Memoir of Mary L. Ware, Wife of Henry Ware, Jr. Part 3

"MARY."

V.

CHANGES AT HOME.

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

Within a month of the day of her grandmother's death, she wrote her last letter there, which, with the first that was written out of the house, will show what she felt, and why.

"_Boston, November, 1817._

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

What, then, shall I do, when the whole host of the world's allurements are presented at once to my weakness?

"I wish I could describe to you the feelings which the very prospect of leaving this house excites in this poor, weak heart,--so weak that it cannot subdue or control its emotions.

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

"MARY."

"_Boston, December, 1817._

"For the first time since I left that loved spot in Pearl Street have I seated myself at my _desk_; and, although my object in now doing so was a very different one, I cannot resist the impulse which the sight of it gives, to renew the employment, so wont to be pursued at it, of pouring forth a few of my feelings to my friend. It is so long since I have had an opportunity to do so, and so various have been the occurrences, and still more various the feelings which it has been my lot to experience in the course of the last two months, that, though my mind is full of what I wish to communicate, I am as much at a loss what to write as if all was vacancy. This poor little, unconscious desk has carried me back, against my will, to scenes which it were wise seldom to think of. The last time I wrote at it was the last evening I spent in the I 'oaken parlor,' when all was sad and solitary. But I cannot dwell on it. I find in the record of that evening prophecies which are hourly fulfilling. I felt deeply impressed with a sense of insufficiency to meet with, and bear aright, the temptations which a life of indulgence would present. I felt that I was not fit for society, and I feel so still, but more sensibly, more truly, for it is now the lesson of experience, sad indeed. But a truce with such feelings;--it is not of them I wish to write.

This wicked desk has conjured up the old complaining spirit which so used to haunt me whenever I attempted scribbling to you. I am happy, contented with any change that has or may take place. I only ask a less selfish, more disinterested frame of mind,--to be more independent of the opinion of others, when a consciousness of sincere endeavor to do right acquits me of actual transgression. Selfish are all my regrets, all my trials, and wherefore, then, trouble another with a detail of what self alone can sympathize in, or ameliorate, or cure? I will not;--for once, I will follow reason rather than inclination.

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

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

"M. L. P."

To some it will seem strange, that one of such faith and principle, with no p.r.o.neness or taste for the follies of the world, should express fear of "fascinating, delusive snares," or think for a moment of the "whole host of the world's allurements." But this will be understood by those who remember that strength does not lie in a sense of security, nor wisdom in a.s.surance. It seems to have been ever a part of Mary Pickard's wisdom, to own her weakness. And more than this, the evil that she feared was not that coa.r.s.e, palpable thing usually called "vice," but the invisible, subtle evil, so serious to the sensitive and pure mind, though by the many lightly regarded. "I fear not actual vice," she said at this very time, "but to become thoughtless, forgetful of duty, unmindful of my highest interests, is to my mind a more deadly sin than many which are accounted by the world _crimes_. It is this I most dread.

My conscience, or, should that fail, my friends, would save me from the first, but who can control the thoughts of my heart?" Thus fearing, thus armed, she went out into the world, beginning at this point her life of self-guidance. Of her means of support we know little. She was not dependent. From her grandparents, to whom she had been so true a child, she received enough to enable her to a.s.sist her father in his depression, though it is evident that he took no more than was absolutely necessary, and that she retained enough for her wants, more than she used to the time of her marriage. This could have been accomplished, however, only by a uniform and strict economy, whose necessity she never regretted, except as it curtailed her charities.

And now began a life of business and of motion. Since her return from England, at the age of five, Mary had been from home very little, and only for her schooling. Hereafter she is to become a traveller, to a greater degree than was then common for a lady, and greater than she desired. Her journeyings, we infer, were always more for others than herself; either for the gratification of friends, or in aid of her father. For she seems to have become, in various ways, his active as well as domestic helper, and was intrusted by him, we should judge from their letters, with important business. For some purpose of this kind, in the year following our last date, she went, for the first time, to New York. And the account she gives of the preparations and the journey, while it shows what changes there have been since, shows also how much there was on her mind and her hands. She speaks of getting but four hours for sleep from having "so great a variety of occupation,--so much for my poor, weak head to think of." And then, half playfully, half in earnest, she writes of being "at last equipped for a journey probably of two months." But we must give a part of the letter itself; showing, as it does, how near to her, even in her busiest moments and most fatiguing labors, were the higher cares of the mind and the soul.

"I am glad of having a great deal to do; any thing that will call my little powers into exercise gives me a transient feeling of consequence, which, as it is highly flattering to vanity, produces rather pleasant sensations. I will not enter on the subject of leaving home, and setting out on an expedition fraught with untried temptations, and presenting even in the most favorable view a scene of life little calculated to satisfy my taste or warm my heart. But I believe there may be instruction found in every situation, and I hope that seeing eyes and an understanding heart will be given me, to discern and improve it. I cannot tell you how much more I feel than I ever did before, at leaving home;--I cannot; it is in vain to attempt so vast a subject at such a time. I have been highly favored the last two Sundays in hearing two of Mr.

Channing's most delightful sermons, which I hope will not be soon forgotten. Last Sunday was the anniversary of many eventful days to me. The first Sabbath in September has for many years been a memorable day to me, and this last, I think, exceeds them all. It is three months since I have been at home on Communion-day, and the coldness which I had felt creeping through my very soul gave me a feeling of hope that I should find something to excite and elevate my affections. I never felt more entirely humbled to the dust, or more sensible of the immense privilege we enjoy, in having such a man to guide us on our way. But I am so excessively weary that I cannot write more,--scarcely to a.s.sure you of the warm affection of your

"M. L. P."

The journey to New York, by way of Providence and Norwich, was "a week's work," though it seems to have been all used in travelling, but with many "adventures" and delays incident to the beginning of steamboats,--against which, notwithstanding the discomforts and perils, Mary expresses herself "not so prejudiced that I should be unwilling to step on board one again." The letters she writes from the great city, so new and strange, are almost exclusively business letters to her father, and his replies show that he had given her important commissions, to be discharged in person, and in her own discretion. Directions are given for the sale or purchase, not only of muslins and moreens, but also of skins, saltpetre, and the like. And at the end of several weeks, in which she seems not to have indulged herself in much recreation, she speaks of returning as soon as she "has seen the city."

But instead of returning, she was induced by a tempting opportunity to go still farther from home, and with no time to get her father's permission,--a liberty evidently new on her part, and receiving at first severe reproof from him. The incident is not important, except as showing their relation to each other, and the manner in which she incurred and endured (being now a woman) the only harsh language that we find addressed to her by her father,--though it is clear that he always inclined to be exacting. The trouble in this case was, that he first heard from another of her being seen on her way to Baltimore, when he thought her safe with friends in New York, if not on her way home. The fact was easily explained. A gentleman with whom she was intimate invited her to accompany him to Baltimore, where she had long wished to visit a cousin newly married and settled there; and, with the approval of those with whom she was staying, she accepted the invitation as suddenly as she received it, "and in two hours was in the stage for Baltimore," to ride night and day till she arrived there. As soon as possible after her arrival, she wrote to her father all the circ.u.mstances, giving her reasons in a way that should and did avert his displeasure entirely. But unfortunately he had already heard of the runaway by accident, and one is forced to smile at the manner in which it affected him. Not waiting to hear from Mary, he instantly wrote to the lady in New York with whom she had staid,--"I am exceedingly vexed and mortified that she should do any thing so foolish, and cannot conceive how she will be able to justify herself; had I had any idea she would have been so indiscreet, I would not have consented to her leaving Boston. I have been expecting daily to hear what was likely to be done with some muslins she had the charge of; but instead of attending to that, she is flying like a wild goose about the country.

These girls in their teens [Mary was just twenty] should not be let out of their leading-strings; nor would her's have been let loose, but from confidence in her discretion." Yet in company with this letter he sent a note for his daughter, which begins with saying he can hardly call her "dear," but ends in a very different tone; and the first letter he receives sets all right. His only anxiety now is to have her with him, coupled, however, with a fear as to her companion home, and again making us smile by a prediction which has been singularly reversed in the fulfilment. "If you are well, pray come by the first _good_ opportunity.

I am afraid you will wait till the end of the month for the parson; your being so fond of parsons is rather ominous, and you had better almost be any man's wife than a parson's." The parson referred to was Mr. Colman of Hingham, now returning from a visit to Baltimore. It is a pleasant conclusion of this little episode, and offers a hint to children as well as parents, that, when Mary found how much her father had felt, without blaming herself for doing what seemed right and a duty, she expressed such sorrow for the pain she had given him, in terms so respectful and filial, as to turn all his severity against himself, and increase his admiration and love for her. The next time he refers to her fondness for the "clergy," it is in a vein of pleasantry which seldom relieves his merchant-like letters. "Could you not, my dear, enliven your letters by writing of persons and things which you have seen? I think your letters are too much tinctured with what may be called moral philosophy, for so young a person. You are so fond of the clergy, you will get into a habit of writing like one of them, and if you were to turn Quaker, I have no doubt but you would preach yourself. Tell us something of Baltimore, how it is situated, &c.; and, as Mrs. Slipslop says, something of the 'contagious country.' Pray take care of your own health, and get the family well soon."

The last words refer to the actual cause of Mary's protracted absence.

On returning to New York, intending to go home by the first opportunity, she found her good friend, Mrs. Harman, whom she was visiting before, dangerously ill, the husband absent, and the family in great confusion and trouble. At once she became the director and nurse,--offices which she seemed destined to fill wherever she went, as her subsequent life will show. All thought now of herself and her plans yielded to the present duty. And not an easy duty could it have been, as she describes the severity of the mother's sickness, the care of difficult children, and her responsibility in another's house and a strange city. As soon as they were in a condition to be left, she returned to Boston, though Mr.

Pickard even urged her to stay longer, for rest and her own gratification.

For a year or more Mary and her father remained together in Boston, with no change or incident to be noticed. They were living at board, so far as we find, though they may have taken a house, as he seemed very anxious before her return to be alone with her, having an aversion to company, and preferring her society and care to all other.

In her correspondence at this time, the prevailing theme and object, as usual, were religion and its influences, for herself and others. We cannot but observe the preponderance of this theme, and yet its perfectly natural and healthy tone. With nothing dark or melancholy in her religious views, with an habitual horror of ostentation and cant, she lost no opportunity to cherish and diffuse an all-comprehending faith. The letters which follow, addressed to her constant friend, declare their own occasion and design.

"_Boston, August 12, 1819._

"There was something in the strain of your last letter to me which has given me some feelings of anxiety. You refer to the course of medical discipline which has been pursued with Mr. ---- with expressions of regret, which, though natural, must add greatly to every other painful feeling that his present situation, and perhaps loss, must inevitably excite. I cannot reprehend you for what I know but too well is the natural impulse under such circ.u.mstances; but I would, if it were possible, point to a healing balm for that worst of all wounds,--fruitless regret.

"I am no fatalist, but the continual influence of an unerring Providence is a truth which was early impressed on my heart, and which daily observation has confirmed and strengthened. The simple order of nature speaks it with a powerful voice; the sacred pages of G.o.d's own book proclaim it in terms which cannot be misconstrued; and would we impartially review our own lives, should we not see in them incontrovertible proofs of an unseen power, that guided and directed many things for our happiness which our blindness would have wished otherwise? And are we to a.s.sent to this truth only when our minds can clearly see its reality? Are we to withhold our confidence in Him whom we have always found mighty to save, because we cannot in a single instance see its practicability? O, no! far be it from us, who profess to acknowledge the being and attributes of a merciful G.o.d, to shrink when he puts our faith to the test. Are his so often repeated expressions of love towards his creatures mere empty sounds to deceive the credulous, or a.s.sist the imagination in forming a perfect model of moral sublimity, but to wither into airy nothing when we dwell on them for support?

This we would not, most certainly, admit in our actions, and why should we even in our thoughts? Surely, believing, as we do, that his promises are sure and steadfast, we may in the darkest hours of adversity find consolation in the thought, that, however mysterious may be his decrees, there _must_ be some good result, some benevolent design, concealed beneath the most doubtful appearances.

"Cowper has beautifully versified this idea in his hymn, beginning

'G.o.d moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform';

you will find it in Belknap. Read it for the sake of one whom in all trials it has animated and consoled. Forgive me for dwelling so long on this subject. Do not infer that I think it new to you, but it is one in which I have felt most deeply, on which, too, I have had the most severe contentions with the spirit that warreth within, and one which, of all others, it is necessary for our happiness and goodness to establish in our hearts, that it may effectually influence our lives.

"MARY."

"_Brush Hill, September 22, 1819._

"It is now a month since the date of your last letter, during which time I think I have at least once written you; but our intercourse is now so different from what I would desire at this peculiarly eventful period, that it seems as if I did nothing, if I do not tell you every day how much depends on its events. I have been with you in a happy vision, and awake to the sad disappointment that it is but a dream, and to the consciousness that for a long time my unfruitful pen will be my only means of communication. It would be weak to repine at what is inevitable; I will not give way to it. How often have you told me that you were almost tempted to pray for trial, that you might know the true state of your religious life, that you might have your faith put to the test, and the veil of self-deception taken from your eyes! Often have I prayed that, whenever it should please the Disposer of all things to send to you sorrow and affliction, you might find strength and support where least expected, not from your own resources, but in that arm which is mighty to save to the uttermost all who seek. It is not, however, simply in the belief that whatever He appoints is right, that you are to receive his dispensations; difficult as is the task, we must not rest satisfied with ourselves until we have learned to receive with cheerful acquiescence what the world calls trials; until we have learned to view all events as tending to the same great end, and be thankful for what is denied, as well as what is received; knowing that there is but one great object in each. This may at first seem too high an aim, even above human powers to attain. But it calls not on us to give up natural feeling, only to guide it aright, and the higher our standard of excellence is fixed, the greater will be our efforts to attain it, and our success unquestionably proportioned to it.

"But why talk to you of what you have already more knowledge?

Forgive me; I lost, in the interest I felt in your present happiness, the remembrance that you were not in want of counsel on a subject on which you have already experienced enough to feel its importance. But do not, my dear friend, look only on the dark side of the picture; do not suffer your mind to lose its activity, because confined at present to one subject. It is not to contract our feelings, but to expand and teach them to enter into the feelings of others, that we are made thus to experience what it is to suffer. Should it not quicken our efforts to alleviate, to our utmost endeavor, those who are tried also, and by a cheerful example lighten the hearts of fellow-sufferers? I have felt, and _know_ therefore too well, the tendency of severe trial to enervate the mind, and lead us insensibly to give up our ambition to act on any other subject; but our general duties are not the less imposing, because a particular one requires more attention, nor are we to give way for a moment to the impulse of self-indulgence, because we feel any peculiar right to it.... All this is unnecessary, but you can conceive how deeply I feel interested in the result of this great trial of your Christian faith. I know its difficulties, therefore can appreciate its triumphs.

"MARY."

"_Boston, 1819._

"I leave the dismal beginning of a letter, intended to excite your compa.s.sion for my suffering under the confinement of a cold, and it would be rather _mal apropos_, after what has pa.s.sed, to proceed in due form to give an account of myself during the long period since I last saw you. But in order to preserve the unity of time and place, I must first revert to the accident which brought us together so opportunely. I will not pretend to defend the prudence of the action, but acknowledge it was rather the impulse of strong desire to give some one a little pleasure, than the sober dictate of reason, and I felt that, in M----'s solitary state, she would be glad to see any one. I know it was wrong in one point of view, but right in another. I was rewarded for a severe sickness, as far as regarded my own sufferings, should one have ensued. I had a very pleasant ride, and became more acquainted with J---- than I could in any other way. I was agreeably surprised to find in his conversation so much depth of thought and knowledge of mankind. I am glad of any opportunity to extend my acquaintance with character, in its infinite variety. There is no human knowledge, I am persuaded, which has so great an influence on our happiness. We learn to estimate ourselves more justly, and in the formation of our own characters we are enabled to discriminate between right and wrong more accurately; for in nothing are we more liable to confound them, than as respects our own feelings and motives. Is it not wilful blindness that leads us so often to ridicule in others what we unconsciously practise ourselves? Why are we not as cautious to ascertain the motives of the conduct of others as of our own? We console ourselves, when we have done any thing which to the eyes of the world appears weak and foolish, with the thought that our motives are good, and with a consciousness of having done what was right. All else is of little importance; but did we believe that our friends were as much influenced by appearances, in their judgment of us, as we are in ours of them, I doubt if the approving smile of conscience would always compensate for the loss of the good opinion of those we love. Let us not, then, judge solely by the conduct of any what are their real characters; peculiar circ.u.mstances may prevent even our most intimate friends from disclosing to us their particular reasons for every action; but in that case, if it be a tried friend, it were surely a proof of friendship to believe that it is at least felt by him to be right. And with regard to people in general, let charity have its perfect work, and let us think all are free from deliberate faults, till we have good reason to suppose otherwise. This is, perhaps, if understood literally, rather too liberal a plan for this world of sin and wickedness; but as far as is consistent with reason, and our previous knowledge of men and manners, is it not just to judge of all as we would be judged? I have _felt_ the want of this spirit of impartial justice, and speak from experience in some respects; in one, I hope never to be tried. I have been what you call mysterious; could you understand me, you would, I am sure, approve. Believe me, I am not governed by caprice in my treatment of friends; if any thing may have appeared so, there has always been a motive, and I feel that I may confidently rely on your friendship for all charitable construction....

"I am in a sad state. I long to see you, in hopes of procuring some remedy in your better regulated mind. I am so much under the dominion of certain sickly feelings of late, that I begin to think my mind will never recover its healthy tone again; active employment for the good of others is the only preventive for such disorders. I have not at present any prospect of such a means towards my own recovery, but trust the vital energy of my being is not quite extinct, and that ere long it will rise and subdue the weaker powers.... I have just thought that it is the spring-like feeling of the day that has such a weakening effect on my mind. Why do we indulge so much in idealism, instead of the real pleasure of our existence? I have no opinion of this giving way to imagination in our estimate of life.

"MARY."

In the month of October a death occurred which awakened all her sympathy, and the sympathy and sorrow of a large community. The Rev.

John E. Abbot, whose life and character Henry Ware has made familiar to us all, died in October, at his father's in Exeter, where Mary's friend was staying as a relative. To both of them he had been a Christian helper when they most needed Christian counsel and encouragement. His short life was, indeed, a blessing to all who knew him, and his death full of "joy and peace in believing." Again was the pen taken, and solace offered.

"_Boston, October 15, 1819._