Chapter XVII: Introduction (5)

"... 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:--