom they had lost three years before had left a void not easily filled. A woman of more than common qualities and powers, doomed for several years to more than ordinary suffering from an insidious and fatal disease, she had still given much time to the parish, and discharged to the last the duties of a wife and mother, with a fidelity and affection whose loss was very grievous, and was felt more and more by Mr. Ware from the necessity of separation from his children, and their own growing years and needs. We can understand, therefore, the feelings with which he formed another connection, and made it known to one who was now to resign her charge to other hands.

"Boston, January 30, 1827.

"Dear Sister:—

"There is no one who will have more sincere and hearty pleasure in the tidings I am going to communicate than you, or from whom I shall receive more sincere and affectionate congratulations. I therefore lose not a moment in telling you that I am to build up again my family hearth, and bring my children to their father's side, and have a home once more. With whom, I need not tell you. Providence has thrown in my way one woman, whose character is all that man can ask, of a singular and exalted excellence. You know how admirable she is, and how well suited to fill the vacant place by my side. She consents to do it; and that I feel grateful and happy, a privileged man, you will not doubt.... Write me at New York. Love to you all. Affectionately,

"Henry Ware, Jr."

"Saturday Evening, March 3, 1827.

"My dear Harriet:—

"You will not be troubled, I hope, if I pour out from my mind a little of the satisfaction which I feel, and in which I am rejoicing more and more every day. Since my return, the congratulations of my friends have been absolutely overpowering; and from seeing more and more of Miss Pickard, I am made to feel more and more grateful for the kind providence which has led me to this result. You know all my feelings and views, and the process of my mind, and I shall therefore be understood by you as by nobody else. It is not a common feeling which fills me; it is something peculiar, sacred, as if I had been under a supernatural guidance, and been made to act from pure and elevated and disinterested motives, for the purpose of accomplishing some great good. Every thing is connected with the memory of the past and with my former happiness, in such a way as not to sadden the present, but to give to it a singular spirituality, if I may so say; and I feel that, if the departed know what is transacting here, my own Elizabeth would congratulate me as sincerely as any of my friends. I have sought for the best mother to her children, and the best I have found. I have desired a pattern and blessing for my parish, and I have found one. I have wished some one to bear my load with me, and to help, confirm, and strengthen my principle by her own high and experienced piety, and such I have found. All these things, meeting in one person,—I might have looked for each alone, but where else are they to be all found in such excellent proportions united? I surveyed them with cool judgment, and I shall by and by love them ardently.

Dear Harriet, I must have somebody to pour out myself to; so bear the infliction charitably. Good by. Yours ever lovingly.

"Henry."

The character of Mary Pickard would not be drawn, but one of her noblest traits be left out of view, if we failed to speak frankly of the former affection to which Mr. Ware refers, and the memory of which she herself cherished, at first and always. She had no sympathy, and little respect, for that narrow view which insists that one affection must crowd out another; that the departed and the living cannot share the same pure love of the same true heart. The happiness of husband and wife and household has sometimes been impaired by a mistaken apprehension on this subject, and a suspicion of feelings in each other which had no real existence, or existed only from the want of mutual and free expression. We have even known cruel attempts made by others to prejudice the minds of those most concerned, and especially the children of a former mother. For such attempts, and all thoughts of the kind, we cannot repress our indignant reproof. No false delicacy should prevent the utterance of truth, where the best affections and dearest interests are involved. Instead of avoiding the subject, we are grateful for the opportunity which such characters as Henry and Mary Ware give us, of presenting the just, generous, and Christian view. One of her own children has said of her: "Perhaps no one thing in her character and conduct has oftener struck common minds with surprise, and superior ones with admiration, than this entire freedom and frankness in regard to the first wife? 'She was the nearest and dearest to him,' she would say, 'how, then, can I do otherwise than love her and cherish her memory?' And her children she received as a precious legacy; they were to her from the first moment like her own; neither she nor they knew any distinction."

We are permitted to add one other letter of Henry Ware, beautifully illustrating the character of Mary, and showing his own large and holy view of this particular relation. It was addressed to Mrs. William Ware, sister of that first wife the memory of whose excellence and love he so blended with the new affection.

"May 15, 1827.

"My dear Mary:—

"I believe that I have said to you, two or three times, how much I had calculated on your long visit, as a means of making you and Miss Pickard well acquainted.... And I am not sure that I should have said even as much as this, were it not for one circumstance, which has given me a satisfaction that I never had hoped to enjoy, and which will be increased by imparting it to you. I have known so much of the selfishness of human love, and heard so much of the sensitiveness with which women are apt to regard a former affection, that I had not dared to hope that I ever should be able to speak as I feel of former days, and the memory of my earliest love. Yet, as I longed to cherish it, and as all my present plans and feelings are interwoven with the thoughts and images of the past, it would have been an exceeding pain to me to feel that there was any reserve, or any of that—I don't know what to call it—which would compel me to hide such feelings, and seem not to have them. I cannot tell you, then, how happy I have been in finding Miss Pickard entirely above all mean and selfish feelings, which I have supposed to be so common. She enters into my views, and we have talked freely of other days; and she helps to keep me right by speaking of the pleasant impressions she used to receive from Elizabeth's character, and what she has heard of her. I wish I could go into particulars. So unexpected a communication between us has been a source of gratification to me unspeakably great; and I do not know when I have felt more truly exalted and spiritualized, than when, after such a conversation which has freed us from every selfish and earthly feeling, we have knelt down together and prayed for blessing from that world, where, I feel sure, if the departed regard those whom they left behind, there is no sorrow or displeasure at the course I am pursuing. I take pleasure in telling you this, because nothing can or shall divide me from you, or lessen that feeling in which I have so long regarded you as one of the nearest, the very nearest, to me; and I long that all who are near to me should be so to you. Best love to you, and all happiness with you and yours. Till I see you, adieu.

"Yours,
"Henry."

Immediately after her engagement, Mary visited her friend in Worcester; and from that place we find a very long letter, relating more to others than to herself, written in a cheerful mood, but showing how deep and sober had been her meditations on the change that was before her, of which she writes more fully in the first letter after her return to Boston.

"Worcester, February 18, 1827.

"Dear Emma:—

"I have been hunting round the room to find a small sheet of paper upon which to do the pretty thing, and pay a troublesome debt. But my search has been in vain, so I have e'en changed the object of my pen, and determined to let it follow the dictates of my inclination, in covering a sheet of Grandpa McAdam's 'Bristol-best' with such lines and scratches as it may be impelled to make; nothing doubting but its impulses will give you some satisfaction, if they go no further than the expression of the sincere sympathy felt with you by your friends here, in your present state of joyful excitement. I do indeed rejoice with you in your happiness at the return of your brother; and you may be assured I am joined in this by the whole household. Although I have never known from experience what are the precise feelings you may have, I think I can enter into them at all times. And now, whether it is that my mind is more than usually attuned to joy, or whether it is more interested for you than it ever has been in similar cases with respect to others, I know not; but sure I am, that I never felt so much before, or seemed to myself so wholly awake to the feelings and interests of my friends, as at this moment. You must enjoy a great deal in the next few months, and I know you will not let so much cause for gratitude pass without its full effect. It has always seemed to me a most humiliating fact, that so much suffering should be necessary to teach us our dependence. Why should we not be equally taught by the blessings which are bestowed upon us, that we are and have nothing but as He wills it to be; and does it not seem a natural effect of such testimonies of love, to draw our hearts towards a Being who is so good to us? Let us at least, dear Emma, prove that it may have this influence.

"Nancy is very well, and bright and happy; and could I drive away from her a foolish feeling of a parting visit which hangs upon her mind, and fills her eyes whenever she speaks to me, we should be in a very merry key. As it is, however, we enjoy much, for I have much to tell her of the adventures of the last three years, which takes her away from the present; and she is at heart so truly satisfied and happy, that we cannot get up any thing like real melancholy.

"I wish indeed, with you, that I could attain something of your animation, and for a longer period than that you prescribe; for I do not hold it in such contempt as you do. It might not, perhaps, add to my individual happiness, for it seems to me I am as happy as mortal can be; but I do feel sure it would give me the means of communicating more pleasure to others, and this could not fail to increase my own. I have always considered that buoyancy of spirit of which you speak as a great and valuable gift; perhaps I have exaggerated its power, as we are apt to do every thing in which we are deficient. But its effects in chasing away the vapors which will sometimes gather, almost without cause, around the feelings of even the best and happiest, are not to be questioned, and are in my view of great worth. My happiest moments have always been my quietest, and this does little for others' comfort. I have in a great measure overcome the solemnity which oppressed me when I saw you; and were you only here, I think I could join with you in one of your merry laughs, as gayly as you could desire. I do indeed wish you were here.

"You were right in thinking that one of my letters was from cousin Jane; the other was from Aunty, quite a happy one, not one complaint, and directed by the 'little Doctor,'—so I conclude he is in the land of the living. Jane writes in good spirits; all things there in a better state than usual.

"Yours truly,
"M. L. P."

"Boston, March 20, 1827.

"My dear N——:

"Were I near you, it would be an unspeakable relief to pour forth to you, for every moment is so filled with constantly increasing interest, that at times I am oppressed and overpowered as I do not like to be; and there are moments when doubt and distrust of myself so entirely possess me, that I feel almost tempted to doubt my right to undertake what I have. My mind is slow in all its processes, you know, and in this matter it seems to me more slow than is common, it may be from the magnitude of the change; but certain it is, I have suffered more, and labored more to bring myself into the right state, than I ever did in my life in the same time. My cause for happiness is increasing every day, and this tempts me to dwell too exclusively upon concerns connected with self. I am seeing daily more and more of the immense responsibility under which I am placing myself, and feeling more and more my own incapacity, and this tempts me to be anxious and doubtful. I am understanding more of what might be done in the station I am to fill, and this makes me ambitious to satisfy all who will look to me with hope. O, if I could feel as I should, that if I do my utmost with my whole heart, from the right motive, I shall gain that approbation which should be the first object of my desire, be my efforts successful or not! But I am getting to depend too much upon the approbation of those I love.

"In one respect, this new and strong and satisfying interest is not having the influence I feared; instead of engrossing, absorbing, and making me selfish, excluding all other interests, it seems to enlarge the capacity of affection. I feel warmed more than ever towards every living being whom I ever loved. And it has done much towards exalting and enlightening my mind upon the point which has been a greater trial to me than any thing I ever met with. I mean, it has made me more willing to leave the world, and enjoy the happiness of heaven, than I ever thought I should be. Strange that the thing from which, of all others, I should have expected the very opposite effect, should have done this!

"I have been through all the forms and ceremonies of 'introduction,' very quietly. I have been to Cambridge, and the family have been here; and, better than that, I have laid siege to the venerable Doctor in his study, and had a most delightful conversation of nearly two hours in length; which made me feel that I was not a little privileged, to have any claim, however small, upon his interest.... I wish you could have heard Mr. Channing this morning on the 'Glory of Jesus Christ'; it was one of his highest flights. We have great preaching now-a-days from many quarters.

"Yours ever the same,
"Mary."

The marriage of the Rev. Henry Ware, Jr. and Mary L. Pickard took place at the house of Miss Bent in Boston, on the 11th of June, 1827, Dr. Gannett uniting and blessing them. They were absent a fortnight, journeying to New York and Northampton; and then returned to Boston with the two children, and entered upon their new home in Sheafe Street, at the North End. And there began a new life,—to Mary wholly new, and intensely busy. She gave herself up to all its duties, at once and unreservedly. Of her standard of duty we know something already; and they who also know the demands of a large parish upon a minister's wife, who resolves not only to make her house free and pleasant to all who will enter it, but also to share all of her husband's labors for which she is competent, can form an idea of what Mary found to do. "Mrs. Ware, at home and abroad, was the busiest woman of my acquaintance," is the reason given by one of her female friends for not seeking her society as much as she desired. It will be remembered that she began with a family, as well as parish, and that the duty of a "mother" was one which she held very sacred, and would never slight for any other. But we will let her tell the story of her first labors, as she does in a letter to Mrs. Hall, at Northampton, who had had the care of the children, and another to Mrs. Paine. We ought to say of these, and all the letters to be offered, that they are not given as recording great events or rare qualities, but simply for what they are,—expressions of the daily thought and domestic life of a conscientious woman, in common relations and quiet duty.

"Boston, July 20, 1827.

"Dear Harriet:—

"You will be glad, I know, to hear from my own pen how we all prosper, and I sincerely wish I had time enough to tell you all I wish you to know of my various arrangements and avocations, hopes and fears, wishes and successes. Of the latter I cannot boast much; I am, however, much delighted to find that many things which I expected would perplex me, and take more time and thought than I should be willing to give them, do not trouble me in the least degree,—such as household affairs, eating, drinking, and keeping matters moving methodically. I did not, to be sure, indulge anxiety about it, as from my utter ignorance I had some reason to do; but I did not suppose it possible that such a young novice could be inducted into the important station of housekeeper without suffering for a time a degree of martyrdom. But thus far I get on easily, and hope to learn by experience sufficient to meet future wants. My parish matters have gone on so far just as I wished. I gave up all last week to receiving visitors, and they came in just the manner I wished, morning, noon, or evening, as might be most convenient to themselves. It was the best way for me, for it gave me a better opportunity of getting acquainted with their looks, and they seemed to like it very much themselves. I am at liberty now, but prefer staying at home, and still have enough to do to say 'Welcome' to my friends.

"But this is all play-work in comparison with the other duties that belong to my lot. They are just what I knew they would be,—most delicate, most difficult, for one so utterly ignorant; but I see the difficulties, and do not find them greater than I have always known they would be; am neither discouraged nor faint-hearted, but hope and trust that power will yet be granted for all exigencies. I do not find myself as much discomposed by the task as I expected, considering I have had so little to do with children. But I do feel the importance of the relation in which I stand to them more deeply, more oppressively, than I could have conceived, and I am more than ever certain that I have a great deal to learn, and a long work before me. Do let me hear from you sometimes; we may not have much communication at present, but, as the Quaker said, 'we can meditate on each other.' I beg you to understand that I consider myself one whose lot has more than a common share of blessing, and daily and hourly do I thank God for guiding me to this pleasant path. I find I shall realize all you promised me of comfort, and much more too.

"Yours in sincerity.
"M. L. W."