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 thosewhom she wished to gratify, and who urged upon her, when other arguments failed, one that was unanswerable; namely, that she had nodutyto call her home. With sadness did she admit it, and nobly too. "I feel that I have many ties which have tomethe 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 regardsthe 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, 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 regardsthe 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 ofthe 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."
"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 ofthe 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 wasshared 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 powerfulone, 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 myexpectations 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."
"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 powerfulone, 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 myexpectations 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 ourdisappointment 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 placebefore 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."
"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 ourdisappointment 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 placebefore 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."
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. Accordinglyshe 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. Herexperiences 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 bettertime 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 shallfind full employment for my fingers, in making my poor aunt as comfortable as I wish to leave her."Yours,"M. L. P."
"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. Herexperiences 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 bettertime 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 shallfind 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, givesme 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 littletrouble, 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 allwas 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 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, givesme 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 littletrouble, 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 allwas 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 aresponsibility 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 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 aresponsibility 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 onmy 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 mostknowingly,—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 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 onmy 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 mostknowingly,—one proof among a thousand how much more frequently our characters are estimated by the circumstances in which we happen to be placed, than by any other criterion. Do write, to the last minute. I cannot bear to part with you in this unsatisfactory manner, but indeed I am incapable of any thing more; my eyes are dazzled as I write, and I must lie down. I shall write by the packet of the 24th from Liverpool, so that you will hear of me almost as soon as you get home; and I pray God that in safety and health and increased happiness you may all reach 'that haven where you would be, with a grateful sense of His mercies.' May God for ever bless you, my dear, kind friend, and strengthen you by His grace to pursue with success that path of virtue and holiness which it is your wish to follow, and enable you to perform all the duties which lie before you, consistently with His divine will, and worthy of His acceptance. This can only be done by humble reliance upon Him who is the way, the truth, and the life, for guidance, support, and reward. He alone can enable us to do that which we ought to do, and, feeling our own weakness, let us rely with faith upon His promises, neither doubting nor fearing the certainty of their accomplishment. But I cannot write or think; I seem to feel that 'bonnie little bairnie' in my arms still, and my nerves are something shaken. The worst of the whole is that poor, unhappy young man, whose low moans are continually sounding in my ears; but I send him away to-morrow for his own sake, as well as ours, and all will go well. Again, dearest Emma, Heaven bless you! Ever your
"M. L. P."
"Osmotherly, September 14, 1825."Dear Emma:—"I have had a grand night's sleep, and am better to-day,—should be well, but for this lazy feeling, and a dull headache.Don't fear for me. I do not think I am going to be sick, and it will be for some good purpose if I am. I could not regret what I have done; I could almost say, as Mr. Thacher once said, 'I had better live a shorter life, and a useful one.' But I am not inclined to throw away life either; I enjoy it much, and think it right for all to endeavor to preserve it, for we may all do some good if we try, and that is reason enough for keeping it, were there no enjoyment to be had; as there is, even for the most distressed. But I must leave you, for I am not able to write more."... We buried the dear little baby to-day, which has been a wet, uncomfortable one, and I do not feel the better for the exposure, but on the whole am very well; nothing but a trifling cold, scarcely worth minding. I feel with you that it is as well, if notbetter, that I should stay. But you must not judge of its importance by cousin Jane's representation; her warm heart runs away with her judgment where she feels so much."A truce with your 'feelings of inferiority.' Who scolds me for the same feelings? It is Pride, my dear, depend upon it. I know it of old. Do not let it triumph."Ever sincerely yours,"M. L. P."
"Osmotherly, September 14, 1825.
"Dear Emma:—
"I have had a grand night's sleep, and am better to-day,—should be well, but for this lazy feeling, and a dull headache.Don't fear for me. I do not think I am going to be sick, and it will be for some good purpose if I am. I could not regret what I have done; I could almost say, as Mr. Thacher once said, 'I had better live a shorter life, and a useful one.' But I am not inclined to throw away life either; I enjoy it much, and think it right for all to endeavor to preserve it, for we may all do some good if we try, and that is reason enough for keeping it, were there no enjoyment to be had; as there is, even for the most distressed. But I must leave you, for I am not able to write more.
"... We buried the dear little baby to-day, which has been a wet, uncomfortable one, and I do not feel the better for the exposure, but on the whole am very well; nothing but a trifling cold, scarcely worth minding. I feel with you that it is as well, if notbetter, that I should stay. But you must not judge of its importance by cousin Jane's representation; her warm heart runs away with her judgment where she feels so much.
"A truce with your 'feelings of inferiority.' Who scolds me for the same feelings? It is Pride, my dear, depend upon it. I know it of old. Do not let it triumph.
"Ever sincerely yours,"M. L. P."
"Osmotherly, October 3, 1825."My dear Emma:—"I have just received your farewell blessing, and could you look in upon me, and know the peculiar circumstances and situation in which I am placed, you would not be surprised that it has made a very child of me, and that for the time I feel as if all my connection with my home and its interests was severed by your departure. I would not write under these impressions, for I know it is a diseased state of mind, did I not fear that, unless I improve this one leisure evening, I shall not have another opportunity of writing fora long time; and I know you will be anxious to hear from me, from the uncomfortable feeling which you express at not receiving late letters. I did at first regret that I had not written upon the chances of your being detained, but on the whole it was best that I did not, for I could not at any moment since my last date have relieved your anxiety, had I told you the truth, and I think your imagination could not picture any evil so bad as the reality has been."But to proceed in order. I wrote you last, I think, the day after the dear little infant was buried, and I believe I mentioned to you that I had taken up my night quarters with my poor cousin Bessy. She had never been left alone since her husband died, and now that she had no longer her baby to occupy her attention, she felt her desolateness more forcibly. I therefore gave the day to my aunt, having Bessy and her two little boys as much with us as possible, and passed the night with her. She was the most patient sufferer I ever saw; not a word of repining ever escaped her, and she went about her occupations and duties with a steadiness which spoke a determination to sacrifice every selfish consideration to the good of her children. Scarcely a tear could be seen on her cheek, and a common observer would have accused her of want of feeling, if he had not understood that the settled calm which sat upon her face might hide more real agony than is ever shown by any 'sounds of woe.' Her resolution astonished her friends, for they knew her to have a very timid and self-distrusting character, and the situation in which she was thus suddenly placed would have appalled even a stout heart. But I saw the true state of the case. When the duties of the day were past, and the necessity for exerting herself over, and all at rest but ourselves, she felt at liberty to indulge herself in talking of that of which she would not speak to any one beside; and I found that what seemedinsensibility was in reality a degree of fortitude and resolution which I never saw equalled. I thought it best, too, to encourage her thus to open her heart, for I believe that concealed grief is always the most destructive to the mind, and her situation really required the advice and assistance of any one who could aid her, as she was inexperienced and felt her own deficiencies to a most overpowering degree. She had had but little instruction upon religious subjects, and would listen to my reading of the Scriptures, and detail of my own experience of the power of religious consolations, as if a new light were opened to her soul. I did not then know how much she was affected, but the readiness with which she adopted advice upon the subject gave me much hope that it would in time become as valuable to her as it had been to me."I told you that her infant was only a fortnight old when her husband was taken ill, and only a month when it died. Its mother had never recovered her strength, and distress having destroyed her appetite, and watching deprived her of sleep, she was as thin and weak as possible, and but ill able to bear the consequences of the sudden death of the child. This, added to a cold which she took, made her very feverish, and the absence of the physician from town obliged her to confine herself to such simple remedies as we could prescribe, to avert further evil and restore her strength. But the benefit which she derived from them was but temporary. A week from the day upon which her baby died, while passing the afternoon with us, she was taken very ill, and it was with great difficulty that her brother and myself carried her to her own house, only a few rods distant. I lost no time in administering the prescriptions of the physician, and for a few days she seemed to mend; but I soon felt convinced that her disease was the worst form of typhus fever, and was sure that she hadnot strength to get through it. The doctor confirmed my suspicions, but told me that such was the dread of it among the country people, that, if it were known, I should be left to myself, for no one would come near the house. I had not then required any assistance, for I was very well, and, knowing her situation to be a critical one, did not like to trust her to any one beside. By some means, however, the story was sounded abroad and spread like wildfire, and the suspicion of (what was in fact the truth) the two brothers having died of the same disorder added to the evil."The day after Bessy was taken, Jemmy, her youngest child, a boy of three, fell ill too, and though it was doubtful whether whooping-cough or typhus had the greater share in his malady, to the fearful minds of the villagers it was all one and the same, and the family were thought to be doomed to destruction. One by one fell off from coming near the house, till I at last scarcely saw a person except the doctor during the day. This I did not mind, for I preferred being constantly with my cousin, and the actual labor of attending her was not great; she took but little, and all the help which I wished for I had. She died, however, on the 30th of September, eleven days after she was taken, and during that time I had never left her, night or day, except to change my clothes occasionally at my aunt's. I had watched with her seven nights, and been up part of every other; for so accustomed was she to my care, that she did not like to be touched by any other person. I had sent the two little boys to their grandmother's, and the youngest was very ill during the whole of his mother's sickness, and still continues so. My cousin's little cottage was so small, that I felt unwilling that any one should sleep in it, lest they should suffer from infection; and often did I sit up with her alone in the house. I had been so exposed to the disease that I felt no fears for myself, and I believethis helped to preserve me, and the good doctor watched me very narrowly. I could not in a month tell you half the interesting circumstances attending this trying scene. Her senses never forsook her for a moment, nor her deep sense of gratitude to God for the mercies which he had bestowed on her amid all her sufferings. It seemed to her His immediate providence which had sent me to them just at this time, and her expressions of affection and thankfulness were indeed most delightful to me. It does appear most singular that I should have come just now, for the fact is, poor Bessy would have suffered for want of a nurse, beside many other necessaries, had I not been here. Her mother was fully occupied with the little boy, and her sister too distant, and of too much importance at home, to be with her, and the people of the place are too ignorant and frightened to have been all to her that she required."It was necessary to bury her immediately; and thus is this family entirely broken up, in the short space of three weeks, by the death of both its heads. She left her children to my sole direction and care, and the settlement of all their affairs, so that I have still much to do, beside the care of the sick child. His grandmother is almost worn out with it, and left his mother's death-bed only to nurse him. I have now stolen away from him for an hour to visit this deserted place, and am sitting by the fire in the lonely parlor, without any other being in the house but the eldest boy of seven, who is amusing himself by my side, interrupting me now and then by saying, 'Cousin Mary, you will let me live with you, wont you?' Every thing is still without, and so strongly is my poor cousin's voice associated with every thing I see around me, that it would not require any very strong effort of imagination to fancy I still heard her blessing me from what is now, I trust, her abode of peace and joy. But I must not indulge myself inwriting about feelings, for I have much else to say; but I really think, since the last solemn evening that I spent alone in the old oak parlor in Pearl Street, I have never felt so forcibly the mutability of all earthly things; and had I any one to listen, I could talk all night upon the subject."This is by far the most primitive, uncivilized place I was ever in; I cannot liken it to any thing I know at home, for even Worthington has lawyers and a clergyman's family to redeem it; and, moreover, the general inhabitants of our little towns have more information and education than is to be found in these out-of-the-way villages, to which the modern improvement of national and free schools has not yet been extended. I am glad to see all the varieties of life, but under present circumstances this is a very solitary one. Were it not for the physician's visits, which he kindly makes every day, I should live totally without conversation in its true sense. The people are good and honest-hearted, and treat me as if I belonged to a higher order of animals,—and this is a novel situation! I am very free from complaints, and take care not to do more than I feel able to, and if I am superstitious in feeling that Providence directed me hither at this time, it is a useful superstition, inasmuch as it gives me a feeling of security that I shall be guided and strengthened to accomplish the work appointed for me. Do not fear, but hope and pray for me."I cannot tell you how much your visit to Burcombe gratified me; you could not have obliged me more, for I should have been so suspicious that my own description of it and its inhabitants might be a partial one, that I doubt if I should really have done them justice at home: Jane was as much pleased with the effort you made to see them, as any one could possibly be, and more pleased with the visit itself than I choose to tell you. I have most kind letters from the family at Penrith, offering to come for mewhenever I give the word of command; it is a delightful rest to look forward to, but it will, I fear, be long before I can avail myself of it. The thoughts of home are to me now something like the dreams one has of heaven, in the twilight hours between sleeping and waking; I dare not form any definite picture, and yet the idea will not be wholly discarded. But with so much around me to make me realize the uncertainty of life, and exposed to actual danger every moment, how can I presume even to hope? May I be able to say from the heart, 'Thy will be done.'"Mary."
"Osmotherly, October 3, 1825.
"My dear Emma:—
"I have just received your farewell blessing, and could you look in upon me, and know the peculiar circumstances and situation in which I am placed, you would not be surprised that it has made a very child of me, and that for the time I feel as if all my connection with my home and its interests was severed by your departure. I would not write under these impressions, for I know it is a diseased state of mind, did I not fear that, unless I improve this one leisure evening, I shall not have another opportunity of writing fora long time; and I know you will be anxious to hear from me, from the uncomfortable feeling which you express at not receiving late letters. I did at first regret that I had not written upon the chances of your being detained, but on the whole it was best that I did not, for I could not at any moment since my last date have relieved your anxiety, had I told you the truth, and I think your imagination could not picture any evil so bad as the reality has been.
"But to proceed in order. I wrote you last, I think, the day after the dear little infant was buried, and I believe I mentioned to you that I had taken up my night quarters with my poor cousin Bessy. She had never been left alone since her husband died, and now that she had no longer her baby to occupy her attention, she felt her desolateness more forcibly. I therefore gave the day to my aunt, having Bessy and her two little boys as much with us as possible, and passed the night with her. She was the most patient sufferer I ever saw; not a word of repining ever escaped her, and she went about her occupations and duties with a steadiness which spoke a determination to sacrifice every selfish consideration to the good of her children. Scarcely a tear could be seen on her cheek, and a common observer would have accused her of want of feeling, if he had not understood that the settled calm which sat upon her face might hide more real agony than is ever shown by any 'sounds of woe.' Her resolution astonished her friends, for they knew her to have a very timid and self-distrusting character, and the situation in which she was thus suddenly placed would have appalled even a stout heart. But I saw the true state of the case. When the duties of the day were past, and the necessity for exerting herself over, and all at rest but ourselves, she felt at liberty to indulge herself in talking of that of which she would not speak to any one beside; and I found that what seemedinsensibility was in reality a degree of fortitude and resolution which I never saw equalled. I thought it best, too, to encourage her thus to open her heart, for I believe that concealed grief is always the most destructive to the mind, and her situation really required the advice and assistance of any one who could aid her, as she was inexperienced and felt her own deficiencies to a most overpowering degree. She had had but little instruction upon religious subjects, and would listen to my reading of the Scriptures, and detail of my own experience of the power of religious consolations, as if a new light were opened to her soul. I did not then know how much she was affected, but the readiness with which she adopted advice upon the subject gave me much hope that it would in time become as valuable to her as it had been to me.
"I told you that her infant was only a fortnight old when her husband was taken ill, and only a month when it died. Its mother had never recovered her strength, and distress having destroyed her appetite, and watching deprived her of sleep, she was as thin and weak as possible, and but ill able to bear the consequences of the sudden death of the child. This, added to a cold which she took, made her very feverish, and the absence of the physician from town obliged her to confine herself to such simple remedies as we could prescribe, to avert further evil and restore her strength. But the benefit which she derived from them was but temporary. A week from the day upon which her baby died, while passing the afternoon with us, she was taken very ill, and it was with great difficulty that her brother and myself carried her to her own house, only a few rods distant. I lost no time in administering the prescriptions of the physician, and for a few days she seemed to mend; but I soon felt convinced that her disease was the worst form of typhus fever, and was sure that she hadnot strength to get through it. The doctor confirmed my suspicions, but told me that such was the dread of it among the country people, that, if it were known, I should be left to myself, for no one would come near the house. I had not then required any assistance, for I was very well, and, knowing her situation to be a critical one, did not like to trust her to any one beside. By some means, however, the story was sounded abroad and spread like wildfire, and the suspicion of (what was in fact the truth) the two brothers having died of the same disorder added to the evil.
"The day after Bessy was taken, Jemmy, her youngest child, a boy of three, fell ill too, and though it was doubtful whether whooping-cough or typhus had the greater share in his malady, to the fearful minds of the villagers it was all one and the same, and the family were thought to be doomed to destruction. One by one fell off from coming near the house, till I at last scarcely saw a person except the doctor during the day. This I did not mind, for I preferred being constantly with my cousin, and the actual labor of attending her was not great; she took but little, and all the help which I wished for I had. She died, however, on the 30th of September, eleven days after she was taken, and during that time I had never left her, night or day, except to change my clothes occasionally at my aunt's. I had watched with her seven nights, and been up part of every other; for so accustomed was she to my care, that she did not like to be touched by any other person. I had sent the two little boys to their grandmother's, and the youngest was very ill during the whole of his mother's sickness, and still continues so. My cousin's little cottage was so small, that I felt unwilling that any one should sleep in it, lest they should suffer from infection; and often did I sit up with her alone in the house. I had been so exposed to the disease that I felt no fears for myself, and I believethis helped to preserve me, and the good doctor watched me very narrowly. I could not in a month tell you half the interesting circumstances attending this trying scene. Her senses never forsook her for a moment, nor her deep sense of gratitude to God for the mercies which he had bestowed on her amid all her sufferings. It seemed to her His immediate providence which had sent me to them just at this time, and her expressions of affection and thankfulness were indeed most delightful to me. It does appear most singular that I should have come just now, for the fact is, poor Bessy would have suffered for want of a nurse, beside many other necessaries, had I not been here. Her mother was fully occupied with the little boy, and her sister too distant, and of too much importance at home, to be with her, and the people of the place are too ignorant and frightened to have been all to her that she required.
"It was necessary to bury her immediately; and thus is this family entirely broken up, in the short space of three weeks, by the death of both its heads. She left her children to my sole direction and care, and the settlement of all their affairs, so that I have still much to do, beside the care of the sick child. His grandmother is almost worn out with it, and left his mother's death-bed only to nurse him. I have now stolen away from him for an hour to visit this deserted place, and am sitting by the fire in the lonely parlor, without any other being in the house but the eldest boy of seven, who is amusing himself by my side, interrupting me now and then by saying, 'Cousin Mary, you will let me live with you, wont you?' Every thing is still without, and so strongly is my poor cousin's voice associated with every thing I see around me, that it would not require any very strong effort of imagination to fancy I still heard her blessing me from what is now, I trust, her abode of peace and joy. But I must not indulge myself inwriting about feelings, for I have much else to say; but I really think, since the last solemn evening that I spent alone in the old oak parlor in Pearl Street, I have never felt so forcibly the mutability of all earthly things; and had I any one to listen, I could talk all night upon the subject.
"This is by far the most primitive, uncivilized place I was ever in; I cannot liken it to any thing I know at home, for even Worthington has lawyers and a clergyman's family to redeem it; and, moreover, the general inhabitants of our little towns have more information and education than is to be found in these out-of-the-way villages, to which the modern improvement of national and free schools has not yet been extended. I am glad to see all the varieties of life, but under present circumstances this is a very solitary one. Were it not for the physician's visits, which he kindly makes every day, I should live totally without conversation in its true sense. The people are good and honest-hearted, and treat me as if I belonged to a higher order of animals,—and this is a novel situation! I am very free from complaints, and take care not to do more than I feel able to, and if I am superstitious in feeling that Providence directed me hither at this time, it is a useful superstition, inasmuch as it gives me a feeling of security that I shall be guided and strengthened to accomplish the work appointed for me. Do not fear, but hope and pray for me.
"I cannot tell you how much your visit to Burcombe gratified me; you could not have obliged me more, for I should have been so suspicious that my own description of it and its inhabitants might be a partial one, that I doubt if I should really have done them justice at home: Jane was as much pleased with the effort you made to see them, as any one could possibly be, and more pleased with the visit itself than I choose to tell you. I have most kind letters from the family at Penrith, offering to come for mewhenever I give the word of command; it is a delightful rest to look forward to, but it will, I fear, be long before I can avail myself of it. The thoughts of home are to me now something like the dreams one has of heaven, in the twilight hours between sleeping and waking; I dare not form any definite picture, and yet the idea will not be wholly discarded. But with so much around me to make me realize the uncertainty of life, and exposed to actual danger every moment, how can I presume even to hope? May I be able to say from the heart, 'Thy will be done.'
"Mary."
"Osmotherly, October 23, 1825."My dear Cousin:—"I wrote Emma a hurried letter a few weeks since, giving an account of my poor cousin's illness and death, and then hoped that I should soon be able to tell a happier tale, to relieve the anxiety which that might have produced. But it is not yet in my power, and I should not venture to write at all, did I not hope that all your uneasiness on my account will find an antidote in the confidence which daily experience increases in my heart, that He whose arm is mighty to save, and who has hitherto protected me from all danger, will still extend to me his fatherly care, and guide and guard me under all the events of his providence. You will readily believe that I have need of this confidence to strengthen me, when I tell you that I am writing this by the bedside of the eldest of those two dear little orphans whom my cousin left in my care. His little brother had scarcely recovered from his fever, when I was obliged to leave him to attend this poor child with the same fever, and have now been for more than a week his sole nurse, night and day."But to give you an adequate idea of the peculiarly trying situation in which I have been placed for the last sevenweeks, I must recapitulate the story, which you may perhaps have gathered in unconnected details from my letters to Emma. It is indeed a melancholy one, but proves to me most painfully that our steps are oftentimes guided by a wisdom from above, far beyond our own limited conceptions. You know that one of my objects in coming to England was to try to do something more than I had hitherto been enabled to, for the comfort of my poor old aunt, and you will not therefore be surprised that it was my fixed resolution not to return until I had an opportunity of ascertaining how to do this most effectually. When at last I did get here, it was with the expectation of staying only just long enough to see that she was made comfortable. I knew nothing of her family even by name, and of herself only that she was old and feeble, and subject to fits of extreme melancholy. I had not any anticipations of pleasure, except from the feeling that I was doing what my dear father would have done, and fulfilling one of the duties of my life. My father had been her idol through life, and, as I have now found, almost her sole dependence; her children could do little for her, and the relations she had in England knew nothing of her. She was of course most delighted to see me, and prepared to devote herself with all her faculties to my comfort. But, poor body, she stood in need of all that I could do to comfort to her."I have written this in the intervals of attendance upon the little boy, and, as you may perceive, at different periods, for I seldom sit five minutes at once. It is now the 25th, and I am happy to say he is a little better; but I scarcely dare hope, he is of so feeble a constitution. I left him yesterday under the influence of opium, so that I was sure he would not miss me, to go to North Allerton, seven miles distant, to meet old Mr. McAdam and my cousin S——, who hadcome from Penrith in their carriage for me. They did not come hither, fearing that strangers would be but intruders in such distress, but stopped at North Allerton, and sent an express to me on Sunday night, begging me to return with them if possible, for they had known of all the sickness which surrounded me, and feared I should suffer from contagion. It was most kind in them, and I should have been most happy for the release could I have gone with an easy conscience. But it would have been worse than inhuman to have left this poor little sufferer, beside that much of the business which I have undertaken is unfinished, and I should not think I had done my duty until I had settled these orphans permanently. But I thought I ought to go to them to explain this, as I should have been afraid to have had them come here, and I took a chaise and passed the day with them. My patient did not wake up enough to know I was away, and it was quite a refreshment to me. Am I not most fortunate to have such kind friends in this strange land? It is a comfort to feel that I have such a resting-place when my labors here are over, and cheers me even in this most solitary of all the situations in which I have ever been placed. Were it not for the good little doctor who attends my patients, I know not what I should do. My cousin cannot leave home for an instant, and my poor aunt is overwhelmed with all these distressing events, added to the continual trial which the melancholy young man is to all of us. I get on without much fatigue, however, and have not yet been obliged to sit up all night; and with the sleep which I get whenever the little fellow is quiet, I do very well. He has been very much out of his head the greater part of the time, but very patient when he is sensible. It is now ten days since he became ill, and you may suppose he is somewhat attached to his cousin by this time, and I to him. O, if you could look in upon me, what would you say!"October 30.You would pity me now if you could look upon me, for I have this night closed the eyes of the dear child whom I was watching when I wrote the above. He seemed better daily after my last date, and on Friday, the 28th, sat up and appeared in every respect on the recovery; his appetite was good, his fever reduced, and his strength improving. He awoke on Saturday early, and begged for his breakfast, ate a light one, and fell asleep. His nose had bled a little the evening before, but not much; but about eleven, he suddenly threw off from his stomach such a quantity of blood, as proved to us that there was some internal rupture in the head. This continued through the day and night, increasing in violence. No earthly power could save him; all was done that could be, but certain spots which appeared upon him soon after the bleeding commenced decided the physician that he could not live. He lingered until this evening, and died from absolute exhaustion at ten o'clock, of what is called spotted fever here;—and I laid with him after the spots had come out, without knowing what they meant. It is a great shock, for I felt almost secure that he was getting better, and his poor grandmother is nearly distracted. This seems to affect her more than all; being under her own roof, it is brought more home to her senses, and it is indeed shocking to lose five of one family in so short a time. I am sitting up, while a woman, who has been with me through this dreadful day, gets a little rest by the side of my aunt; but as I was up last night, I am in such an agitated state that I am not fit to write. To have seen four human beings die in the short space of eight weeks is enough of itself to solemnize one's mind; but with all the additional circumstances which have attended these, no wonder that my heart is full to overflowing. This was a fine boy, and you know that the endearing ways of a sick child are most engaging underany circumstances, and when that child is an orphan, and dependent upon one's self entirely, the interest is indeed intense. I never met with so violent a case of fever, and the poor sufferer was sensible to the last of all its horrors. One cannot indeed lament for him, for he would have probably had but a hard life. Little James is now indeed alone in the world, happily too young to be conscious of his loss; but it is very affecting to think of his being deprived of father, mother, and two brothers in eight weeks, and left so perfectly alone."November 2.I add a line to say that I am quite well, therefore do not feel anxious about me. There are very many cases of the fever in the village, and as I am almost the only person in it who is not afraid of infection, I still have full employment in assisting the poor sufferers. My cousin's little niece is still very ill. I have indeed been wonderfully preserved and strengthened. Heaven save me from presumption, but I cannot help feeling that I could not have lived through all that I have, unless God had protected me."Yours affectionately,"M. L. P."
"Osmotherly, October 23, 1825.
"My dear Cousin:—
"I wrote Emma a hurried letter a few weeks since, giving an account of my poor cousin's illness and death, and then hoped that I should soon be able to tell a happier tale, to relieve the anxiety which that might have produced. But it is not yet in my power, and I should not venture to write at all, did I not hope that all your uneasiness on my account will find an antidote in the confidence which daily experience increases in my heart, that He whose arm is mighty to save, and who has hitherto protected me from all danger, will still extend to me his fatherly care, and guide and guard me under all the events of his providence. You will readily believe that I have need of this confidence to strengthen me, when I tell you that I am writing this by the bedside of the eldest of those two dear little orphans whom my cousin left in my care. His little brother had scarcely recovered from his fever, when I was obliged to leave him to attend this poor child with the same fever, and have now been for more than a week his sole nurse, night and day.
"But to give you an adequate idea of the peculiarly trying situation in which I have been placed for the last sevenweeks, I must recapitulate the story, which you may perhaps have gathered in unconnected details from my letters to Emma. It is indeed a melancholy one, but proves to me most painfully that our steps are oftentimes guided by a wisdom from above, far beyond our own limited conceptions. You know that one of my objects in coming to England was to try to do something more than I had hitherto been enabled to, for the comfort of my poor old aunt, and you will not therefore be surprised that it was my fixed resolution not to return until I had an opportunity of ascertaining how to do this most effectually. When at last I did get here, it was with the expectation of staying only just long enough to see that she was made comfortable. I knew nothing of her family even by name, and of herself only that she was old and feeble, and subject to fits of extreme melancholy. I had not any anticipations of pleasure, except from the feeling that I was doing what my dear father would have done, and fulfilling one of the duties of my life. My father had been her idol through life, and, as I have now found, almost her sole dependence; her children could do little for her, and the relations she had in England knew nothing of her. She was of course most delighted to see me, and prepared to devote herself with all her faculties to my comfort. But, poor body, she stood in need of all that I could do to comfort to her.
"I have written this in the intervals of attendance upon the little boy, and, as you may perceive, at different periods, for I seldom sit five minutes at once. It is now the 25th, and I am happy to say he is a little better; but I scarcely dare hope, he is of so feeble a constitution. I left him yesterday under the influence of opium, so that I was sure he would not miss me, to go to North Allerton, seven miles distant, to meet old Mr. McAdam and my cousin S——, who hadcome from Penrith in their carriage for me. They did not come hither, fearing that strangers would be but intruders in such distress, but stopped at North Allerton, and sent an express to me on Sunday night, begging me to return with them if possible, for they had known of all the sickness which surrounded me, and feared I should suffer from contagion. It was most kind in them, and I should have been most happy for the release could I have gone with an easy conscience. But it would have been worse than inhuman to have left this poor little sufferer, beside that much of the business which I have undertaken is unfinished, and I should not think I had done my duty until I had settled these orphans permanently. But I thought I ought to go to them to explain this, as I should have been afraid to have had them come here, and I took a chaise and passed the day with them. My patient did not wake up enough to know I was away, and it was quite a refreshment to me. Am I not most fortunate to have such kind friends in this strange land? It is a comfort to feel that I have such a resting-place when my labors here are over, and cheers me even in this most solitary of all the situations in which I have ever been placed. Were it not for the good little doctor who attends my patients, I know not what I should do. My cousin cannot leave home for an instant, and my poor aunt is overwhelmed with all these distressing events, added to the continual trial which the melancholy young man is to all of us. I get on without much fatigue, however, and have not yet been obliged to sit up all night; and with the sleep which I get whenever the little fellow is quiet, I do very well. He has been very much out of his head the greater part of the time, but very patient when he is sensible. It is now ten days since he became ill, and you may suppose he is somewhat attached to his cousin by this time, and I to him. O, if you could look in upon me, what would you say!
"October 30.You would pity me now if you could look upon me, for I have this night closed the eyes of the dear child whom I was watching when I wrote the above. He seemed better daily after my last date, and on Friday, the 28th, sat up and appeared in every respect on the recovery; his appetite was good, his fever reduced, and his strength improving. He awoke on Saturday early, and begged for his breakfast, ate a light one, and fell asleep. His nose had bled a little the evening before, but not much; but about eleven, he suddenly threw off from his stomach such a quantity of blood, as proved to us that there was some internal rupture in the head. This continued through the day and night, increasing in violence. No earthly power could save him; all was done that could be, but certain spots which appeared upon him soon after the bleeding commenced decided the physician that he could not live. He lingered until this evening, and died from absolute exhaustion at ten o'clock, of what is called spotted fever here;—and I laid with him after the spots had come out, without knowing what they meant. It is a great shock, for I felt almost secure that he was getting better, and his poor grandmother is nearly distracted. This seems to affect her more than all; being under her own roof, it is brought more home to her senses, and it is indeed shocking to lose five of one family in so short a time. I am sitting up, while a woman, who has been with me through this dreadful day, gets a little rest by the side of my aunt; but as I was up last night, I am in such an agitated state that I am not fit to write. To have seen four human beings die in the short space of eight weeks is enough of itself to solemnize one's mind; but with all the additional circumstances which have attended these, no wonder that my heart is full to overflowing. This was a fine boy, and you know that the endearing ways of a sick child are most engaging underany circumstances, and when that child is an orphan, and dependent upon one's self entirely, the interest is indeed intense. I never met with so violent a case of fever, and the poor sufferer was sensible to the last of all its horrors. One cannot indeed lament for him, for he would have probably had but a hard life. Little James is now indeed alone in the world, happily too young to be conscious of his loss; but it is very affecting to think of his being deprived of father, mother, and two brothers in eight weeks, and left so perfectly alone.
"November 2.I add a line to say that I am quite well, therefore do not feel anxious about me. There are very many cases of the fever in the village, and as I am almost the only person in it who is not afraid of infection, I still have full employment in assisting the poor sufferers. My cousin's little niece is still very ill. I have indeed been wonderfully preserved and strengthened. Heaven save me from presumption, but I cannot help feeling that I could not have lived through all that I have, unless God had protected me.
"Yours affectionately,
"M. L. P."
We need not attempt to add any thing to this simple and affecting narrative of events that seem to belong to a more remote place and period than England and our own day. With all their naturalness and the stamp of reality, it would not be difficult—as indeed has been done—to clothe them with the drapery of fiction, and weave them into a romantic, improbable tale.
But the tale is not all told. The scene shifts at this point, only to be succeeded by another notunlike, nor far apart. Near the end of November, Mary was released from present duty at Osmotherly, took a reluctant leave—yes, with her generous and clinging affections, areluctantleave—of the family in which she had closed the eyes of five members, and was carried by eager, anxious friends to Penrith. There, in the bosom of a charming household already known and dear to her, every thing within and without presented as strong a contrast to the situation she had just left, as words could express. Her own words give us some idea of it, in the first letter she wrote after leaving a place associated "with images of danger and death," and leaving it, as she supposed, for ever. But the very next letter after that surprises us with the old date of "Osmotherly"; and we find that hardly a month had passed before she was recalled to the same spot, the same painful responsibilities, and far greater danger than before, as the result proved. But again we leave her to tell her own story.
"Penrith, Cumberland, November 29, 1825."My dear Cousin:—"After all my melancholy letters from Osmotherly, you will be glad to receive one of another date, and under happier circumstances. My last letter was just after the death of the dear little boy, and I then thought I should be able to leave there very shortly; but it was not until the 26th, (after I had been there twelve weeks instead of the three which I intended when I went,) that I could arrange matters so that I could give up my charge conscientiously; and, after all my efforts, I could not succeed in settling the business for my poor, unfortunate cousin. I left it, however, ina fair way for completion, clothed the dear little orphan for the winter, and placed him with his aunt, making all the arrangements which my limited means allowed for his future support; and notwithstanding the incessant trial which I had there, I assure you it was not without many painful feelings that I took leave of the place, for ever. I had been for the last five weeks constantly with my aunt, and could not bear to leave her in the solitary situation to which she was reduced by the death of so many of her family. My dear little Jamie had become an object of affection to me, heightened to an extreme degree, since he was, like myself, left without parents or brother or sister. I longed to take him as my own, for he is a child of very uncommon capacity, and I fear will not have the education which he deserves. But I could only commit him in faith to Him who is the Father of the fatherless, who will not suffer even the least of his creatures to want his care. I think I never shall forget his screams of agony when he saw me drive away; I thought his little heart would burst. But childish sorrow is soon over, and he will forget me long before I shall cease to love him."According to an arrangement previously made, my cousin S—— met me at Greta Bridge, in her grandfather's carriage. I came to that place on Thursday in a postchaise, passed the night, and came on hither the next day, so that I had only about thirty miles to ride alone, and as I got a postboy from the neighborhood to drive me all the way, I felt perfectly safe, and found no inconvenience whatever. Nothing can exceed the kindness of this family to me; indeed, I am made to feel that I am at home with them as if I had always belonged to them. After all I have had to suffer, it is almost like the rest of the Sabbath to the weary laborer, and if kindness and petting will cure one, I shall soon recover all I may have lost during my dreadful siegeat Osmotherly. To be sure, I am almost bewildered at the change from constant anxiety and labor to a state of perfect idleness and indulgence, but I will try and make a good use of it; and I feel so entirely convinced that this most amazing preservation of my life must be for some useful end, that I think I never can fall into an insensible or cold state again. I was almost glad to stay from here, until I was quite sure I had not suffered from infection, for although I cannot feel much faith in the doctrine of contagion, I would not run any risk of communicating the disease to others. It is the opinion of many physicians here, (and my little doctor among the number,) that change of air may bring out the fever which would lie dormant in the system for a long time without it, and he warned me not to feel too secure until I had tried it. But I do not yet feel any symptoms; weak and weary I am, but not feverish, and having no fear am the more safe."But do not think I am so much occupied by the distresses I have experienced here, as to be unmindful of those which have visited my friends at home. Your letter of the 20th of October, and Ann's of the 18th, reached me on the 16th of November. The account of poor Maria's death shocked me very much, and made me long to fly home, that I might, if possible, do something for her dear little children. I wish I could assist them, and feel that there is no one of the family to whom the duty of doing it is so great. I beg you will use my name in any case in which you think I could act with usefulness, and if God spare me to return to you, I promise you I will fulfil all you may engage for me to the best of my powers.... It tires me so much, that I can scarcely write intelligibly. God bless you!"Mary."
"Penrith, Cumberland, November 29, 1825.
"My dear Cousin:—
"After all my melancholy letters from Osmotherly, you will be glad to receive one of another date, and under happier circumstances. My last letter was just after the death of the dear little boy, and I then thought I should be able to leave there very shortly; but it was not until the 26th, (after I had been there twelve weeks instead of the three which I intended when I went,) that I could arrange matters so that I could give up my charge conscientiously; and, after all my efforts, I could not succeed in settling the business for my poor, unfortunate cousin. I left it, however, ina fair way for completion, clothed the dear little orphan for the winter, and placed him with his aunt, making all the arrangements which my limited means allowed for his future support; and notwithstanding the incessant trial which I had there, I assure you it was not without many painful feelings that I took leave of the place, for ever. I had been for the last five weeks constantly with my aunt, and could not bear to leave her in the solitary situation to which she was reduced by the death of so many of her family. My dear little Jamie had become an object of affection to me, heightened to an extreme degree, since he was, like myself, left without parents or brother or sister. I longed to take him as my own, for he is a child of very uncommon capacity, and I fear will not have the education which he deserves. But I could only commit him in faith to Him who is the Father of the fatherless, who will not suffer even the least of his creatures to want his care. I think I never shall forget his screams of agony when he saw me drive away; I thought his little heart would burst. But childish sorrow is soon over, and he will forget me long before I shall cease to love him.
"According to an arrangement previously made, my cousin S—— met me at Greta Bridge, in her grandfather's carriage. I came to that place on Thursday in a postchaise, passed the night, and came on hither the next day, so that I had only about thirty miles to ride alone, and as I got a postboy from the neighborhood to drive me all the way, I felt perfectly safe, and found no inconvenience whatever. Nothing can exceed the kindness of this family to me; indeed, I am made to feel that I am at home with them as if I had always belonged to them. After all I have had to suffer, it is almost like the rest of the Sabbath to the weary laborer, and if kindness and petting will cure one, I shall soon recover all I may have lost during my dreadful siegeat Osmotherly. To be sure, I am almost bewildered at the change from constant anxiety and labor to a state of perfect idleness and indulgence, but I will try and make a good use of it; and I feel so entirely convinced that this most amazing preservation of my life must be for some useful end, that I think I never can fall into an insensible or cold state again. I was almost glad to stay from here, until I was quite sure I had not suffered from infection, for although I cannot feel much faith in the doctrine of contagion, I would not run any risk of communicating the disease to others. It is the opinion of many physicians here, (and my little doctor among the number,) that change of air may bring out the fever which would lie dormant in the system for a long time without it, and he warned me not to feel too secure until I had tried it. But I do not yet feel any symptoms; weak and weary I am, but not feverish, and having no fear am the more safe.
"But do not think I am so much occupied by the distresses I have experienced here, as to be unmindful of those which have visited my friends at home. Your letter of the 20th of October, and Ann's of the 18th, reached me on the 16th of November. The account of poor Maria's death shocked me very much, and made me long to fly home, that I might, if possible, do something for her dear little children. I wish I could assist them, and feel that there is no one of the family to whom the duty of doing it is so great. I beg you will use my name in any case in which you think I could act with usefulness, and if God spare me to return to you, I promise you I will fulfil all you may engage for me to the best of my powers.... It tires me so much, that I can scarcely write intelligibly. God bless you!
"Mary."
"Osmotherly, December 31, 1825."My dearest Friend:—"I have often welcomed this anniversary with delight; but under all the various circumstances in which it has found me, I think I never felt the value of the privilege which it gives me of writing to you more deeply than I do at this moment."But I will first account to you for my being again at this place, the very name of which is no doubt by this time associated in your mind, as it is in mine, with images of danger and death. Of the events which took place during my former visit here, you have no doubt been informed by my letters to Boston, and of my departure from it, as I thought for ever, for the hospitable abode of my kind friends at Penrith, where I was enjoying much when I last wrote home. I intended staying with them until the middle of January, when Mr. McAdam's appointed journey south would secure me an escort to Birmingham, and I was, among other things, anticipating writing this under the influence of the same most delightful society which was operating upon my mind on this night last year. But I was doomed in this, as in many more important concerns, to feel the uncertainty of all calculations for the future; for on the 23d of December I received a letter from the physician of this place, written at the request of my aunt, who was apparently dying of typhus fever, begging me if possible to let her see me once more. I knew there were many reasons which made it important that I should come, if that were indeed her situation; and at the advanced age of sixty-eight, with a most feeble frame, I could not dare to expect a favorable termination. The risk of returning to such an infected region was, of course, much greater than my former residence there, but thus summoned I could not hesitate, and my good friends, even more fearful and anxiousthan I was, could not attempt to dissuade me. It was indeed an appalling undertaking, knowing so fully the evils to which I was coming which could not be avoided, and all that might ensue could not be kept out of sight."It was, I assure you, with many solemn thoughts, though hid by cheerful looks, that I took my leave, probably for ever, of that good family, and got into the mail alone on the morning of the 26th. My route lay across the dreary hill Stanmoor, and, as I had not even a single companion the whole eighty miles hither, you may be sure my cogitations were many and various. Among other things, I was struck by the singular coincidence which has always given to Christmas week a peculiar interest; neither could I fail to consider, on recollecting the various circumstances that had occurred in it, how deep was my debt of gratitude to that Being who had guided me through them all in safety. Dear N——, this is an overwhelming thought, and one which every day's experience forces upon my mind with increasing power, a power of which, it seems to me, it would have been impossible to conceive under any other than the very peculiar circumstances in which I have been, and, it would seem, am still doomed to live, while in this country. Imagine me, at this distance from all to whom I have been accustomed to look for dependence, a being alone in creation almost, literally alone in this strange land, making an excursion of eighty miles across the country, partly in coaches, partly in postchaises, without a being to protect me or appeal to, and upon such an errand,—and yet as safe as if a host were escorting me, calm, quiet, and perfectly easy as if I were taking a ride to Hingham; and then tell me, if the confiding spirit which our sacred religion creates in our souls is not worth all that we could possess besides."I arrived here in eight hours after I left Penrith, and found the poor old lady rather better, and not a littledelighted that I had cared enough for her to come. She has had many and severe trials through life, to which those of the last summer were but a sequel. I was the only one of her own relations with whom she had come in contact for many years, and the poor soul's heart warmed towards me with the whole force of her long shut up affections. I at once installed myself as sole nurse in the very room in which I had watched the progress of disease and death upon that poor child, whose case I mentioned in my letter to Emma; and here am I now writing you by the light of a rush candle, with my little work-box for a desk, almost afraid to breathe lest I should disturb my aunt's slumbers. We two are the only beings in this little cottage, for I have sent her sons out to sleep, as a precaution against the fever, and put a bed into the corner of the room for myself. Could you see me acting in the fourfold capacity which I adopt in this humble cottage, you would hardly believe me to be the same being, who, a week ago, was installed in all the honors of a privileged visitor, amid the luxuries of Cockel House, acting 'lady' solely, to the utmost of my ability. It amuses me to find how easily it all sits upon me, and how readily we may adapt ourselves to varieties of situation and find something to enjoy in all. Aunty is much better, and I think there is a good chance for her recovery, at least to as good a state of health as she was in before this illness. I feel little evil in the contrast, great as it is to myself, except a slight cold, which the very sudden change in the weather, from warm and damp to excessive cold, has brought me. The fields to-day are covered with snow, the first time I have seen them so in this country, and it looked so homeish, and so much like your happy home the last time I saw it, that I have been enjoying the sight highly to-day, while every one beside was looking blank at it. I am in one respect more comfortable than when I washere before, for I have one companion. The 'little doctor' has his only sister to keep his house, and she has already made herself most important and agreeable to me; she has only been here a week, and being as much a stranger as myself, we have some feelings in common. She is a very lovely little creature, twenty-one only in years, but older in experience. Her manner is suited to the style of her face,—gentle, winning, and at the same time indicating cultivation and elegance of mind. Without the slightest shade of affectation or consciousness of beauty, she not only gives me a new study of character, but is a most convenient and pleasant associate; living in the next house but one, I can call upon her at any moment. Something always comes to me in all situations to prove to me the care which is taken even of the most insignificant; and surely the whole of my experience in this place has been but a continued lesson of it. Indeed, I certainly have great cause of thankfulness, for that only dark passage in my progress since I left home, trying as it was, was full of admonition. It showed me a part of the great plan of creation of which I knew little or nothing before, a class of beings whose characters, duties, motives, and views I had never before understood; and above all, it showed me how perfectly the various links in the great chain of existences are adapted to aid, and strengthen, and apply to each other, adding another to the many proofs of the Supreme Wisdom which formed and governs all."The only remnant of my poor cousin Bessy's family is a boy of just William's age; he was ill at the time his mother died, and became my immediate charge until his brother was taken sick, and grew so fond of me that it was long before even his aunt, whom he had been used to seeing, could make him content to be separated from me. He is a very engaging child, bright, and of a noble dispositionand temper. The similarity of our situations was enough to make me feel more than common tenderness for him, his dependence upon me increased it, and his strong attachment to me completed it. I think I never felt so much for a little creature before, and were it not for the great distance I should have to take him, I never would leave him behind. I thought he would have broken his little heart when I drove away, and when I came back his ecstasy was really affecting; he ran round me, jumped up in my lap, stroked and kissed my face, as if he could not trust to the evidence of one sense, and at last burst out a crying, 'Uncle Mady wont go away again; Uncle Mady live with Jamie every day, wont you, Uncle Mady?' He had always a trick of calling me 'Uncle.' Do not think I am made melancholy by all this. I have no recollection of ever having the same degree of good spirits as I have been blessed with for the last six months,—I may say nine; and save my longing for home, I have had no cause to wish any one thing relating to me different from what it has been. God grant that I may not be tempted to great presumption! I hope my wishes are humble, though my confidence may be great."May God be with you, my dear friend, and guide and guard, and bless you, through the year on which we have now entered, and for ever,—is the earnest prayer of your sincere"Mary."
"Osmotherly, December 31, 1825.
"My dearest Friend:—
"I have often welcomed this anniversary with delight; but under all the various circumstances in which it has found me, I think I never felt the value of the privilege which it gives me of writing to you more deeply than I do at this moment.
"But I will first account to you for my being again at this place, the very name of which is no doubt by this time associated in your mind, as it is in mine, with images of danger and death. Of the events which took place during my former visit here, you have no doubt been informed by my letters to Boston, and of my departure from it, as I thought for ever, for the hospitable abode of my kind friends at Penrith, where I was enjoying much when I last wrote home. I intended staying with them until the middle of January, when Mr. McAdam's appointed journey south would secure me an escort to Birmingham, and I was, among other things, anticipating writing this under the influence of the same most delightful society which was operating upon my mind on this night last year. But I was doomed in this, as in many more important concerns, to feel the uncertainty of all calculations for the future; for on the 23d of December I received a letter from the physician of this place, written at the request of my aunt, who was apparently dying of typhus fever, begging me if possible to let her see me once more. I knew there were many reasons which made it important that I should come, if that were indeed her situation; and at the advanced age of sixty-eight, with a most feeble frame, I could not dare to expect a favorable termination. The risk of returning to such an infected region was, of course, much greater than my former residence there, but thus summoned I could not hesitate, and my good friends, even more fearful and anxiousthan I was, could not attempt to dissuade me. It was indeed an appalling undertaking, knowing so fully the evils to which I was coming which could not be avoided, and all that might ensue could not be kept out of sight.
"It was, I assure you, with many solemn thoughts, though hid by cheerful looks, that I took my leave, probably for ever, of that good family, and got into the mail alone on the morning of the 26th. My route lay across the dreary hill Stanmoor, and, as I had not even a single companion the whole eighty miles hither, you may be sure my cogitations were many and various. Among other things, I was struck by the singular coincidence which has always given to Christmas week a peculiar interest; neither could I fail to consider, on recollecting the various circumstances that had occurred in it, how deep was my debt of gratitude to that Being who had guided me through them all in safety. Dear N——, this is an overwhelming thought, and one which every day's experience forces upon my mind with increasing power, a power of which, it seems to me, it would have been impossible to conceive under any other than the very peculiar circumstances in which I have been, and, it would seem, am still doomed to live, while in this country. Imagine me, at this distance from all to whom I have been accustomed to look for dependence, a being alone in creation almost, literally alone in this strange land, making an excursion of eighty miles across the country, partly in coaches, partly in postchaises, without a being to protect me or appeal to, and upon such an errand,—and yet as safe as if a host were escorting me, calm, quiet, and perfectly easy as if I were taking a ride to Hingham; and then tell me, if the confiding spirit which our sacred religion creates in our souls is not worth all that we could possess besides.
"I arrived here in eight hours after I left Penrith, and found the poor old lady rather better, and not a littledelighted that I had cared enough for her to come. She has had many and severe trials through life, to which those of the last summer were but a sequel. I was the only one of her own relations with whom she had come in contact for many years, and the poor soul's heart warmed towards me with the whole force of her long shut up affections. I at once installed myself as sole nurse in the very room in which I had watched the progress of disease and death upon that poor child, whose case I mentioned in my letter to Emma; and here am I now writing you by the light of a rush candle, with my little work-box for a desk, almost afraid to breathe lest I should disturb my aunt's slumbers. We two are the only beings in this little cottage, for I have sent her sons out to sleep, as a precaution against the fever, and put a bed into the corner of the room for myself. Could you see me acting in the fourfold capacity which I adopt in this humble cottage, you would hardly believe me to be the same being, who, a week ago, was installed in all the honors of a privileged visitor, amid the luxuries of Cockel House, acting 'lady' solely, to the utmost of my ability. It amuses me to find how easily it all sits upon me, and how readily we may adapt ourselves to varieties of situation and find something to enjoy in all. Aunty is much better, and I think there is a good chance for her recovery, at least to as good a state of health as she was in before this illness. I feel little evil in the contrast, great as it is to myself, except a slight cold, which the very sudden change in the weather, from warm and damp to excessive cold, has brought me. The fields to-day are covered with snow, the first time I have seen them so in this country, and it looked so homeish, and so much like your happy home the last time I saw it, that I have been enjoying the sight highly to-day, while every one beside was looking blank at it. I am in one respect more comfortable than when I washere before, for I have one companion. The 'little doctor' has his only sister to keep his house, and she has already made herself most important and agreeable to me; she has only been here a week, and being as much a stranger as myself, we have some feelings in common. She is a very lovely little creature, twenty-one only in years, but older in experience. Her manner is suited to the style of her face,—gentle, winning, and at the same time indicating cultivation and elegance of mind. Without the slightest shade of affectation or consciousness of beauty, she not only gives me a new study of character, but is a most convenient and pleasant associate; living in the next house but one, I can call upon her at any moment. Something always comes to me in all situations to prove to me the care which is taken even of the most insignificant; and surely the whole of my experience in this place has been but a continued lesson of it. Indeed, I certainly have great cause of thankfulness, for that only dark passage in my progress since I left home, trying as it was, was full of admonition. It showed me a part of the great plan of creation of which I knew little or nothing before, a class of beings whose characters, duties, motives, and views I had never before understood; and above all, it showed me how perfectly the various links in the great chain of existences are adapted to aid, and strengthen, and apply to each other, adding another to the many proofs of the Supreme Wisdom which formed and governs all.
"The only remnant of my poor cousin Bessy's family is a boy of just William's age; he was ill at the time his mother died, and became my immediate charge until his brother was taken sick, and grew so fond of me that it was long before even his aunt, whom he had been used to seeing, could make him content to be separated from me. He is a very engaging child, bright, and of a noble dispositionand temper. The similarity of our situations was enough to make me feel more than common tenderness for him, his dependence upon me increased it, and his strong attachment to me completed it. I think I never felt so much for a little creature before, and were it not for the great distance I should have to take him, I never would leave him behind. I thought he would have broken his little heart when I drove away, and when I came back his ecstasy was really affecting; he ran round me, jumped up in my lap, stroked and kissed my face, as if he could not trust to the evidence of one sense, and at last burst out a crying, 'Uncle Mady wont go away again; Uncle Mady live with Jamie every day, wont you, Uncle Mady?' He had always a trick of calling me 'Uncle.' Do not think I am made melancholy by all this. I have no recollection of ever having the same degree of good spirits as I have been blessed with for the last six months,—I may say nine; and save my longing for home, I have had no cause to wish any one thing relating to me different from what it has been. God grant that I may not be tempted to great presumption! I hope my wishes are humble, though my confidence may be great.
"May God be with you, my dear friend, and guide and guard, and bless you, through the year on which we have now entered, and for ever,—is the earnest prayer of your sincere
"Mary."
But with all her cheerfulness, and self-forgetting, heroic courage, Mary was not proof against danger and disease. It is well for us to learn that the laws of nature are not suspended nor diverted from their course, even by the strongest faith, or for the sake of the most noble and useful laborer. Such a laborerthere was here; but it was hardly to be expected that she would pass unharmed, the second time, through such exposure, fatigue, and painful anxiety. If the transition was great, at first, from that barren and comfortless place to the luxuries of Penrith, the change back again must have been peculiarly trying. She speaks of the difference between the two places as equal to that between the most sumptuous dwelling in Boston and the farm-house at Brush Hill. Nay, the contrast there was yet greater; for the common cottages in Yorkshire had no floors for the first story, except of clay and sand. Such was the house in which all that previous sickness and death had occurred, and in which the nurse and servant of all now found herself again. Sending away to another house the melancholy and moaning young man, and fixing up a bed for herself in a corner of her aunt's small room, she endeavored to keep herself from the night air, particularly as the weather, after a long course of warm rains, became intensely cold. But in vain did she shun exposure. There was work to be done out of doors as well as in, and no one but herself to do it. A sudden and severe cramp seized her, and she at last fell upon the floor, when alone in the night, and there lay a long time, utterly helpless, striving to make her groans heard by some one in or out of the house. This left her in a state of extreme debility, from which nothing could for a long time raise her. She would make it appear a light matter when it was over, but it is evident, from her own expressions and other facts, that she was in great danger.
"Penrith, February 10, 1826."My dear Emma:—"Your last letter was a cordial to me, and came at a time when I greatly needed it; for I was actually suffering under all the evil which you were fearing for me when you wrote it,—confined to the chamber of that little cottage which I have described to you, weak and languid, the mere shadow of what I was when I parted from you. But for the cause and effect of my last visit to Osmotherly I must refer you to my letters to N. C. P. and Mrs. B——; you know I cannot bear to tell the same tale twice, more especially if it be a melancholy tale."But do not imagine me to have been in a very forlorn and disconsolate predicament, for I had many blessings to rejoice in all the while. The sun shone brightly all the day full upon the windows of our comfortable, neat apartment, furnished with what, in her former prosperous days, had been the furniture of the 'spare chamber' (the museum of precious articles, you know) of Aunty's 'bien house'; Aunty sitting by the fire in her easy chair, her bright eyes glistening with the exhilaration of returning health; and my ladyship lying on the bed, thin and pale enough I grant, but in as high glee as strength would permit, and not for one minute depressed; if any change came, it was for the better, and my nurses remarked that my worst days were my gayest ones. Then I had two visits each day from the 'little doctor,' the very essence of good-humor and cheerfulness, and as I had in reality but little pain, I could manage to enjoy a good deal. Besides, I had the comfort of a female companion, with whom I could associate with something like equality of feeling. This was the sister of the 'little doctor,' who had just come to Osmotherly to keep house for him. My dear little Jemmy, too, was a source of great amusement and delight to me;he had improved even in the short time I had been from him, and showed some new and interesting trait every time I saw him. I left all behind me, however, on the 30th of January, not without many regrets as you may believe, for I felt it was now certainly for ever; and no one can part from those who have been kind to the utmost of their power, however small that power may be, without sad feelings. This is certainly a great drawback upon the pleasure one takes in travelling, and I sometimes think, when the time comes that I must do the same to all I have known here, I shall wish I had never come. But I do not like to think of it."I am indeed much better than I could have dared to hope, but I always gain fast if at all, and this week of eating has made a great change in me. I cannot tell you how I rejoice at this, for I began to be heartily tired of my fictitious character; I did not realize my identity when toddling about, catching hold of chairs and tables like a child just going alone, as I did last week; I longed to shake myself of the encumbrance, or that the scene would drop, and let me scamper away, Mary Pickard again."I am glad you have seen this house, for it will aid your imagination a little; but you can scarcely conceive of the appearance of comfort which pervades this room as it is now arranged. The gentlemen have all deserted us, and just now Aunty George, Selina, and I are seated in true spinster style round a large fire in the drawing-room up stairs, (which by the way was any thing but comfortable when you saw it,) Aunty at full length upon the sofa reading on one side, Selina on the other writing, and I in the front doing the same, at the same table with her. Around us are arranged, in the most convenient places, piano, flowers, tables covered with books, writing-desks, &c., ottomans ditto, all sorts of comfortable chairs,—easy, rocking, &c.;in the corners, shelves with collections of shells, minerals, and other odd things, to say nothing of the living ornaments. It is the very picture of comfort, and I could tell you of certain sensual luxuries which make their appearance upon the centre-table, some three, four, five, or perhaps six times a day, now that I am prohibited from descending to the dining-room; but that would destroy the intellectual charm which must hang round the image of Aunty George. Mrs. McAdam writes me that she received your letter, and really begins to imagine herself a 'monstrously agreeable woman.' You must have given her a good dose, I think. She has been in a fine taking about this illness of mine, but is cooling a little, now she finds I am not satisfied with less than four meals per day. How shamefully I have treated Emma's kind letter; but there is no end to my wickedness of this sort. I must not begin with confessions, but end them by confessing myself very tired, and ever your sincere friend,"M. L. P."
"Penrith, February 10, 1826.
"My dear Emma:—
"Your last letter was a cordial to me, and came at a time when I greatly needed it; for I was actually suffering under all the evil which you were fearing for me when you wrote it,—confined to the chamber of that little cottage which I have described to you, weak and languid, the mere shadow of what I was when I parted from you. But for the cause and effect of my last visit to Osmotherly I must refer you to my letters to N. C. P. and Mrs. B——; you know I cannot bear to tell the same tale twice, more especially if it be a melancholy tale.
"But do not imagine me to have been in a very forlorn and disconsolate predicament, for I had many blessings to rejoice in all the while. The sun shone brightly all the day full upon the windows of our comfortable, neat apartment, furnished with what, in her former prosperous days, had been the furniture of the 'spare chamber' (the museum of precious articles, you know) of Aunty's 'bien house'; Aunty sitting by the fire in her easy chair, her bright eyes glistening with the exhilaration of returning health; and my ladyship lying on the bed, thin and pale enough I grant, but in as high glee as strength would permit, and not for one minute depressed; if any change came, it was for the better, and my nurses remarked that my worst days were my gayest ones. Then I had two visits each day from the 'little doctor,' the very essence of good-humor and cheerfulness, and as I had in reality but little pain, I could manage to enjoy a good deal. Besides, I had the comfort of a female companion, with whom I could associate with something like equality of feeling. This was the sister of the 'little doctor,' who had just come to Osmotherly to keep house for him. My dear little Jemmy, too, was a source of great amusement and delight to me;he had improved even in the short time I had been from him, and showed some new and interesting trait every time I saw him. I left all behind me, however, on the 30th of January, not without many regrets as you may believe, for I felt it was now certainly for ever; and no one can part from those who have been kind to the utmost of their power, however small that power may be, without sad feelings. This is certainly a great drawback upon the pleasure one takes in travelling, and I sometimes think, when the time comes that I must do the same to all I have known here, I shall wish I had never come. But I do not like to think of it.
"I am indeed much better than I could have dared to hope, but I always gain fast if at all, and this week of eating has made a great change in me. I cannot tell you how I rejoice at this, for I began to be heartily tired of my fictitious character; I did not realize my identity when toddling about, catching hold of chairs and tables like a child just going alone, as I did last week; I longed to shake myself of the encumbrance, or that the scene would drop, and let me scamper away, Mary Pickard again.
"I am glad you have seen this house, for it will aid your imagination a little; but you can scarcely conceive of the appearance of comfort which pervades this room as it is now arranged. The gentlemen have all deserted us, and just now Aunty George, Selina, and I are seated in true spinster style round a large fire in the drawing-room up stairs, (which by the way was any thing but comfortable when you saw it,) Aunty at full length upon the sofa reading on one side, Selina on the other writing, and I in the front doing the same, at the same table with her. Around us are arranged, in the most convenient places, piano, flowers, tables covered with books, writing-desks, &c., ottomans ditto, all sorts of comfortable chairs,—easy, rocking, &c.;in the corners, shelves with collections of shells, minerals, and other odd things, to say nothing of the living ornaments. It is the very picture of comfort, and I could tell you of certain sensual luxuries which make their appearance upon the centre-table, some three, four, five, or perhaps six times a day, now that I am prohibited from descending to the dining-room; but that would destroy the intellectual charm which must hang round the image of Aunty George. Mrs. McAdam writes me that she received your letter, and really begins to imagine herself a 'monstrously agreeable woman.' You must have given her a good dose, I think. She has been in a fine taking about this illness of mine, but is cooling a little, now she finds I am not satisfied with less than four meals per day. How shamefully I have treated Emma's kind letter; but there is no end to my wickedness of this sort. I must not begin with confessions, but end them by confessing myself very tired, and ever your sincere friend,
"M. L. P."
"Erdington, near Birmingham, March 3, 1826."My dear Cousin:—"I have continued to gain strength daily since I last wrote. Miss McAdam passed a week in Liverpool, during which time Selina and I kept house at Cockel; and after passing my last few days there in the most delightful manner, with all the good inmates, I left them on the 26th. Mr. McAdam kindly insisted on coming by the way of Erdington, that I might not be obliged to travel all the way alone. We found a great change on this side the hills of Westmoreland; the grass is green, and every thing putting forth, the lambs bleating and the birds singing as if it were May."... I had given Mr. B—— notice of myintention to come to him at this time, and found him looking out for me even at the gate, with characteristic impatience, on Tuesday about noon, and not a little delighted to see me at last. You know how strongly attached he was to my father and mother, and indeed to the whole family; his enthusiastic feelings have fully retained the remembrance of what he enjoyed with them, and any one who belonged to them would have been most welcome to him. Besides this, he used to pet me, and took a great deal of pains to teach me, and I thought the little body would have lost his wits when he saw me; he is a kind-hearted man, and with all his peculiarities one cannot but respect and love him. You may remember what a little oddity he was in appearance when he was in Boston, and I assure you increasing years have not at all lessened his peculiarity. His face is not, I think, altered in the least; his hair is still a bright brown, cut as short as scissors can do it, upon which he usually mounts a small sailor's wove hat, from beneath the narrow rim of which his little bright, gray eyes twinkle in a most animated manner. His common dress is a pepper-and-salt frock-coat, which has been apparently in the service many long years, the waist of which just divides his height, coming down to the chair when he sits; a straight, long waistcoat of the same materials, and a colored neckerchief tied as tightly as possible round his little neck; breeches of purple-corded velvet, fastened at the knee with a little steel buckle, white worsted stockings, and a pair of what have been long leather gaiters, pushed down over the anklesà la negligée. Fancy this little odd figure moving about as briskly as if he were a boy just loose from school, the vivacity of his manner and looks corresponding exactly with the quickness of his motions, and you have my little friend Mr. B——. You would think all this must be ludicrous, but it is not. There is so much good senseand kind feeling about him, and so much real benevolence in his manner towards every one, that all his peculiarity is forgotten in a very short time. He is one of the most intelligent, entertaining men I ever met with, and certainly one of the most warm-hearted. He has passed a very unsettled life since he left America, and is now living in a poor cottage, quite out of the way of all society, with no amusement but his little garden, which he cultivates entirely himself, and a fine library of most valuable books. This is quite enough for him, and he seems as happy and contented as possible, because he is independent. Hissanctumis more like grandpa's than any I ever saw; he reminds me of him in many things, and we have talked over old times until I have fancied myself young again."You may form some idea of my strength, when I tell you I was yesterday tempted by the pleasure of my own company to a walk of eight miles, and did not suspect I had done half of it. I have indeed recovered my strength rapidly, and do not care about the flesh. I believe I am as well as I ever was, and should forget that I had been ill, were it not for certain feelings of inefficiency and reluctance to move,—the consequence of the indulgences I have had, I presume. I have indeed had enough to make a spoiled child of me, had I not been one before. It is no light burden upon my mind, that I can do nothing to show my gratitude for all the kindness I have received here. I do begin to dread parting for ever from all these good friends; but do not think thatany thingcan efface the remembrance of what I owe my dearest friends at home."Mary."
"Erdington, near Birmingham, March 3, 1826.
"My dear Cousin:—
"I have continued to gain strength daily since I last wrote. Miss McAdam passed a week in Liverpool, during which time Selina and I kept house at Cockel; and after passing my last few days there in the most delightful manner, with all the good inmates, I left them on the 26th. Mr. McAdam kindly insisted on coming by the way of Erdington, that I might not be obliged to travel all the way alone. We found a great change on this side the hills of Westmoreland; the grass is green, and every thing putting forth, the lambs bleating and the birds singing as if it were May.
"... I had given Mr. B—— notice of myintention to come to him at this time, and found him looking out for me even at the gate, with characteristic impatience, on Tuesday about noon, and not a little delighted to see me at last. You know how strongly attached he was to my father and mother, and indeed to the whole family; his enthusiastic feelings have fully retained the remembrance of what he enjoyed with them, and any one who belonged to them would have been most welcome to him. Besides this, he used to pet me, and took a great deal of pains to teach me, and I thought the little body would have lost his wits when he saw me; he is a kind-hearted man, and with all his peculiarities one cannot but respect and love him. You may remember what a little oddity he was in appearance when he was in Boston, and I assure you increasing years have not at all lessened his peculiarity. His face is not, I think, altered in the least; his hair is still a bright brown, cut as short as scissors can do it, upon which he usually mounts a small sailor's wove hat, from beneath the narrow rim of which his little bright, gray eyes twinkle in a most animated manner. His common dress is a pepper-and-salt frock-coat, which has been apparently in the service many long years, the waist of which just divides his height, coming down to the chair when he sits; a straight, long waistcoat of the same materials, and a colored neckerchief tied as tightly as possible round his little neck; breeches of purple-corded velvet, fastened at the knee with a little steel buckle, white worsted stockings, and a pair of what have been long leather gaiters, pushed down over the anklesà la negligée. Fancy this little odd figure moving about as briskly as if he were a boy just loose from school, the vivacity of his manner and looks corresponding exactly with the quickness of his motions, and you have my little friend Mr. B——. You would think all this must be ludicrous, but it is not. There is so much good senseand kind feeling about him, and so much real benevolence in his manner towards every one, that all his peculiarity is forgotten in a very short time. He is one of the most intelligent, entertaining men I ever met with, and certainly one of the most warm-hearted. He has passed a very unsettled life since he left America, and is now living in a poor cottage, quite out of the way of all society, with no amusement but his little garden, which he cultivates entirely himself, and a fine library of most valuable books. This is quite enough for him, and he seems as happy and contented as possible, because he is independent. Hissanctumis more like grandpa's than any I ever saw; he reminds me of him in many things, and we have talked over old times until I have fancied myself young again.
"You may form some idea of my strength, when I tell you I was yesterday tempted by the pleasure of my own company to a walk of eight miles, and did not suspect I had done half of it. I have indeed recovered my strength rapidly, and do not care about the flesh. I believe I am as well as I ever was, and should forget that I had been ill, were it not for certain feelings of inefficiency and reluctance to move,—the consequence of the indulgences I have had, I presume. I have indeed had enough to make a spoiled child of me, had I not been one before. It is no light burden upon my mind, that I can do nothing to show my gratitude for all the kindness I have received here. I do begin to dread parting for ever from all these good friends; but do not think thatany thingcan efface the remembrance of what I owe my dearest friends at home.
"Mary."
"London, May 26, 1826."My dear Mrs. Barnard:—"Mr. Bond had a letter yesterday from Mrs. B. of April21st, in which she says you had heard of my illness at Osmotherly. I am glad to remember that you would at the same time hear of my entire recovery, and I hope before this you have received other letters to tell you how complete was that recovery. It is indeed overpowering to me, when I look back upon the events which have taken place since I came to England. How many and great have been the blessings which have attended me!"I staid here with Mrs. Bates from the 4th to the 30th of April, seeing and doing very diligently, and, with Mr. Paine's assistance, examining many of the wonders and curiosities of this great place, which I had not before seen. I then went to Chatham to make my farewell visit to my cousin, Mrs. Stokes, intending to stay only a fortnight; for I did not then know at what time precisely Mr. Palfrey intended to embark for home, and was making my arrangements to be ready the latter part of June at the farthest. I was not, however, able to return at the time I intended, for I was attacked very violently with spasms from being very bilious, and the heavy doses administered by the physician kept me housed for more than a week. I returned to town on Monday last, the 22d, and came again to Mrs. Bates, as she begged me to make her house my home in London, as long as I staid. I was very much wearied with the journey, and Mr. Palfrey and Mr. Bond, who came in soon after, thought I must be ill, and may say so, but I assure you I am not. I gain strength very fast, and, as a proof of it, I was nearly seven hours on my feet yesterday, without food, and not fatigued by it. I shall stay here only just long enough to see the friends I have about London, and pack up my duds for the voyage, and then go to Ash and Uncle Ben for a few days, and thence to Burcombe to stay as long as I can."I feel now that my work here is finished (that is, allthe 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 Reviewfrom 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."
"London, May 26, 1826.
"My dear Mrs. Barnard:—
"Mr. Bond had a letter yesterday from Mrs. B. of April21st, in which she says you had heard of my illness at Osmotherly. I am glad to remember that you would at the same time hear of my entire recovery, and I hope before this you have received other letters to tell you how complete was that recovery. It is indeed overpowering to me, when I look back upon the events which have taken place since I came to England. How many and great have been the blessings which have attended me!
"I staid here with Mrs. Bates from the 4th to the 30th of April, seeing and doing very diligently, and, with Mr. Paine's assistance, examining many of the wonders and curiosities of this great place, which I had not before seen. I then went to Chatham to make my farewell visit to my cousin, Mrs. Stokes, intending to stay only a fortnight; for I did not then know at what time precisely Mr. Palfrey intended to embark for home, and was making my arrangements to be ready the latter part of June at the farthest. I was not, however, able to return at the time I intended, for I was attacked very violently with spasms from being very bilious, and the heavy doses administered by the physician kept me housed for more than a week. I returned to town on Monday last, the 22d, and came again to Mrs. Bates, as she begged me to make her house my home in London, as long as I staid. I was very much wearied with the journey, and Mr. Palfrey and Mr. Bond, who came in soon after, thought I must be ill, and may say so, but I assure you I am not. I gain strength very fast, and, as a proof of it, I was nearly seven hours on my feet yesterday, without food, and not fatigued by it. I shall stay here only just long enough to see the friends I have about London, and pack up my duds for the voyage, and then go to Ash and Uncle Ben for a few days, and thence to Burcombe to stay as long as I can.
"I feel now that my work here is finished (that is, allthe 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 Reviewfrom 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."