Chapter XIX: Introduction (7)

"I staid here with Mrs. Bates from the 4th to the 30th of
April, seeing and doing very diligently, and, with Mr. Paine's
assistance, examining many of the wonders and curiosities of
this great place, which I had not before seen. I then went to
Chatham to make my farewell visit to my cousin, Mrs. Stokes,
intending to stay only a fortnight; for I did not then know at
what time precisely Mr. Palfrey intended to embark for home,
and was making my arrangements to be ready the latter part of
June at the farthest. I was not, however, able to return at the
time I intended, for I was attacked very violently with spasms
from being very bilious, and the heavy doses administered by
the physician kept me housed for more than a week. I returned
to town on Monday last, the 22d, and came again to Mrs. Bates,
as she begged me to make her house my home in London, as long
as I staid. I was very much wearied with the journey, and Mr.
Palfrey and Mr. Bond, who came in soon after, thought I must be
ill, and may say so, but I assure you I am not. I gain strength
very fast, and, as a proof of it, I was nearly seven hours on
my feet yesterday, without food, and not fatigued by it. I
shall stay here only just long enough to see the friends I have
about London, and pack up my duds for the voyage, and then go
to Ash and Uncle Ben for a few days, and thence to Burcombe to
stay as long as I can.

"I feel now that my work here is finished (that is, all the
most important part,--I could find enough to do were I to stay
ever so long,) and I assure you I should feel most impatient of
delay beyond the time appointed. Mr. Bond brought me Mr.
Channing's Review _from himself_; you may believe I was not a
little pleased that he should think of me. I beg you will thank
him for me. How I shall enjoy hearing him, if such a blessing
is in store for me! Love to you and the household.

"M. L. P."

During the progress of events recorded in these different letters, covering the space of a whole winter, we can imagine that some anxiety was felt by friends on both sides of the water. Communication with remote towns and obscure hamlets, even in England, was not frequent or easy; and across the ocean we all know how different was the correspondence then and now. Accordingly, we find the deepest solicitude expressed, and painful suspense, in both lands. The manner in which the English friends write shows the extent of Mary's danger, as well as the amount of her services and their exalted and tender estimate of her worth. We are not in possession of as many letters from England, relating to any period, as we have wished to obtain; and the few we have we hesitate to use freely, because of their allusions to domestic incidents and persons who may be still living. But abundant is the testimony, if we need it, to their appreciation of Mary's character, warm and enthusiastic their love and admiration. A few sentences we take from the letters of Mrs. McAdam, the 'Aunt Jane' so often named, to a friend here.

_October, 1825._ "I have a letter this morning from our blessed
Mary, dated the 3d of October. She has laid her poor cousin in
the grave, after a fortnight's illness, during which time she
appears to have been her sole nurse. I dread she is doing far
more than she can bear. The younger of the two boys left is
taken ill, and she talks of taking him home to nurse him; but I
shall by this post write Miss McAdam to send for her and insist
on her removal. Her life is of so much more consequence than
any which are now left, that I can no longer hesitate. You, who
love her as well as I do, can imagine my uneasiness. Rest
assured, however, that I will keep you informed of every thing.
When she wrote, she said she had so much to do she could not
write home, and begged me to write. Now, my dear friend, all we
have to do is to rely on that God who orders all things for the
best, and to whom I constantly and ardently pray that He would
spare and reward our and His own Mary, to guide more of us to
Him; and I feel comforted when I rely with confidence on His
love and wisdom. She is such a blessing, that I would fain hope
the rest of my days may be influenced by her."

From the same:--

_November, 1825._ "Since I last wrote you, my dear Emma, I have
had various accounts from our incomparable Mary. I feel much
anxiety on her account, for which I have been frequently
reproved by her, whose higher feelings and better regulated
judgment give her such wonderful advantage over me, and so
constantly produce in her the tranquil security of inward
peace. She is so excellent, and so truly set in the midst of
difficulties, that it sometimes appears to me as if she had
been graciously lent to us for our guide to that heaven which
we _all_ pretend to seek. When she wrote, she was perfectly
well; but though our friends went for her, she would not leave
for several days, lest she should take the disease with her to
Penrith. I dare not say I wish she were removed, for all is
assuredly for the best, however it may appear to our imperfect
minds. I feel confident she is the peculiar care of the God she
loves and serves; but when she gets to Penrith, I know I shall
be almost too happy. Her mind has taken such complete
possession of my affections, that I appear to myself a new
creature; I have totally changed since I became actually
acquainted with her.... Our correspondence will not drop here,
I hope; and I may at some future period give you a faint idea
of the interest she has excited for every thing that lives and
breathes her atmosphere."

From the letters written in America at this time, to Mary or her friends in England, many touching passages might be borrowed. How much is conveyed in a single fact communicated to her, at the moment of the greatest anxiety! "With all their desire for your return, nobody murmurs; every body says it is much better for you to stay. And Mrs. Barnard says, when she expressed her sorrow about it to Dr. Channing, he gave her for the only time in his life almost an angry look!" The writer of this passage, when at last assured of Mary's perfect safety after all her labors and perils, sent her such a full, hearty outpouring of joy and love, that we must be pardoned for citing a part of it, as showing the depth of the interest she awakened and the affection she secured.

"MY DEAREST _LIVE_ MARY!--

"The pleasure and gratitude I feel in the confidence I now have
that I am writing to an inhabitant of this world, you can
scarcely imagine. The dread I felt about your fate weighed upon
me so heavily, in spite of all the reasoning and hope about
which I sedulously employed myself, that it was a great effort
to write; and I fear our letters of late have not served to
animate you. I shall not enter upon the long history of my
anxiety, which was inwardly greater than any body's, I believe,
because I knew more about it. I will only tell you, that a
question about you was sure to damp the best spirits I could be
in; and if people I visited undertook to talk about you, it was
a signal for my call to terminate. At one time, I determined
not to go to town till I heard from you, but was induced to
alter my plans, and did go and pass a month, doing all I could
to be at ease, and acting just as if I knew you were
_safe_;--how you want to scold me for using that word! as if
you could be any thing but safe in the hands of your God, and
when you were serving him to the utmost of your power.... On
Monday night, the 13th of this month, M----, E---- B----, and I
found our way to Milton Hill in the 'evening coach.' The next
day, that most valued of couriers, the milkman, brought us a
bundle from Pearl Street; two letters fell out on opening
it,--one from Exeter, the other from the Sandwich Isles,--a
long one from B----, which I employed all the daylight in
reading. Would you believe me so insatiable, when one such
blessing as hearing from that distant spot of earth had been
allowed? I was not yet satisfied, although we had left town but
the day before; presentiment drove me to the pile of clean
clothes on the floor, when my hand made its way through the
chaos to a letter! Mother says it was the sense of feeling that
discovered it to be yours, for the room was quite dark. I
needed but half a glimmer of fire-light to show me the
characters I had so longed and prayed to see once more. I
screeched, 'Mary Pickard!' and flew to the kitchen fire to
assure myself still farther; and never, dearest Mary, did I
feel a warmer flood of joy and gratitude than when 'Penrith,
8th December,' convinced me you were alive and well, and in
just the hands you ought to be! And when I came to know, too,
that my fears had not been unfounded, that you had so narrowly
escaped, had passed through such trying scenes, and done more,
much more, than almost any body ever did before, I was too
happy! Though you don't tell me so, I know under such
circumstances what efforts you made. But you have earned the
privilege of being an instrument, in the hands of the
All-powerful, of good to every human being you come in contact
with. And when I knew this, why did I feel so forlornly
whenever I thought of you in that remote place, alone, and
exposed to fatigue and illness? If it had been you, how much
higher views would you have taken!

"EMMA."

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

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

VIII.

NEW RELATIONS.

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

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

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

"_Boston, December 31, 1826._

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

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

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

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

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

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

"M. L. P."

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

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

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

* * * * *

"_Boston, January 30, 1827._

"MY DEAR N----:

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

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

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

"Yours most truly,

"M. L. P."

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

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

"_Boston, January 30, 1827._

"DEAR SISTER:--

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

"HENRY WARE, JR."

* * * * *

"_Saturday Evening, March 3, 1827._

"MY DEAR HARRIET:--

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

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

"HENRY."

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

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

"_May 15, 1827._

"MY DEAR MARY:--

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

"Yours,
"HENRY."

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

"_Worcester, February 18, 1827._

"DEAR EMMA:--

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

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

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

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

"Yours truly,

"M. L. P."

* * * * *

"_Boston, March 20, 1827._

"MY DEAR N----:

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

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

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

"Yours ever the same,

"MARY."

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

"_Boston, July 20, 1827._

"DEAR HARRIET:--

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

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

"Yours in sincerity.

"M. L. W."

* * * * *

"_Boston, July 22, 1827._

"DEAR NANCY:--

"Your letter was given me this morning in meeting, and has just
been read in one of the few quiet moments which fall to my
lot, and one of the most peaceful and refreshing; and I am
rejoiced to add to its pleasure, by turning to my little table
and writing to you. I have indeed longed to give you a peep
into my almost too delightful _home_; but it has been entirely
beyond possibility to find an opportunity to write. How much I
wish you could look in upon us, and see the whole detail of
affairs from Monday morning to Saturday night, and that still
more delightful season, the holy Sabbath, I need not tell you.
But I fear you will never fully understand it, unless you can
make yourself invisible and come among us....

"We came on in the same stage, next day, and found all in
readiness, perfect readiness, for us; and made so, too, by the
efforts of our friends, which added not a little to the
comfort. The ladies of the parish would not let Miss B---- hire
workwomen, but came and did things with their own hands. All
looked more comfortable and neat and appropriate than I
expected, as I had picked matters up with no small degree of
carelessness. Miss B---- and Mrs. B---- were on the spot to
receive us; and oh! Nancy, to enter _one's own home_, in which
was to be known all of experience which might be hid in the
future,--to come to it, too, as I did, after so long floating
on a changeful sea,--and to come to it under all the
interesting circumstances of grateful joy and fearful
responsibilities,--it was a moment not to be described or
forgotten.

"H---- told you of our Sunday. The transfer to a new place of
worship was trying and affecting; but I forgot the people, and
did not suffer because every eye in the house might be directed
towards me. I need not add, that the excitement in church is
much more than it ever was to me, though not what it will be
when I am more at home there. Sunday gave me truly the rest of
the soul. I arranged that it should be a quiet day. We prepared
dinner on Saturday, and locked up the house; Mr. Ware in his
study after breakfast, and the children with me, reading and
studying. They were easily interested, and, the excitement of
common days being removed, they were more as I wished, and gave
me much pleasure. So it was at noon; and at night they go to
their father, and I have my own hour of peaceful thought. And
then in the evening we are all together, talking or reading or
singing. It is realizing so exactly what I have always wished
to have the day, and what I never before knew, that I enjoy it
doubly. A friend, perhaps, drops in and joins our singing.