Chapter XIV: Introduction (2)

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

"_Hingham, April 9th, 1815._

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

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

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

"M. PICKARD."

[Footnote 1: He spent two years at Exeter, as teacher in the Academy.]

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

[Footnote 2: Memoir of Henry Ware, p. 83.]

IV.

DISCIPLINE AND CHARACTER.

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

"_Boston, April 17, 1815._

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

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

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

"_Hingham, April 22, 1815._

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

"MARY."

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

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

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

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

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

"_Boston, Sunday Evening, Sept 15, 1816._

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

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

"MARY."

* * * * *

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

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

"MARY."

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

"_Boston, July 10, 1817._

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

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

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

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

"MARY."

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

"_Boston, June 19, 1817._

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

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

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

"MARY."

* * * * *

"_Boston, August 20, 1817._

"MY DEAR MISS CUSHING:--

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

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

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

"M.L.P."

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

"_Boston, Sunday Night, October 12, 1817._

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

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

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

"MARY."

V.

CHANGES AT HOME.

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

"_Boston, November, 1817._

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

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

"MARY."

* * * * *

"_Boston, December, 1817._

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

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

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

"M. L. P."