Very different from its beginning was the termination of the pleasant
tour through Scotland. Mary felt it a duty to suppress all longings to
go on with her good friend, who was soon to leave the country. Gladly
would she have returned with her to America at once. But the great
purpose, certainly one of the chief objects, for which she had gone
abroad, was not yet accomplished. Her father's only sister, who had been
left a widow in a very destitute condition, was still living in a
distant and obscure village of Yorkshire. Mr. Pickard had made an annual
provision for her support while he lived, and his daughter determined to
carry out his intentions, so far as she could. Yet she felt that no aid
in her power to send would be as much to her poor aunt as a visit, and
she had been anxiously looking for an escort to the place, which was so
remote as to make it hardly prudent for a lady and a stranger to venture
alone. She was therefore the more ready to accompany her friends to
Scotland, as on their return they would go within eighty miles of
Osmotherly, her aunt's residence. Accordingly she parted from them at
Penrith, and went the rest of the way alone.
The visit that followed forms the most remarkable, and in some respects
the most interesting and important, chapter in the story of her life.
Instead of three weeks, which she had set apart for this purpose, she
remained three months at Osmotherly. And it is not the least noticeable
fact in that experience, that she wrote on the spot a very full account
of the whole, in the midst of cares and the sight and sound of
sufferings which are ordinarily allowed to excuse, if they do not wholly
prevent, any use of the pen or effort of mind. But we will not
anticipate. Nor will we interrupt the narrative, which we have drawn
from various letters, by any comments of our own.
"_Osmotherly, September 2, 1825._
"MY DEAR EMMA:--
"I wish I could relieve your mind about my undertaking and
prospects as quickly as my own was set at rest. I will not
recapitulate all or any thing that I felt at parting from you
yesterday, but you know me well enough to believe that it was
with no common degree of regret and anxiety, which the
uncertainty of the path before me tended not a little to
increase. But I did recollect that I had never yet been
forsaken in any difficulty; supposing the worst, there could be
no fear of real evil, and anxiety and distrust only made all
that real which might after all be merely imaginary. In order
to obtain the quiet feeling which this view of things should
create, I turned my attention to my fellow-passenger, who
proved a very respectable, well-informed woman, and my only
companion to North Allerton. Her experiences helped to make me
more comfortable, for she had come from London alone, travelled
all night, and had a very long distance farther to go. She said
she found no difficulty in travelling alone, and gave me some
useful hints upon the subject. Our route lay over a different
road from that by which we approached York, and as the day was
so fine, we had a more tolerable ride than I expected. At North
Allerton I found a quiet room at the inn, and a civil
landlady,--went directly to the post-office, where a long and
delightful letter from Jane McAdam awaited me. Not a word there
of my aunt's letter, and I then went to a gentleman, through
whom I had formerly transmitted letters to her, and found that
he had sent the day before a letter from her to me, and that
she was then well. This set me quite at ease, and I took a
chaise and rode hither with a comparatively light heart. And
then I wished it had so chanced that you could have taken this
ride with me, for a more beautiful one I have seldom seen. This
town lies upon one of those hills which we saw at a distance
towards the east the day we rode from Richmond; and the ride
from North Allerton is a gradual ascent, giving at every step a
more extended view of the rich country which we passed through,
with the additional beauty of numberless little streams which
we could not see, and highly cultivated hills rising on one
side to a great height.
"I found my aunt much better than I expected, and, as you may
suppose, almost overpowered with joy to see me. I did wish you
could have seen her,--a small, thin old lady, with a pale
complexion, like Aunt Whipple, and the very brightest black
eyes, which sparkle when she speaks with a degree of animation
almost amusing in such an old lady. She lives in a comfortable
little two-story cottage of four rooms, which far exceeds any
thing I ever saw for neatness. I find that I could not have
come at a better time to do good, or a worse for gaining
spirits. My aunt's two daughters are married and live in this
village; one of them, with three children, has a husband at the
point of death with a fever; his brother died yesterday of the
small-pox, and two of her children have the whooping-cough;
added to this, their whole dependence is upon their own
exertions, which are of course entirely stopped now. One of the
children, a year and a half old, is with the grandmother, but
so ill with the cough that she is almost sick with taking care
of it. It has fortunately taken a fancy to me at once, and I
can relieve her a little. But worse than all, one of her sons
had come home in a very gloomy state of mind, and all her
efforts had failed to rouse him to exertion. I hope to be more
successful, for he seems willing to listen to me. You may
suppose, under such a state of things, I shall find enough to
do. My aunt's mind is in a much better state than I expected,
and if she does not get worn out with care to do more for me
than ever was done for any body before, I shall be most
thankful that I came. She tells me of many neighboring places
which it would interest me to visit, as resorts of my dear
father, and I think, next week, if possible to get a vehicle, I
shall take her off upon a jaunt round the country for a few
days, in home style, driving myself.
"I have not seen half the multitude of cousins that I find are
to be seen, but so far they are kind and affectionate, and
disposed to make me comfortable and happy. I feel just like a
child who has left home for the first time; the change is so
sudden and so great, that the last eight weeks seem to me very
like a dream of some distant age, and a most interesting one
too. I never was more thankful for the varieties of life
through which I have passed, for without actual experience I
never could have adapted myself to the new order of beings I
now have to deal with. I shall find full employment for my
fingers, in making my poor aunt as comfortable as I wish to
leave her.
"Yours,
"M. L. P."
* * * * *
"_Osmotherly, September 8, 1825._
"MY DEAR EMMA:--
"Watching all night by a death-bed is but a poor preparation
for writing; and yet I am not willing to lose the first leisure
moment that I have had since I wrote you, lest you should be
alarmed at my long silence. But I think, from the account I
gave you of the state of affairs here, you will naturally
conclude that I should have had constant occupation, and will
not be uneasy about me. I have indeed found quite as much
employment for mind and body as either were able to perform,
and have not had one moment to devote to you, although my heart
has been with you, and my thoughts have often followed you. The
poor sick man, of whom I told you, has been growing worse
daily, and it was with feelings of almost joy that I last night
closed his eyes, knowing that his sufferings were at an end;
and yet he is so great a loss to his family, that I seldom knew
a case in which it was so difficult to feel that 'it is right.'
His wife, who is but a slender woman, is left with three little
boys, without a penny to support them, and almost without the
power of gaining it, for the youngest, which is but three weeks
old, is dreadfully ill with the whooping-cough. She is a calm
and patient sufferer, however, and it does one good to see how
trouble can be borne by the most unlettered and uninformed,
when the spirit is right. I have not been able to do much for
him, but the little baby has been my constant care, and I have
got to loving it dearly. Every thing around me is sad and
sorrowful, and nothing but the effort, which it is absolutely
necessary for me to make, to cheer and assist others, gives me
the least pleasure. My poor aunt, weakened in mind and body by
continued and most severe afflictions, is almost a child; her
son is nearly insane, and keeps her in constant fear lest he
may destroy himself; and the trials of this poor daughter are
enough to break her heart. Another of my cousins is well
married, and wishes me to be with her at her quiet and happy
home; but I cannot think of deserting this post, however
painful, for any prospect of ease to myself. In fact, it seems
to me that posts of difficulty are my appointed lot and my
element, for I do feel lighter and happier when I have
difficulties to overcome. Could you look in upon me, you would
think it was impossible that I could be even tolerably
comfortable, and yet I am cheerful, and get on as easily as
possible, and am in truth happy.
"This village is the most primitive place I ever was in, and a
very obscure, out-of-the way place; the inhabitants almost
entirely of one class, and that of the poorer kind of laboring
people, ignorant as possible, but simple and social. You may
conceive of their simple manners, when I tell you they 'never
saw such a lady as Miss Pickard' among them before; and of
course Miss Pickard is an object of as much curiosity and
speculation as if she were Empress of all the Russias; but they
are kind-hearted and civil. The peculiar situation of things
has taken me more among them than I should have been in twice
the time, under common circumstances, and it has been a good
exercise for my faculty of adaptation. I have succeeded, I
believe, in pleasing them, for it seems as if they only vied
with each other in trying to do the most for me, and I really
think, if they had a parson to write the 'Annals of their
Parish,' the arrival of the 'American lady' would stand as the
most remarkable event in the year 1825. This amuses me, and
gives me an opportunity of doing much good with little
trouble, for it gives me influence; and, moreover, it shows me
human nature under a new form. But I am entirely destitute of
every thing like companionship, and having had so much in this
way lately with you, of the most satisfactory and delightful
kind, you will readily believe that I must feel a great
deficiency. There is not even a clergyman's family for me to
associate with, for the curate of the place is of the very
worst class of that set whose existence is a standing disgrace
to the Church; an ignorant, drinking man, as careless and
negligent of the duties of his station as if he considered it
of no consequence whatever. I hope to have a little leisure
soon, and then reading and writing will make up to me in some
measure for the loss of society; but as yet I have literally
had to work hard, and have not found time even to look at 'the
journal.' I have a nice, little, quiet room, however, and feel
quite at home in it.
"I have thought much, very, very much, of your voyage back
without me. I will not say I regret the circumstances which
have led to my disappointment, for it seemed to be my appointed
path, and when one follows the dictates of conscience it must
be right; and when it is right, why should we wish it
otherwise? But I am weak, and there are times when the thought
of another six, perhaps nine, months' absence from home, with
all the uncertainties which attend the future, makes my heart
sink, and the tear start, in spite of myself. Yet it could not
be otherwise; it would have been wrong to have neglected coming
here. I am more convinced of this now than ever, for though it
was said that I could do as much good by sending money as by
coming myself, I do not think so; and though I may be thought
foolishly scrupulous for subjecting myself to the evils I must
meet with here, when I might have avoided them, I am sure I
never could have felt satisfied that all was done for my poor
aunt as well as it could be, unless I had seen and managed it.
But I am allowing myself in talking of self in a most
unwarrantable manner; you will pardon me, in consideration of
the difficulty of giving up at once the habit of
self-indulgence which your kindness has created and fixed."
* * * * *
"_Osmotherly, September 10, 1825._
"MY DEAR EMMA:--
"I do not mean to act modest and beg a compliment for it, but
in sober truth you do overrate me. Just because you happen to
have seen more deeply into my 'inner man' than you are wont to
do with others, and have your feelings strongly interested, you
let them carry you off, upon their liberal and expanded wings,
to a region of romance peopled by ideal spirits with which you
identify your poor friend Mary, who has in truth no business
there. But I do indeed rejoice, if the experience which God in
his goodness has given me has been in any measure useful. I do
consider it a privilege to have learned so much of His
character and will as in the wisdom of His providence He has
enabled me to do, though it has been by fiery trial. I feel
responsible for the right use of such a privilege, not only for
my own, but others' good; and if in the fulness of my heart I
have been tempted to show you more of myself than a cooler
judgment would have approved, I trust that it may not have been
without its advantages to both; to me, in teaching a lesson of
humility; to you, as a warning, perhaps. But I must not yield
to this propensity to egotism; I have too much beside to talk
about.
"Our poor man was buried yesterday, and, as clergymen rarely
come here, my cousin thought she would have her infant
christened on the same day. It was a most affecting sight. I
stood as its godmother at her request, because I could not
refuse her at such a time; but it is too great a
responsibility to be lightly taken. The child, however, cannot
live, for it has begun already to have fits with its cough.
"_September 12._ In three days you are to be gone from the
country, and I shall not have this means of communicating. Dear
Emma, you cannot tell how much I shall miss you. You seem to be
a connecting link with home, which I have a fearful dread of
losing. I don't know how it is, but these coming six months
seem to me a worse separation than all the past eighteen. Yet
do not think, because I feel so sad about not going home, that
I dread staying. You know enough of the interests I have here,
to feel satisfied that I shall have much to occupy me
pleasantly. It is only the protracted separation from home that
I feel sorry for, and that is unavoidable, and will perhaps
prove best on many accounts. Farewell."
* * * * *
"_Osmotherly, September 13, 1825._
"DEAR EMMA:--
"I had determined to write last night, as I found it quite out
of the question to attempt it in the daytime. I had been up
with the little boy a great part of the night before; yet I
knew I could keep awake writing, I wanted to do it so much. But
in the true spirit of Polly Pickard, attempting more than any
one would think reasonable, I was quite persuaded that, as I
was to sit up, it was as well to do all I could; and as poor
cousin Bessy had not had a quiet night since her child was
born, and was going to sleep alone in her house for the first
time since her husband's death, I thought it would do her good,
and me no harm, to sit up in her parlor, and take care of the
baby in the cradle, that she might have a little sleep, and not
feel alone. The dear little baby had been better than for some
time, during the day, and I doubted not it would lie in the
cradle or on my knee very quietly, except during its coughing
fits. Bessy went to bed, but the poor little creature grew
worse, and coughed itself into a fit, in which it lay so long
that I thought it dead, and awoke its mother; but its little
heart began to beat again, and it seemed to be reviving, though
slowly, and I sent her off again. It appeared for some time to
be recovering, but all at once it sunk away and died in my
arms, so peacefully and sweetly that I could scarcely be
persuaded that it had not fallen into a still slumber, or had
another fit. But it was indeed gone, and when I could bring
myself to give it up, I arranged its little body for its last
home. I don't know when I have had my feelings more excited. It
was a lovely little creature, and I have nursed it so much
since I have been here, that I found it had become an object of
great interest to me; not a day has passed that I have not
given three or four hours to it, and it was always so quiet
with me that it seemed almost to know when I took it. The
circumstances of the family, too, made it singularly affecting
that it should be taken away, and the suddenness of its death
seemed almost to bewilder me. Its poor mother is ill, and
between comforting her and coming home to my aunt, who is very
feeble, I scarcely know how to find time enough for either. I
have been up three nights since Wednesday last, and, with two
children to manage, I am almost mazed.
"I have tried to write this morning, for the baby was not out
of my arms a moment last night, but I cannot collect my
thoughts,--I don't know what I mean to say. You must state the
case for me. Could you look in upon me you might wonder I was
not crazy, but I shall do very well when I get a little sleep.
Do not feel uneasy about me; I am not in danger of being sick,
unless the prophecies of the old women here will kill me, for
they think, I believe, that I am too kind to live, and they
shake their heads most knowingly,--one proof among a thousand
how much more frequently our characters are estimated by the
circumstances in which we happen to be placed, than by any
other criterion. Do write, to the last minute. I cannot bear to
part with you in this unsatisfactory manner, but indeed I am
incapable of any thing more; my eyes are dazzled as I write,
and I must lie down. I shall write by the packet of the 24th
from Liverpool, so that you will hear of me almost as soon as
you get home; and I pray God that in safety and health and
increased happiness you may all reach 'that haven where you
would be, with a grateful sense of His mercies.' May God for
ever bless you, my dear, kind friend, and strengthen you by His
grace to pursue with success that path of virtue and holiness
which it is your wish to follow, and enable you to perform all
the duties which lie before you, consistently with His divine
will, and worthy of His acceptance. This can only be done by
humble reliance upon Him who is the way, the truth, and the
life, for guidance, support, and reward. He alone can enable us
to do that which we ought to do, and, feeling our own weakness,
let us rely with faith upon His promises, neither doubting nor
fearing the certainty of their accomplishment. But I cannot
write or think; I seem to feel that 'bonnie little bairnie' in
my arms still, and my nerves are something shaken. The worst of
the whole is that poor, unhappy young man, whose low moans are
continually sounding in my ears; but I send him away to-morrow
for his own sake, as well as ours, and all will go well. Again,
dearest Emma, Heaven bless you! Ever your
"M. L. P."
* * * * *
"_Osmotherly, September 14, 1825._
"DEAR EMMA:--
"I have had a grand night's sleep, and am better
to-day,--should be well, but for this lazy feeling, and a dull
headache. Don't fear for me. I do not think I am going to be
sick, and it will be for some good purpose if I am. I could not
regret what I have done; I could almost say, as Mr. Thacher
once said, 'I had better live a shorter life, and a useful
one.' But I am not inclined to throw away life either; I enjoy
it much, and think it right for all to endeavor to preserve it,
for we may all do some good if we try, and that is reason
enough for keeping it, were there no enjoyment to be had; as
there is, even for the most distressed. But I must leave you,
for I am not able to write more.
"... We buried the dear little baby to-day, which has been a
wet, uncomfortable one, and I do not feel the better for the
exposure, but on the whole am very well; nothing but a trifling
cold, scarcely worth minding. I feel with you that it is as
well, if not _better_, that I should stay. But you must not
judge of its importance by cousin Jane's representation; her
warm heart runs away with her judgment where she feels so much.
"A truce with your 'feelings of inferiority.' Who scolds me for
the same feelings? It is Pride, my dear, depend upon it. I know
it of old. Do not let it triumph.
"Ever sincerely yours,
"M. L. P."
* * * * *
"_Osmotherly, October 3, 1825._
"MY DEAR EMMA:--
"I have just received your farewell blessing, and could you
look in upon me, and know the peculiar circumstances and
situation in which I am placed, you would not be surprised that
it has made a very child of me, and that for the time I feel as
if all my connection with my home and its interests was severed
by your departure. I would not write under these impressions,
for I know it is a diseased state of mind, did I not fear that,
unless I improve this one leisure evening, I shall not have
another opportunity of writing for a long time; and I know you
will be anxious to hear from me, from the uncomfortable feeling
which you express at not receiving late letters. I did at first
regret that I had not written upon the chances of your being
detained, but on the whole it was best that I did not, for I
could not at any moment since my last date have relieved your
anxiety, had I told you the truth, and I think your imagination
could not picture any evil so bad as the reality has been.
"But to proceed in order. I wrote you last, I think, the day
after the dear little infant was buried, and I believe I
mentioned to you that I had taken up my night quarters with my
poor cousin Bessy. She had never been left alone since her
husband died, and now that she had no longer her baby to occupy
her attention, she felt her desolateness more forcibly. I
therefore gave the day to my aunt, having Bessy and her two
little boys as much with us as possible, and passed the night
with her. She was the most patient sufferer I ever saw; not a
word of repining ever escaped her, and she went about her
occupations and duties with a steadiness which spoke a
determination to sacrifice every selfish consideration to the
good of her children. Scarcely a tear could be seen on her
cheek, and a common observer would have accused her of want of
feeling, if he had not understood that the settled calm which
sat upon her face might hide more real agony than is ever shown
by any 'sounds of woe.' Her resolution astonished her friends,
for they knew her to have a very timid and self-distrusting
character, and the situation in which she was thus suddenly
placed would have appalled even a stout heart. But I saw the
true state of the case. When the duties of the day were past,
and the necessity for exerting herself over, and all at rest
but ourselves, she felt at liberty to indulge herself in
talking of that of which she would not speak to any one beside;
and I found that what seemed insensibility was in reality a
degree of fortitude and resolution which I never saw equalled.
I thought it best, too, to encourage her thus to open her
heart, for I believe that concealed grief is always the most
destructive to the mind, and her situation really required the
advice and assistance of any one who could aid her, as she was
inexperienced and felt her own deficiencies to a most
overpowering degree. She had had but little instruction upon
religious subjects, and would listen to my reading of the
Scriptures, and detail of my own experience of the power of
religious consolations, as if a new light were opened to her
soul. I did not then know how much she was affected, but the
readiness with which she adopted advice upon the subject gave
me much hope that it would in time become as valuable to her as
it had been to me.
"I told you that her infant was only a fortnight old when her
husband was taken ill, and only a month when it died. Its
mother had never recovered her strength, and distress having
destroyed her appetite, and watching deprived her of sleep, she
was as thin and weak as possible, and but ill able to bear the
consequences of the sudden death of the child. This, added to a
cold which she took, made her very feverish, and the absence of
the physician from town obliged her to confine herself to such
simple remedies as we could prescribe, to avert further evil
and restore her strength. But the benefit which she derived
from them was but temporary. A week from the day upon which her
baby died, while passing the afternoon with us, she was taken
very ill, and it was with great difficulty that her brother and
myself carried her to her own house, only a few rods distant. I
lost no time in administering the prescriptions of the
physician, and for a few days she seemed to mend; but I soon
felt convinced that her disease was the worst form of typhus
fever, and was sure that she had not strength to get through
it. The doctor confirmed my suspicions, but told me that such
was the dread of it among the country people, that, if it were
known, I should be left to myself, for no one would come near
the house. I had not then required any assistance, for I was
very well, and, knowing her situation to be a critical one, did
not like to trust her to any one beside. By some means,
however, the story was sounded abroad and spread like wildfire,
and the suspicion of (what was in fact the truth) the two
brothers having died of the same disorder added to the evil.
"The day after Bessy was taken, Jemmy, her youngest child, a
boy of three, fell ill too, and though it was doubtful whether
whooping-cough or typhus had the greater share in his malady,
to the fearful minds of the villagers it was all one and the
same, and the family were thought to be doomed to destruction.
One by one fell off from coming near the house, till I at last
scarcely saw a person except the doctor during the day. This I
did not mind, for I preferred being constantly with my cousin,
and the actual labor of attending her was not great; she took
but little, and all the help which I wished for I had. She
died, however, on the 30th of September, eleven days after she
was taken, and during that time I had never left her, night or
day, except to change my clothes occasionally at my aunt's. I
had watched with her seven nights, and been up part of every
other; for so accustomed was she to my care, that she did not
like to be touched by any other person. I had sent the two
little boys to their grandmother's, and the youngest was very
ill during the whole of his mother's sickness, and still
continues so. My cousin's little cottage was so small, that I
felt unwilling that any one should sleep in it, lest they
should suffer from infection; and often did I sit up with her
alone in the house. I had been so exposed to the disease that I
felt no fears for myself, and I believe this helped to
preserve me, and the good doctor watched me very narrowly. I
could not in a month tell you half the interesting
circumstances attending this trying scene. Her senses never
forsook her for a moment, nor her deep sense of gratitude to
God for the mercies which he had bestowed on her amid all her
sufferings. It seemed to her His immediate providence which had
sent me to them just at this time, and her expressions of
affection and thankfulness were indeed most delightful to me.
It does appear most singular that I should have come just now,
for the fact is, poor Bessy would have suffered for want of a
nurse, beside many other necessaries, had I not been here. Her
mother was fully occupied with the little boy, and her sister
too distant, and of too much importance at home, to be with
her, and the people of the place are too ignorant and
frightened to have been all to her that she required.
"It was necessary to bury her immediately; and thus is this
family entirely broken up, in the short space of three weeks,
by the death of both its heads. She left her children to my
sole direction and care, and the settlement of all their
affairs, so that I have still much to do, beside the care of
the sick child. His grandmother is almost worn out with it, and
left his mother's death-bed only to nurse him. I have now
stolen away from him for an hour to visit this deserted place,
and am sitting by the fire in the lonely parlor, without any
other being in the house but the eldest boy of seven, who is
amusing himself by my side, interrupting me now and then by
saying, 'Cousin Mary, you will let me live with you, wont you?'
Every thing is still without, and so strongly is my poor
cousin's voice associated with every thing I see around me,
that it would not require any very strong effort of imagination
to fancy I still heard her blessing me from what is now, I
trust, her abode of peace and joy. But I must not indulge
myself in writing about feelings, for I have much else to say;
but I really think, since the last solemn evening that I spent
alone in the old oak parlor in Pearl Street, I have never felt
so forcibly the mutability of all earthly things; and had I any
one to listen, I could talk all night upon the subject.
"This is by far the most primitive, uncivilized place I was
ever in; I cannot liken it to any thing I know at home, for
even Worthington has lawyers and a clergyman's family to redeem
it; and, moreover, the general inhabitants of our little towns
have more information and education than is to be found in
these out-of-the-way villages, to which the modern improvement
of national and free schools has not yet been extended. I am
glad to see all the varieties of life, but under present
circumstances this is a very solitary one. Were it not for the
physician's visits, which he kindly makes every day, I should
live totally without conversation in its true sense. The people
are good and honest-hearted, and treat me as if I belonged to a
higher order of animals,--and this is a novel situation! I am
very free from complaints, and take care not to do more than I
feel able to, and if I am superstitious in feeling that
Providence directed me hither at this time, it is a useful
superstition, inasmuch as it gives me a feeling of security
that I shall be guided and strengthened to accomplish the work
appointed for me. Do not fear, but hope and pray for me.
"I cannot tell you how much your visit to Burcombe gratified
me; you could not have obliged me more, for I should have been
so suspicious that my own description of it and its inhabitants
might be a partial one, that I doubt if I should really have
done them justice at home: Jane was as much pleased with the
effort you made to see them, as any one could possibly be, and
more pleased with the visit itself than I choose to tell you. I
have most kind letters from the family at Penrith, offering to
come for me whenever I give the word of command; it is a
delightful rest to look forward to, but it will, I fear, be
long before I can avail myself of it. The thoughts of home are
to me now something like the dreams one has of heaven, in the
twilight hours between sleeping and waking; I dare not form any
definite picture, and yet the idea will not be wholly
discarded. But with so much around me to make me realize the
uncertainty of life, and exposed to actual danger every moment,
how can I presume even to hope? May I be able to say from the
heart, 'Thy will be done.'
"MARY."
* * * * *
"_Osmotherly, October 23, 1825._
"_My dear Cousin_:--
"I wrote Emma a hurried letter a few weeks since, giving an
account of my poor cousin's illness and death, and then hoped
that I should soon be able to tell a happier tale, to relieve
the anxiety which that might have produced. But it is not yet
in my power, and I should not venture to write at all, did I
not hope that all your uneasiness on my account will find an
antidote in the confidence which daily experience increases in
my heart, that He whose arm is mighty to save, and who has
hitherto protected me from all danger, will still extend to me
his fatherly care, and guide and guard me under all the events
of his providence. You will readily believe that I have need of
this confidence to strengthen me, when I tell you that I am
writing this by the bedside of the eldest of those two dear
little orphans whom my cousin left in my care. His little
brother had scarcely recovered from his fever, when I was
obliged to leave him to attend this poor child with the same
fever, and have now been for more than a week his sole nurse,
night and day.
"But to give you an adequate idea of the peculiarly trying
situation in which I have been placed for the last seven
weeks, I must recapitulate the story, which you may perhaps
have gathered in unconnected details from my letters to Emma.
It is indeed a melancholy one, but proves to me most painfully
that our steps are oftentimes guided by a wisdom from above,
far beyond our own limited conceptions. You know that one of my
objects in coming to England was to try to do something more
than I had hitherto been enabled to, for the comfort of my poor
old aunt, and you will not therefore be surprised that it was
my fixed resolution not to return until I had an opportunity of
ascertaining how to do this most effectually. When at last I
did get here, it was with the expectation of staying only just
long enough to see that she was made comfortable. I knew
nothing of her family even by name, and of herself only that
she was old and feeble, and subject to fits of extreme
melancholy. I had not any anticipations of pleasure, except
from the feeling that I was doing what my dear father would
have done, and fulfilling one of the duties of my life. My
father had been her idol through life, and, as I have now
found, almost her sole dependence; her children could do little
for her, and the relations she had in England knew nothing of
her. She was of course most delighted to see me, and prepared
to devote herself with all her faculties to my comfort. But,
poor body, she stood in need of all that I could do to comfort
to her.
* * * * *
"I have written this in the intervals of attendance upon the
little boy, and, as you may perceive, at different periods, for
I seldom sit five minutes at once. It is now the 25th, and I am
happy to say he is a little better; but I scarcely dare hope,
he is of so feeble a constitution. I left him yesterday under
the influence of opium, so that I was sure he would not miss
me, to go to North Allerton, seven miles distant, to meet old
Mr. McAdam and my cousin S----, who had come from Penrith in
their carriage for me. They did not come hither, fearing that
strangers would be but intruders in such distress, but stopped
at North Allerton, and sent an express to me on Sunday night,
begging me to return with them if possible, for they had known
of all the sickness which surrounded me, and feared I should
suffer from contagion. It was most kind in them, and I should
have been most happy for the release could I have gone with an
easy conscience. But it would have been worse than inhuman to
have left this poor little sufferer, beside that much of the
business which I have undertaken is unfinished, and I should
not think I had done my duty until I had settled these orphans
permanently. But I thought I ought to go to them to explain
this, as I should have been afraid to have had them come here,
and I took a chaise and passed the day with them. My patient
did not wake up enough to know I was away, and it was quite a
refreshment to me. Am I not most fortunate to have such kind
friends in this strange land? It is a comfort to feel that I
have such a resting-place when my labors here are over, and
cheers me even in this most solitary of all the situations in
which I have ever been placed. Were it not for the good little
doctor who attends my patients, I know not what I should do. My
cousin cannot leave home for an instant, and my poor aunt is
overwhelmed with all these distressing events, added to the
continual trial which the melancholy young man is to all of us.
I get on without much fatigue, however, and have not yet been
obliged to sit up all night; and with the sleep which I get
whenever the little fellow is quiet, I do very well. He has
been very much out of his head the greater part of the time,
but very patient when he is sensible. It is now ten days since
he became ill, and you may suppose he is somewhat attached to
his cousin by this time, and I to him. O, if you could look in
upon me, what would you say!
* * * * *
"_October 30._ You would pity me now if you could look upon me,
for I have this night closed the eyes of the dear child whom I
was watching when I wrote the above. He seemed better daily
after my last date, and on Friday, the 28th, sat up and
appeared in every respect on the recovery; his appetite was
good, his fever reduced, and his strength improving. He awoke
on Saturday early, and begged for his breakfast, ate a light
one, and fell asleep. His nose had bled a little the evening
before, but not much; but about eleven, he suddenly threw off
from his stomach such a quantity of blood, as proved to us that
there was some internal rupture in the head. This continued
through the day and night, increasing in violence. No earthly
power could save him; all was done that could be, but certain
spots which appeared upon him soon after the bleeding commenced
decided the physician that he could not live. He lingered until
this evening, and died from absolute exhaustion at ten o'clock,
of what is called spotted fever here;--and I laid with him
after the spots had come out, without knowing what they meant.
It is a great shock, for I felt almost secure that he was
getting better, and his poor grandmother is nearly distracted.
This seems to affect her more than all; being under her own
roof, it is brought more home to her senses, and it is indeed
shocking to lose five of one family in so short a time. I am
sitting up, while a woman, who has been with me through this
dreadful day, gets a little rest by the side of my aunt; but as
I was up last night, I am in such an agitated state that I am
not fit to write. To have seen four human beings die in the
short space of eight weeks is enough of itself to solemnize
one's mind; but with all the additional circumstances which
have attended these, no wonder that my heart is full to
overflowing. This was a fine boy, and you know that the
endearing ways of a sick child are most engaging under any
circumstances, and when that child is an orphan, and dependent
upon one's self entirely, the interest is indeed intense. I
never met with so violent a case of fever, and the poor
sufferer was sensible to the last of all its horrors. One
cannot indeed lament for him, for he would have probably had
but a hard life. Little James is now indeed alone in the world,
happily too young to be conscious of his loss; but it is very
affecting to think of his being deprived of father, mother, and
two brothers in eight weeks, and left so perfectly alone.
* * * * *
"_November 2._ I add a line to say that I am quite well,
therefore do not feel anxious about me. There are very many
cases of the fever in the village, and as I am almost the only
person in it who is not afraid of infection, I still have full
employment in assisting the poor sufferers. My cousin's little
niece is still very ill. I have indeed been wonderfully
preserved and strengthened. Heaven save me from presumption,
but I cannot help feeling that I could not have lived through
all that I have, unless God had protected me.
"Yours affectionately,
"M. L. P."
We need not attempt to add any thing to this simple and affecting
narrative of events that seem to belong to a more remote place and
period than England and our own day. With all their naturalness and the
stamp of reality, it would not be difficult--as indeed has been done--to
clothe them with the drapery of fiction, and weave them into a romantic,
improbable tale.
But the tale is not all told. The scene shifts at this point, only to be
succeeded by another not unlike, nor far apart. Near the end of
November, Mary was released from present duty at Osmotherly, took a
reluctant leave--yes, with her generous and clinging affections, a
_reluctant_ leave--of the family in which she had closed the eyes of
five members, and was carried by eager, anxious friends to Penrith.
There, in the bosom of a charming household already known and dear to
her, every thing within and without presented as strong a contrast to
the situation she had just left, as words could express. Her own words
give us some idea of it, in the first letter she wrote after leaving a
place associated "with images of danger and death," and leaving it, as
she supposed, for ever. But the very next letter after that surprises us
with the old date of "Osmotherly"; and we find that hardly a month had
passed before she was recalled to the same spot, the same painful
responsibilities, and far greater danger than before, as the result
proved. But again we leave her to tell her own story.
"_Penrith, Cumberland, November 29, 1825._
"MY DEAR COUSIN:--
"After all my melancholy letters from Osmotherly, you will be
glad to receive one of another date, and under happier
circumstances. My last letter was just after the death of the
dear little boy, and I then thought I should be able to leave
there very shortly; but it was not until the 26th, (after I had
been there twelve weeks instead of the three which I intended
when I went,) that I could arrange matters so that I could give
up my charge conscientiously; and, after all my efforts, I
could not succeed in settling the business for my poor,
unfortunate cousin. I left it, however, in a fair way for
completion, clothed the dear little orphan for the winter, and
placed him with his aunt, making all the arrangements which my
limited means allowed for his future support; and
notwithstanding the incessant trial which I had there, I assure
you it was not without many painful feelings that I took leave
of the place, for ever. I had been for the last five weeks
constantly with my aunt, and could not bear to leave her in the
solitary situation to which she was reduced by the death of so
many of her family. My dear little Jamie had become an object
of affection to me, heightened to an extreme degree, since he
was, like myself, left without parents or brother or sister. I
longed to take him as my own, for he is a child of very
uncommon capacity, and I fear will not have the education which
he deserves. But I could only commit him in faith to Him who is
the Father of the fatherless, who will not suffer even the
least of his creatures to want his care. I think I never shall
forget his screams of agony when he saw me drive away; I
thought his little heart would burst. But childish sorrow is
soon over, and he will forget me long before I shall cease to
love him.
"According to an arrangement previously made, my cousin S----
met me at Greta Bridge, in her grandfather's carriage. I came
to that place on Thursday in a postchaise, passed the night,
and came on hither the next day, so that I had only about
thirty miles to ride alone, and as I got a postboy from the
neighborhood to drive me all the way, I felt perfectly safe,
and found no inconvenience whatever. Nothing can exceed the
kindness of this family to me; indeed, I am made to feel that I
am at home with them as if I had always belonged to them. After
all I have had to suffer, it is almost like the rest of the
Sabbath to the weary laborer, and if kindness and petting will
cure one, I shall soon recover all I may have lost during my
dreadful siege at Osmotherly. To be sure, I am almost
bewildered at the change from constant anxiety and labor to a
state of perfect idleness and indulgence, but I will try and
make a good use of it; and I feel so entirely convinced that
this most amazing preservation of my life must be for some
useful end, that I think I never can fall into an insensible or
cold state again. I was almost glad to stay from here, until I
was quite sure I had not suffered from infection, for although
I cannot feel much faith in the doctrine of contagion, I would
not run any risk of communicating the disease to others. It is
the opinion of many physicians here, (and my little doctor
among the number,) that change of air may bring out the fever
which would lie dormant in the system for a long time without
it, and he warned me not to feel too secure until I had tried
it. But I do not yet feel any symptoms; weak and weary I am,
but not feverish, and having no fear am the more safe.
"But do not think I am so much occupied by the distresses I
have experienced here, as to be unmindful of those which have
visited my friends at home. Your letter of the 20th of October,
and Ann's of the 18th, reached me on the 16th of November. The
account of poor Maria's death shocked me very much, and made me
long to fly home, that I might, if possible, do something for
her dear little children. I wish I could assist them, and feel
that there is no one of the family to whom the duty of doing it
is so great. I beg you will use my name in any case in which
you think I could act with usefulness, and if God spare me to
return to you, I promise you I will fulfil all you may engage
for me to the best of my powers.... It tires me so much, that I
can scarcely write intelligibly. God bless you!
"MARY."
* * * * *
"_Osmotherly, December 31, 1825._
"MY DEAREST FRIEND:--
"I have often welcomed this anniversary with delight; but under
all the various circumstances in which it has found me, I think
I never felt the value of the privilege which it gives me of
writing to you more deeply than I do at this moment.
"But I will first account to you for my being again at this
place, the very name of which is no doubt by this time
associated in your mind, as it is in mine, with images of
danger and death. Of the events which took place during my
former visit here, you have no doubt been informed by my
letters to Boston, and of my departure from it, as I thought
for ever, for the hospitable abode of my kind friends at
Penrith, where I was enjoying much when I last wrote home. I
intended staying with them until the middle of January, when
Mr. McAdam's appointed journey south would secure me an escort
to Birmingham, and I was, among other things, anticipating
writing this under the influence of the same most delightful
society which was operating upon my mind on this night last
year. But I was doomed in this, as in many more important
concerns, to feel the uncertainty of all calculations for the
future; for on the 23d of December I received a letter from the
physician of this place, written at the request of my aunt, who
was apparently dying of typhus fever, begging me if possible to
let her see me once more. I knew there were many reasons which
made it important that I should come, if that were indeed her
situation; and at the advanced age of sixty-eight, with a most
feeble frame, I could not dare to expect a favorable
termination. The risk of returning to such an infected region
was, of course, much greater than my former residence there,
but thus summoned I could not hesitate, and my good friends,
even more fearful and anxious than I was, could not attempt to
dissuade me. It was indeed an appalling undertaking, knowing so
fully the evils to which I was coming which could not be
avoided, and all that might ensue could not be kept out of
sight.
"It was, I assure you, with many solemn thoughts, though hid by
cheerful looks, that I took my leave, probably for ever, of
that good family, and got into the mail alone on the morning of
the 26th. My route lay across the dreary hill Stanmoor, and, as
I had not even a single companion the whole eighty miles
hither, you may be sure my cogitations were many and various.
Among other things, I was struck by the singular coincidence
which has always given to Christmas week a peculiar interest;
neither could I fail to consider, on recollecting the various
circumstances that had occurred in it, how deep was my debt of
gratitude to that Being who had guided me through them all in
safety. Dear N----, this is an overwhelming thought, and one
which every day's experience forces upon my mind with
increasing power, a power of which, it seems to me, it would
have been impossible to conceive under any other than the very
peculiar circumstances in which I have been, and, it would
seem, am still doomed to live, while in this country. Imagine
me, at this distance from all to whom I have been accustomed to
look for dependence, a being alone in creation almost,
literally alone in this strange land, making an excursion of
eighty miles across the country, partly in coaches, partly in
postchaises, without a being to protect me or appeal to, and
upon such an errand,--and yet as safe as if a host were
escorting me, calm, quiet, and perfectly easy as if I were
taking a ride to Hingham; and then tell me, if the confiding
spirit which our sacred religion creates in our souls is not
worth all that we could possess besides.
"I arrived here in eight hours after I left Penrith, and found
the poor old lady rather better, and not a little delighted
that I had cared enough for her to come. She has had many and
severe trials through life, to which those of the last summer
were but a sequel. I was the only one of her own relations with
whom she had come in contact for many years, and the poor
soul's heart warmed towards me with the whole force of her long
shut up affections. I at once installed myself as sole nurse in
the very room in which I had watched the progress of disease
and death upon that poor child, whose case I mentioned in my
letter to Emma; and here am I now writing you by the light of a
rush candle, with my little work-box for a desk, almost afraid
to breathe lest I should disturb my aunt's slumbers. We two are
the only beings in this little cottage, for I have sent her
sons out to sleep, as a precaution against the fever, and put a
bed into the corner of the room for myself. Could you see me
acting in the fourfold capacity which I adopt in this humble
cottage, you would hardly believe me to be the same being, who,
a week ago, was installed in all the honors of a privileged
visitor, amid the luxuries of Cockel House, acting 'lady'
solely, to the utmost of my ability. It amuses me to find how
easily it all sits upon me, and how readily we may adapt
ourselves to varieties of situation and find something to enjoy
in all. Aunty is much better, and I think there is a good
chance for her recovery, at least to as good a state of health
as she was in before this illness. I feel little evil in the
contrast, great as it is to myself, except a slight cold, which
the very sudden change in the weather, from warm and damp to
excessive cold, has brought me. The fields to-day are covered
with snow, the first time I have seen them so in this country,
and it looked so homeish, and so much like your happy home the
last time I saw it, that I have been enjoying the sight highly
to-day, while every one beside was looking blank at it. I am in
one respect more comfortable than when I was here before, for
I have one companion. The 'little doctor' has his only sister
to keep his house, and she has already made herself most
important and agreeable to me; she has only been here a week,
and being as much a stranger as myself, we have some feelings
in common. She is a very lovely little creature, twenty-one
only in years, but older in experience. Her manner is suited to
the style of her face,--gentle, winning, and at the same time
indicating cultivation and elegance of mind. Without the
slightest shade of affectation or consciousness of beauty, she
not only gives me a new study of character, but is a most
convenient and pleasant associate; living in the next house but
one, I can call upon her at any moment. Something always comes
to me in all situations to prove to me the care which is taken
even of the most insignificant; and surely the whole of my
experience in this place has been but a continued lesson of it.
Indeed, I certainly have great cause of thankfulness, for that
only dark passage in my progress since I left home, trying as
it was, was full of admonition. It showed me a part of the
great plan of creation of which I knew little or nothing
before, a class of beings whose characters, duties, motives,
and views I had never before understood; and above all, it
showed me how perfectly the various links in the great chain of
existences are adapted to aid, and strengthen, and apply to
each other, adding another to the many proofs of the Supreme
Wisdom which formed and governs all.
"The only remnant of my poor cousin Bessy's family is a boy of
just William's age; he was ill at the time his mother died, and
became my immediate charge until his brother was taken sick,
and grew so fond of me that it was long before even his aunt,
whom he had been used to seeing, could make him content to be
separated from me. He is a very engaging child, bright, and of
a noble disposition and temper. The similarity of our
situations was enough to make me feel more than common
tenderness for him, his dependence upon me increased it, and
his strong attachment to me completed it. I think I never felt
so much for a little creature before, and were it not for the
great distance I should have to take him, I never would leave
him behind. I thought he would have broken his little heart
when I drove away, and when I came back his ecstasy was really
affecting; he ran round me, jumped up in my lap, stroked and
kissed my face, as if he could not trust to the evidence of one
sense, and at last burst out a crying, 'Uncle Mady wont go away
again; Uncle Mady live with Jamie every day, wont you, Uncle
Mady?' He had always a trick of calling me 'Uncle.' Do not
think I am made melancholy by all this. I have no recollection
of ever having the same degree of good spirits as I have been
blessed with for the last six months,--I may say nine; and save
my longing for home, I have had no cause to wish any one thing
relating to me different from what it has been. God grant that
I may not be tempted to great presumption! I hope my wishes are
humble, though my confidence may be great.
"May God be with you, my dear friend, and guide and guard, and
bless you, through the year on which we have now entered, and
for ever,--is the earnest prayer of your sincere
"MARY."
But with all her cheerfulness, and self-forgetting, heroic courage, Mary
was not proof against danger and disease. It is well for us to learn
that the laws of nature are not suspended nor diverted from their
course, even by the strongest faith, or for the sake of the most noble
and useful laborer. Such a laborer there was here; but it was hardly to
be expected that she would pass unharmed, the second time, through such
exposure, fatigue, and painful anxiety. If the transition was great, at
first, from that barren and comfortless place to the luxuries of
Penrith, the change back again must have been peculiarly trying. She
speaks of the difference between the two places as equal to that between
the most sumptuous dwelling in Boston and the farm-house at Brush Hill.
Nay, the contrast there was yet greater; for the common cottages in
Yorkshire had no floors for the first story, except of clay and sand.
Such was the house in which all that previous sickness and death had
occurred, and in which the nurse and servant of all now found herself
again. Sending away to another house the melancholy and moaning young
man, and fixing up a bed for herself in a corner of her aunt's small
room, she endeavored to keep herself from the night air, particularly as
the weather, after a long course of warm rains, became intensely cold.
But in vain did she shun exposure. There was work to be done out of
doors as well as in, and no one but herself to do it. A sudden and
severe cramp seized her, and she at last fell upon the floor, when alone
in the night, and there lay a long time, utterly helpless, striving to
make her groans heard by some one in or out of the house. This left her
in a state of extreme debility, from which nothing could for a long time
raise her. She would make it appear a light matter when it was over, but
it is evident, from her own expressions and other facts, that she was in
great danger.
"_Penrith, February 10, 1826._
"MY DEAR EMMA:--
"Your last letter was a cordial to me, and came at a time when
I greatly needed it; for I was actually suffering under all the
evil which you were fearing for me when you wrote it,--confined
to the chamber of that little cottage which I have described to
you, weak and languid, the mere shadow of what I was when I
parted from you. But for the cause and effect of my last visit
to Osmotherly I must refer you to my letters to N. C. P. and
Mrs. B----; you know I cannot bear to tell the same tale twice,
more especially if it be a melancholy tale.
"But do not imagine me to have been in a very forlorn and
disconsolate predicament, for I had many blessings to rejoice
in all the while. The sun shone brightly all the day full upon
the windows of our comfortable, neat apartment, furnished with
what, in her former prosperous days, had been the furniture of
the 'spare chamber' (the museum of precious articles, you know)
of Aunty's 'bien house'; Aunty sitting by the fire in her easy
chair, her bright eyes glistening with the exhilaration of
returning health; and my ladyship lying on the bed, thin and
pale enough I grant, but in as high glee as strength would
permit, and not for one minute depressed; if any change came,
it was for the better, and my nurses remarked that my worst
days were my gayest ones. Then I had two visits each day from
the 'little doctor,' the very essence of good-humor and
cheerfulness, and as I had in reality but little pain, I could
manage to enjoy a good deal. Besides, I had the comfort of a
female companion, with whom I could associate with something
like equality of feeling. This was the sister of the 'little
doctor,' who had just come to Osmotherly to keep house for him.
My dear little Jemmy, too, was a source of great amusement and
delight to me; he had improved even in the short time I had
been from him, and showed some new and interesting trait every
time I saw him. I left all behind me, however, on the 30th of
January, not without many regrets as you may believe, for I
felt it was now certainly for ever; and no one can part from
those who have been kind to the utmost of their power, however
small that power may be, without sad feelings. This is
certainly a great drawback upon the pleasure one takes in
travelling, and I sometimes think, when the time comes that I
must do the same to all I have known here, I shall wish I had
never come. But I do not like to think of it.
"I am indeed much better than I could have dared to hope, but I
always gain fast if at all, and this week of eating has made a
great change in me. I cannot tell you how I rejoice at this,
for I began to be heartily tired of my fictitious character; I
did not realize my identity when toddling about, catching hold
of chairs and tables like a child just going alone, as I did
last week; I longed to shake myself of the encumbrance, or that
the scene would drop, and let me scamper away, Mary Pickard
again.
"I am glad you have seen this house, for it will aid your
imagination a little; but you can scarcely conceive of the
appearance of comfort which pervades this room as it is now
arranged. The gentlemen have all deserted us, and just now
Aunty George, Selina, and I are seated in true spinster style
round a large fire in the drawing-room up stairs, (which by the
way was any thing but comfortable when you saw it,) Aunty at
full length upon the sofa reading on one side, Selina on the
other writing, and I in the front doing the same, at the same
table with her. Around us are arranged, in the most convenient
places, piano, flowers, tables covered with books,
writing-desks, &c., ottomans ditto, all sorts of comfortable
chairs,--easy, rocking, &c.; in the corners, shelves with
collections of shells, minerals, and other odd things, to say
nothing of the living ornaments. It is the very picture of
comfort, and I could tell you of certain sensual luxuries which
make their appearance upon the centre-table, some three, four,
five, or perhaps six times a day, now that I am prohibited from
descending to the dining-room; but that would destroy the
intellectual charm which must hang round the image of Aunty
George. Mrs. McAdam writes me that she received your letter,
and really begins to imagine herself a 'monstrously agreeable
woman.' You must have given her a good dose, I think. She has
been in a fine taking about this illness of mine, but is
cooling a little, now she finds I am not satisfied with less
than four meals per day. How shamefully I have treated Emma's
kind letter; but there is no end to my wickedness of this sort.
I must not begin with confessions, but end them by confessing
myself very tired, and ever your sincere friend,
"M. L. P."
* * * * *
"_Erdington, near Birmingham, March 3, 1826._
"MY DEAR COUSIN:--
"I have continued to gain strength daily since I last wrote.
Miss McAdam passed a week in Liverpool, during which time
Selina and I kept house at Cockel; and after passing my last
few days there in the most delightful manner, with all the good
inmates, I left them on the 26th. Mr. McAdam kindly insisted on
coming by the way of Erdington, that I might not be obliged to
travel all the way alone. We found a great change on this side
the hills of Westmoreland; the grass is green, and every thing
putting forth, the lambs bleating and the birds singing as if
it were May.
"... I had given Mr. B---- notice of my intention to come to
him at this time, and found him looking out for me even at the
gate, with characteristic impatience, on Tuesday about noon,
and not a little delighted to see me at last. You know how
strongly attached he was to my father and mother, and indeed to
the whole family; his enthusiastic feelings have fully retained
the remembrance of what he enjoyed with them, and any one who
belonged to them would have been most welcome to him. Besides
this, he used to pet me, and took a great deal of pains to
teach me, and I thought the little body would have lost his
wits when he saw me; he is a kind-hearted man, and with all his
peculiarities one cannot but respect and love him. You may
remember what a little oddity he was in appearance when he was
in Boston, and I assure you increasing years have not at all
lessened his peculiarity. His face is not, I think, altered in
the least; his hair is still a bright brown, cut as short as
scissors can do it, upon which he usually mounts a small
sailor's wove hat, from beneath the narrow rim of which his
little bright, gray eyes twinkle in a most animated manner. His
common dress is a pepper-and-salt frock-coat, which has been
apparently in the service many long years, the waist of which
just divides his height, coming down to the chair when he sits;
a straight, long waistcoat of the same materials, and a colored
neckerchief tied as tightly as possible round his little neck;
breeches of purple-corded velvet, fastened at the knee with a
little steel buckle, white worsted stockings, and a pair of
what have been long leather gaiters, pushed down over the
ankles _a la negligee_. Fancy this little odd figure moving
about as briskly as if he were a boy just loose from school,
the vivacity of his manner and looks corresponding exactly with
the quickness of his motions, and you have my little friend Mr.
B----. You would think all this must be ludicrous, but it is
not. There is so much good sense and kind feeling about him,
and so much real benevolence in his manner towards every one,
that all his peculiarity is forgotten in a very short time. He
is one of the most intelligent, entertaining men I ever met
with, and certainly one of the most warm-hearted. He has passed
a very unsettled life since he left America, and is now living
in a poor cottage, quite out of the way of all society, with no
amusement but his little garden, which he cultivates entirely
himself, and a fine library of most valuable books. This is
quite enough for him, and he seems as happy and contented as
possible, because he is independent. His _sanctum_ is more like
grandpa's than any I ever saw; he reminds me of him in many
things, and we have talked over old times until I have fancied
myself young again.
"You may form some idea of my strength, when I tell you I was
yesterday tempted by the pleasure of my own company to a walk
of eight miles, and did not suspect I had done half of it. I
have indeed recovered my strength rapidly, and do not care
about the flesh. I believe I am as well as I ever was, and
should forget that I had been ill, were it not for certain
feelings of inefficiency and reluctance to move,--the
consequence of the indulgences I have had, I presume. I have
indeed had enough to make a spoiled child of me, had I not been
one before. It is no light burden upon my mind, that I can do
nothing to show my gratitude for all the kindness I have
received here. I do begin to dread parting for ever from all
these good friends; but do not think that _any thing_ can
efface the remembrance of what I owe my dearest friends at
home.
"MARY."
* * * * *
"_London, May 26, 1826._
"MY DEAR MRS. BARNARD:--
"Mr. Bond had a letter yesterday from Mrs. B. of April 21st,
in which she says you had heard of my illness at Osmotherly. I
am glad to remember that you would at the same time hear of my
entire recovery, and I hope before this you have received other
letters to tell you how complete was that recovery. It is
indeed overpowering to me, when I look back upon the events
which have taken place since I came to England. How many and
great have been the blessings which have attended me!
"I staid here with Mrs. Bates from the 4th to the 30th of
April, seeing and doing very diligently, and, with Mr. Paine's
assistance, examining many of the wonders and curiosities of
this great place, which I had not before seen. I then went to
Chatham to make my farewell visit to my cousin, Mrs. Stokes,
intending to stay only a fortnight; for I did not then know at
what time precisely Mr. Palfrey intended to embark for home,
and was making my arrangements to be ready the latter part of
June at the farthest. I was not, however, able to return at the
time I intended, for I was attacked very violently with spasms
from being very bilious, and the heavy doses administered by
the physician kept me housed for more than a week. I returned
to town on Monday last, the 22d, and came again to Mrs. Bates,
as she begged me to make her house my home in London, as long
as I staid. I was very much wearied with the journey, and Mr.
Palfrey and Mr. Bond, who came in soon after, thought I must be
ill, and may say so, but I assure you I am not. I gain strength
very fast, and, as a proof of it, I was nearly seven hours on
my feet yesterday, without food, and not fatigued by it. I
shall stay here only just long enough to see the friends I have
about London, and pack up my duds for the voyage, and then go
to Ash and Uncle Ben for a few days, and thence to Burcombe to
stay as long as I can.
"I feel now that my work here is finished (that is, all the
most important part,--I could find enough to do were I to stay
ever so long,) and I assure you I should feel most impatient of
delay beyond the time appointed. Mr. Bond brought me Mr.
Channing's Review _from himself_; you may believe I was not a
little pleased that he should think of me. I beg you will thank
him for me. How I shall enjoy hearing him, if such a blessing
is in store for me! Love to you and the household.
"M. L. P."
During the progress of events recorded in these different letters,
covering the space of a whole winter, we can imagine that some anxiety
was felt by friends on both sides of the water. Communication with
remote towns and obscure hamlets, even in England, was not frequent or
easy; and across the ocean we all know how different was the
correspondence then and now. Accordingly, we find the deepest solicitude
expressed, and painful suspense, in both lands. The manner in which the
English friends write shows the extent of Mary's danger, as well as the
amount of her services and their exalted and tender estimate of her
worth. We are not in possession of as many letters from England,
relating to any period, as we have wished to obtain; and the few we have
we hesitate to use freely, because of their allusions to domestic
incidents and persons who may be still living. But abundant is the
testimony, if we need it, to their appreciation of Mary's character,
warm and enthusiastic their love and admiration. A few sentences we take
from the letters of Mrs. McAdam, the 'Aunt Jane' so often named, to a
friend here.
_October, 1825._ "I have a letter this morning from our blessed
Mary, dated the 3d of October. She has laid her poor cousin in
the grave, after a fortnight's illness, during which time she
appears to have been her sole nurse. I dread she is doing far
more than she can bear. The younger of the two boys left is
taken ill, and she talks of taking him home to nurse him; but I
shall by this post write Miss McAdam to send for her and insist
on her removal. Her life is of so much more consequence than
any which are now left, that I can no longer hesitate. You, who
love her as well as I do, can imagine my uneasiness. Rest
assured, however, that I will keep you informed of every thing.
When she wrote, she said she had so much to do she could not
write home, and begged me to write. Now, my dear friend, all we
have to do is to rely on that God who orders all things for the
best, and to whom I constantly and ardently pray that He would
spare and reward our and His own Mary, to guide more of us to
Him; and I feel comforted when I rely with confidence on His
love and wisdom. She is such a blessing, that I would fain hope
the rest of my days may be influenced by her."