Part 7

"The first line which I date from this place is to you, my friend, to whom my first feelings, on all occasions of self-interest, turn for sympathy. Your friendly curiosity is awake to know what effect a new kind of life is to have on a character which I know you feel of some importance to yourself. I would not imply that this selfish reason is the only motive of your interest, but I seek rather to find in it some pretence for indulging myself in the egotism which is creeping over me; and which led me to this desk for relief. How much will one short week of quiet reflection teach of our own hearts! How deceived are we, if we imagine we know ourselves thoroughly, when we have been but partially exposed to that change of circumstances and situation which alone can develop character even to one's self! I have found, indeed, just what I anticipated, that the change from constant activity to perfect stillness and inaction would of course produce a vacuity which time and habit would alone overcome; but I knew not the whole weakness of my mind. In the bustle of a busy life (idly busy, perhaps, but not the less exciting) I had almost lost sight of my natural propensities. Accustomed to find objects to occupy my powers wherever I turned, I mistook the simple love of being employed for real energy of mind, and therefore did not even apprehend the want of power to direct these energies to whatever I pleased. But it is not as I thought. My natural turn of mind (if I may so call what is perhaps more a weakness of heart) is for that calm, saddened view of things, which seeks enjoyment from the contemplative in character, and lives rather on the food of imagination than reality. I never found in words a more accurate description of the prevailing mood of my natural feelings than in that exquisite little poem, 'I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad,'--yet not of an uneasy, discontented temperament, but simply inclined to the purest refinement of melancholy. Trials which called for vigor of mind and cheerfulness of manner, a situation whose duties required the full employment of time which might otherwise have been wasted in cultivating this propensity, and perhaps a little pride lest those who could not understand it should discover it, and I hope a principle which taught me to wage war with what must interfere with higher duties,--all these combined to stifle the propensity, and I sometimes thought had almost extinguished it. But now, removed from those occupations which demanded thought as well as action, thrown entirely upon myself, with every thing around to inspire the enthusiastic indulgence of fancy, my imagination has suddenly taken the reins, and I find it will not be without a struggle that reason and principle will recover them.

"I suppose I must set about some new study or dry book, if I cannot find some animate subject to interest and fix my mind. There is a little deaf and dumb girl just opposite us, and if I knew the process I would teach her to read. I must have something to do which will rouse my mind to exertion. I have employment enough, but it is not of my _mind_, and that is unfortunately one which will retrograde if it does not progress. I am delighted with our situation, and cannot describe to you the sensations of first realizing that I am living in the pure, unconfined atmosphere of nature. It has a power, which I hope familiarity will never efface, of elevating the heart to Him whose 'hand I see, wrought in each flower, inscribed on every tree.' It is a privilege which I hope I shall fully estimate, to be thus reminded at every glance of the love and power of our Father in heaven. I am grateful for that goodness which has appointed me so much of the purest enjoyment of life, and I would testify it by devoting all my powers to his best service. I was not made for solitude of heart, and I would find all that my heart requires in the love of divine perfection. I think Foster will do me good,--'On the Epithet Romantic.'

"I have just been taking a delightful walk, as the sun was setting gloriously, and I think if you were only with me I should enjoy it tenfold. I wish you could arrange matters to come out with father one night before you go, and we will go to Milton.

"MARY."

* * * * *

"_Dorchester, July 25, 1821._

"I wrote you last rather a monotonous round of sedentary employments, occasionally interrupted by a visit to the city, or a ride about the country. On the whole I enjoy life highly, although my present mode is so novel a one, that I am sometimes at a loss to decide whether it is actual enjoyment or negative indulgence of ease. But country life is a privilege I estimate most highly; that I can at all times, when I raise my eyes, find my thoughts so forcibly directed, by all I behold, to that 'still communion which transcends the imperfect offices of prayer and praise'! I am persuaded that it is far easier to cultivate a devotional spirit here than in the confusion of life, and to have a deeper sense of the presence of God in the heart. Feeling is little, to be sure, unless it fortifies for action; but in the hour of trial, we find great assistance in recalling past exercises, and in spiritual as well as temporal concerns habit is a powerful coadjutor. That high-wrought state of feeling which some of the splendid appearances of nature often produce on a heart which has once felt the power of piety, is ridiculed as enthusiasm of the most dangerous kind; and I do not myself think it is any test of religious character; but as far as the enjoyment of the present moment is of any importance, what can exceed it? We are, indeed, too apt to feel that we have been on the mount, when it was but a vision which we saw; but where it does not so deceive us, nothing but a good effect can result from its indulgence. I recollect part of a description of this state of mind in Wordsworth's Excursion, which from its accuracy has remained in my mind, though I forget the scene which suggested it:--

'Sound needed none, Nor any form of words; his spirit drank The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form All melted in him; they swallowed up His animal being; in them did he live, And by them did he live; they were his life. In such access of mind, in such high hour Of visitation from the living God, Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request. Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power That made him; it was blessedness and love.'

"I have got Samor to read, because you recommend it, and am shocked to find how unfit my mind has become for every kind of application in the way of reading. I know you think I am greatly deficient in that kind of literary taste which fits one for an agreeable companion,--and I feel most sensibly that it is true. But I am fully persuaded that if the _sentimental_ requisites of an interesting character are only to be derived from books, I must go through life the plain matter-of-fact lady I now am; it is too late for me to work a reform.

"MARY."

Not long afterward, an event occurred of no little interest and importance to Mary,--the marriage of her true friend, now Mrs. Paine, who went to reside in Worcester. In a letter dated May, 1822, we find a full expression of the thoughts and wishes caused by this event, but of too personal and private a character to be used. The letter closes with an allusion to herself, showing that she had trials and experiences of her own, not to be disclosed to the public eye. She speaks of the previous winter, as "a remarkable era, never to be forgotten. Its perplexities have passed away, but its blessings have increased and become consummated. We have all found it an important period, and to some of us the most so of life. How far it has improved us, He who searcheth the heart alone knows; but for myself, I feel that it has been a scene of more mental suffering than I ever before knew. You have seen it, and will not misunderstand me when I say that, had I been more indifferent, I should have escaped much torture. But it has been a good lesson for me."

* * * * *

There are few greater demands upon the exercise of a sound discretion and practical wisdom, than the giving counsel and exerting a right influence on _sceptical_ minds. Nor is it often that such minds are willing to open themselves, and confide their doubts or indifference to a Christian friend. Unfortunately, Christians are apt to be either too careless in their conduct, or too morose in their manners and severe of judgment, to make a favorable impression on the sceptical, and win their confidence in the assurance of a generous sympathy. We dare not conjecture how much of the infidelity of the world, and the unhappiness of the unbelieving, is owing to this cause. We are sometimes driven to the fear, that Christians themselves may have as much to answer for as those whom they exclude for their unbelief, and whom they fail to impress with the power of their own faith, or the beauty of their holiness. We have many intimations that this was felt peculiarly by her of whom we write. And it is one indication of character, and of the aspect and influence of her faith, that many came to her freely with their doubts and difficulties. Some of the particular cases cannot be published.

But where no names are used in her account of them, nor a hint given of the persons intended, there can be no impropriety in offering the facts as related. The reflections with which she accompanies them may be profitable to both classes of minds, the believing and the doubting.

Under date of August, 1822, Mary writes to her former instructors in Hingham, giving with other incidents the following case of hard indifference, if not infidelity.

"This leads me to a subject upon which I want assistance. I have lately met with a person of my own age, who, though living in a Christian land, under the public dispensations of the Word, from the more powerful influence of those with whom she has lived and the want of education, is as it were wholly ignorant of what religion is, in any form, except as it is in some way connected with going to church, but without the least _feeling_ of what that connection is. She is not deficient in strength of mind, or capacity to receive instruction on the subject, but without any idea of the necessity of any other principle of action than she already possesses; that is, a firmness of purpose proceeding from natural decision, and a patience under trial, because experience has taught the weakness and uselessness of irritation. Now this seems to me an opportunity of doing some real good. I have almost unlimited influence over her from the strong affection she feels, and, as my opportunities are few, I cannot neglect this one without reproach. But that dreadful consciousness of incapacity will place its iron hand on my wishes. I am aware that much might and ought to be done, but that much, if not every thing, depends on the first impression. She must be made to feel the _necessity_, in order to be excited to the pursuit of piety; and how this is to be done I know not. Never did I feel so forcibly the imperfection of the characters of Christians, as on this occasion. To be able to point to one example of the power of religion in producing that uniform loveliness of character and happiness of life of which it is capable, would do more than volumes of argument to such a mind and heart. It has made me shrink at my own unworthiness of the name I bear. Could you find a moment to assist me in this undertaking, you would confer an unspeakable kindness.

"M. L. P."

Another more decided and serious case came to her knowledge about the same time,--a case of avowed atheism, confided to her for relief, and most kindly and wisely met by her; so that, while she supposed no effect had been produced, the work was going on, and an intelligent, troubled spirit came out of darkness into marvellous light. This success, which seems to have surprised her, was apparently owing to the beauty of her own religion, and the harmony and happiness of her life, which the doubter could not fail to see, which indeed first induced the confession, and was more effectual than any formal arguments; another evidence of the power and responsibility of the Christian course and character. "What a responsibility did this trust impose on me!" Mary writes; "for I knew that no human being but myself was aware of it. It was too much to bear alone; I was unequal to it, I dared not attempt it for a time, I knew that so much depended on the very first step in such cases."

The counsellor to whom she would gladly have gone for aid, her beloved pastor, was then absent, travelling in Europe for his health. He returned the following summer; and the account she gives of that happy event, familiar as the facts may be to the readers of the Memoir of Channing, will be interesting to many, as the impression of one who saw and heard for herself.

"_Dorchester, August 25, 1823._

"MY DEAR N----:

"I have just returned from passing the day with E----, and although it is late, and I am very tired, I cannot resist the strong desire I have to send you a few lines by her to-morrow, that I may give you some faint idea, at least, of what you would have felt, had you heard Mr. Channing yesterday. But to begin at the right end of the tale, I passed Thursday in town, and learned that Mr. Channing would possibly come in a vessel which was expected daily. On Friday I was at Nahant, and saw a ship enter the harbor which might be that. Saturday I went to Newton, and on my return was told that he had actually arrived, and was to preach the next morning. I could scarcely credit it, and it was not until my arrival at home, when I received a note from George requesting me to come in to hear him, and pass the day in Pearl Street, that I could be convinced it was actually true. I went in on Sunday morning, and with what sensations I saw the church filling, and every one looking round in anxious expectation, you may perhaps imagine; it was a feeling more of dread than pleasure, lest the first glance at his face should destroy all our hopes. He wisely waited until all had entered, and when his quick step was heard (for you might have heard a leaf fall), the whole body of people rose, as it were with one impulse, to welcome him. He was much affected by this, and it was some seconds before he could raise his head; but when he did, it made the eyes that gazed on him rejoice to see him, seated in his accustomed corner, looking round on his people with the most animated expression of joy glowing on his face, and with the evidences of improved health stamped on every feature. His skin was much burned, to be sure, which may have given him an appearance of health that did not belong to him, but the increase of his flesh and the animation of his countenance promised much.

"Mr. Dewey commenced the services as he used to do, but when, after the prayer, Mr. Channing rose and read his favorite psalm,--

'My soul, repeat His praise, Whose mercies are so great,'

I could hardly realize that he had been absent, his voice and manner and action were so exactly like himself in his very best days. He stood through the whole psalm, and seemed to join in and enjoy every note of the music. He could not control a smile of joy. But of what followed I can tell you little. You have heard him when he felt obliged, as then, to dismiss the restraints of form, and speak freely the thoughts that filled his mind, and have perhaps often thought with others that he went too far, was too particular, too personal; but yesterday, I believe the most uninterested person present could not find fault. I thought it was the most deeply affecting address I ever heard; it was also deeply and decidedly practical. There are few occasions which will authorize a minister to excite the feelings of his audience in a very great degree, and none which can make it allowable for him to rest in mere excitement. But when their minds, from any peculiar circumstance, are particularly susceptible, I know no reason why it should not be permitted that they be addressed familiarly and affectionately on the subject of it. But you need not that I should defend Mr. Channing from the charge of egotism. You understand his motives too well to require it.

"His text was from the hundred and sixteenth Psalm: 'What shall I render unto God for all his mercies? I will offer the sacrifice of thanksgiving, I will call on the name of the Lord, I will pay my vows unto the Lord now in the presence of his people.' Returning, as he said, under such peculiar circumstances of mercy to his home and his people, he trusted no apology was necessary for waiving the common forms of the pulpit, that he might speak to his people as to his friends, that he might in the fulness of his heart utter its emotions to those who, he trusted, could understand and sympathize with them. As he slightly reviewed the views with which he left us, the mercies that had followed him, and the blessings which were showered on his return, he seemed almost overpowered with the fulness of his feelings, and I feared he would not be able to go on. But his voice rose as he said, 'And now what shall I render for all these benefits? I will first pay my vows unto Him, whose mighty arm hath been stretched out to save, whose never failing love hath everywhere attended me.' The ascription of praise which followed was more truly sublime than any thing I ever heard or read. His solemn dedication of his renewed life to the service of Him who had borne him in safety over the great deep, who had sustained him in sickness, comforted him in affliction, and crowned all his gifts by giving him strength to return to his duties, was almost too much to bear. It was a testimony to the power of religion, which spoke more loudly than all the books that ever were written to prove it. But he meant not to speak of his past experiences merely to relieve his own heart; he had but one great object in view, the good of his people, and he would not lose sight of that even when the fulness of his own feelings might almost be allowed to engage his whole mind. He could not be expected to enumerate all that he had learned during his absence, but one thing he could assure us; that at every step, under all circumstances, in every country, and with every variety of character, he had become more and more convinced of the value and necessity of the Christian revelation."

The last of that succession of bereavements which Mary was so early called to meet, and by which she was left as alone in the world, was now at hand. Since the death of her mother, in 1812, when there devolved mainly upon her, at the age of fourteen, the care of a dispirited and feeble father, and two aged grandparents, with other members of the family in a most trying condition, she had lived either in the sick-room, or in a press of domestic cares and business avocations. That these often made a severer demand upon her strength and patience, as well as affection, than any one knew at the time, or indeed ever knew, appears from various intimations in her letters and life. And all this was now to be brought to a crisis by the death of her _father_, leaving her without one near relative, or proper home. They had been boarding for some time in Dorchester, in the family of Mr. Barnard; where she received, as she says, "the greatest kindness and affection,"--and she felt the need of it. But let her give the circumstances in her own words.

"_Boston, November 1, 1823._

"MY DEAR FRIEND:--

"I have been wishing this whole week to find time to write you, but it has been wholly impracticable. I have been in a perpetual agitation from sundry unexpected occurrences and continual interruptions from visitors. In fact, at no moment of my whole existence have I more wanted your counsel and sympathy. You know it is my lot to be assailed in more than one direction if in any, and it has been more remarkably the case now than ever.... I thank you most sincerely for your two good letters; it was more than I dared expect, and it was a cordial to me to receive the kind expression of your sympathy, though I should not have doubted its existence without it. You say you 'have heard but little of me,' and it was scarcely possible that you should hear of the immediate circumstances that attended my trial. It was so sudden that I was, as it were, alone, and I have feared that, in indulging myself in writing to you of it, I should give way too far, and distress and weary you. I have realized more than I ever did in any of the various changes I have met with, that 'the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb,' and even in the very extremity of trial we can be strengthened to support all with calmness.

"For the first three days of my father's sickness he seemed to have only a severe cold and slightly disordered stomach, and though I had called Dr. Thaxter, it was more to satisfy him that the medicine I gave was necessary for him, than from any doubt that I could do all that was needed; for he had often appeared more sick, and I had administered to him without any advice. On the morning of the fourth he appeared to be a little wandering, but remained quiet until night, when he was very violent for two or three hours; and the following day I was told by the physician that nothing but a miracle could preserve his life until the next morning. I heard it calmly, I believe because I could not realize it. He did not seem to be conscious that he was sick; he did all that I asked him to, but did not seem to know me. I soon found that the doctor's prediction was but too true, for symptoms of decay increased very rapidly, and at three the next morning he breathed his last, as a child would go to sleep. Not a struggle indicated the approach of the destroyer. I held his hand, and gazed at him until I was taken from him senseless. No one was with me but Mr. B----, and Mr. E----, his son-in-law. I recovered myself in a few moments and found Mr. E---- fainting; this obliged me instantly to rouse myself to action, which was all mercifully disposed, and I sat down quietly with them for the remainder of the night, giving directions when any thing passed my mind, or remaining silent, knowing all would be done just as I wished.