Memoir of Mary L. Ware, Wife of Henry Ware, Jr. Part 2

With all her deep happiness and cheerful aspect, Mary had many anxieties and trials at this time. These were caused by her father's loss of property and depression of spirits. Mr. Pickard seems never to have had a large property, but was connected with one of the best firms in Boston, and enjoyed a good reputation as a merchant and a man. In what way reverses came upon him, we are not informed; but the period of which we speak, just at the close of the war with Great Britain, may be a sufficient explanation. Either from his own letters, or through others, his daughter heard of his losses, and had written him a letter which we do not find, but of which the following reply indicates the character.

"_Boston, April 17, 1815._

"I have just opened your letter. You are every thing that is amiable and good; it is not possible to have a better child.

But you cannot enter into my feelings, because you know not my situation. I will not trouble you with any more complaints, if I can help it; I will only tell you that I have done nothing that should make you ashamed of your father. If I have not enough to pay every one their just dues, it is owing to misfortune and events that I could not control. No one, however, except the estate, is likely to suffer by me, and you of course will be a joint loser; the whole, I hope, will not be much. My anxiety is, how I shall get a living,--what I shall subsist on. Without any capital, I can do no business. I long for the time to come when I shall see you here.... I am about making inquiry amongst my acquaintance for employment. If I succeed, my mind will be easier; if not, what shall I do? I know not. I had a long talk alone with cousin N---- last evening. She tried to encourage me with the hope of being able to support myself, as we calculated you would, after some time, have enough to support yourself without mental or bodily exertion. Yet I know, my dear child, that you would exert both for me; but how much more satisfactory would it be to me to support myself while I am able. It is not the change of circ.u.mstances, but the dread of want, that depresses me. I did hope, too, that you would have been in a better situation; but you have a mind and spirits, I hope, to keep your heart at ease; for you will be esteemed for your virtues. You see I cannot help writing what is uppermost in my thoughts.

"Your very affectionate father, "M. P."

We have not many of Mr. Pickard's letters, but all we have, even those in which he writes in rather an unreasonable mood, as if expecting too much of this endeared and devoted daughter, yet contain incidental expressions which show his exalted opinion and almost respectful regard for her, as well as a tender and grateful affection. He speaks of having shown one of her letters to a friend, who was "highly gratified with the seriousness and piety of your disposition; but she did not need that proof of it; and in the troubles and vexations of this world, it is a great consolation to me to have so good a child, whom I look forward to as the comfort of my declining years; you know how much your letters please me, and console me for your absence." This we can understand when we read the letter which follows, probably in reply to that which we have given above.

"_Hingham, April 22, 1815._

"I did not receive your letter, my dear father, until Thursday afternoon, and cannot delay for a moment answering it. I should be sorry to think you considered me so weak as to bend under a change of fortune to which all are liable, and which does not affect the interest of my friends or myself, while a self-approving conscience is their support. I trust nothing which can befall them with respect to the world will wholly overcome their fort.i.tude and confidence in the protection and care of a Supreme Being. I can, I think, enter in some measure into your feelings, and believe I can feel as you do with regard to being dependent on others. I am prepared for almost any trial; if my ability is equal to my desire of being of service to you in misfortune, I do not fear but that I shall be able to support myself, and at least not be a burden to you. I am sorry you think so much of my situation. I shall never regret the loss of indulgences which I have never been taught to consider as essential to my happiness, and which do not in any great degree conduce to it. I shall be content in any circ.u.mstances, while I know you have not brought on yourself calamity. I am not so proud that I should feel the least repugnance to gaining a living in any useful employment whatever; I feel that kind of pride which a.s.sures me that local situation will not disturb my peace within, and with that I could combat almost any thing. I can only regret the loss of property, when it makes me an enc.u.mbrance to my friends, and limits my power of communicating good. As to the former, I think, while I can possibly do it, I had better remain here, rather than burden any of my friends with my company, and I will retrench other expenses for the sake of being independent; for I do not think that any service I could do would compensate for the trouble I should give; and with regard to the latter, the _will_ will be present with me, and though the money means were denied me, I do not despair of doing good in some way or other. I shall do very well; my only anxiety is for you, lest you give up hope of better times, and thus put a stop to the mainspring of human action. I cannot but regret that what belongs to the estate should be lost, for the obligations we are under already to the family are more than can ever be repaid, and obligations are to some people oppressive. I shall see you soon, and will then make some arrangements. Till then, I know not what to propose. I hope to hear from you soon. And do write in better spirits; it will do no good to be discouraged. With love to all, I remain your affectionate daughter,

"MARY."

Those only who have experienced reverses, or have seen parents suffer from them undeservedly, know how hard it is to sustain, beneath their pressure, a cheerful and buoyant spirit. We can moralize upon the comparative worthlessness of this world's goods, and call poverty and pain light evils. It is a false view. Poverty and pain are positive and great evils. Sin only is greater, and sin, it may be, is as often engendered by these as by the opposite state of health and affluence. In setting forth the dangers of prosperity, we are not to forget the temptations and conflicts of adversity. Honor to the man or woman, who maintains integrity and serenity in the hour of misfortune!

We mean not to intimate that the pecuniary perplexities of Mr. Pickard and his daughter were extreme. But we believe them to have been enough to test the power of character, and to throw a delicate and difficult duty upon a daughter, so young, and so connected with friends who were able and willing to help, but on whom she was not willing to lean. She preferred to lean upon herself, though not in unaided strength. Seldom do we find such evidence of early and entire reliance on a higher Power.

She had made her election. With the deliberation and firmness of mature conviction, she had given herself to G.o.d, and was at peace. How complete, though quiet, was that surrender, and how full and permanent the peace, every subsequent year of her life bore witness. And there were those who saw this in the beginning, and predicted its future power. We are struck with the confidence expressed by judicious friends in Mary's "piety,"--a word of deeper and larger import than belongs to many beginners in the school of religion and life. It is an incomparable blessing, when a faithful and experienced teacher can write to a pupil thus:--

"Could I in any way serve you, how gladly would I do it! But when I take my pen to write you, and my heart would dictate something, which, to most of your age (particularly when so early deprived of a mother's care), might be useful, I am deterred by the thought of your maturity of mind, your well-regulated affections, and correct and dignified deportment. This is not flattery; you know me too well, I hope, to believe me capable of that, where my heart is interested. It is an opinion founded on a long, and for some time close observation. May you feel in your own bosom the reward you so richly deserve, and be sensible of those joys with which 'a stranger intermeddleth not.' So early disciplined in the school of affliction, your heart has felt the need of consolation which the world has not to bestow; and at a period of life when the follies and vanities of the world most commonly engross us, you have been led to an attention to those things which are unseen and eternal. G.o.d grant that you may be induced to persevere in the path of _piety_, to reach forward continually to higher attainments, nor ever rest satisfied till you have attained the glorious prize which is reserved for the followers of the blessed Jesus.... I should not, to many of your age, write so much on so serious a subject; but I believe you have a feeling persuasion of its reality and importance, and therefore will not deem me intrusive."

In the summer of 1815, Mary left Hingham, and returned to her home in Pearl Street, Boston, where another change had just occurred in the death of her grandfather, James Lovell. This left her grandmother very lonely, and for the remaining two years of her life Mary devoted herself to her care, and ministered to her wants, with the same a.s.siduity and affection that marked her devotion in her mother's sickness. Not that she was wholly confined to the sick-room, or the house. Mrs. Lovell's health varied, and allowed occasional visits to friends in and near Boston, for several weeks together. One of these visits took Mary as far as Northampton; and in a pleasant letter to her father she gives a full account of her journey thither, a very different matter then from what it now is. Going from the presence of sickness and sorrow into that beautiful region, her heart expanded with joy and grat.i.tude,--grat.i.tude to G.o.d, and to those generous friends whose guest she was, and whose hospitality she describes in a way that would leave no doubt to what family she refers, even if there were not a direct mention of one whom so many love to recall. "Mr. Lyman is, without exception, the most agreeable man I ever met with; and if I could only overcome feelings of restraint which his infinite superiority makes me have before him, I might be able to enjoy his conversation more. I may overcome it, but as yet I cannot, and therefore fear I appear stupid." This diffidence she never did wholly overcome, and we can conceive of its having been very great, at that age. Yet it seems never to have prevented her from going forward to the performance of any duty, or appearing with propriety and dignity in any position. She had a keen relish for all the beauties of nature, and no less for the refinements and pleasures of society. But her highest enjoyment, even at that age, was evidently sought and found in the company of the devout, and the joys of religion. Her father gently reproves her, in one of his letters, for indulging too much in "sombre" thoughts, and talking of "trials presenting themselves everywhere." But it is evident that it was to his own trials that she referred, and his depression may have extended sometimes, though very seldom, to her. He himself says of this state of feeling, "I was not without fear that I had imparted it to you, which would grieve me much."

During the long period of her grandmother's sickness, Mary formed a new attachment, opening to her a fountain of the purest enjoyment. She was a constant attendant on the preaching of Dr. Channing. When a child, she loved to go to his church with that relative and devoted friend of the family, who, though of the same age as her mother, still lives to mourn the loss of all of them. Led by that hand, which was to her as the hand of a mother to the very end of life, (may we not so far depart from our rule, in regard to the living, as to give the venerable name of Ann Bent?) Mary listened very early and intently to the man who has moved mult.i.tudes of every age. As she grew up, her evident and strong preference for his preaching over all other is said to have been the subject of "a little affectionate bantering on her mother's part," while to her more rigid father it was so little agreeable as to cause at times some trial of feeling and a conflict of duty. But where duty pertained to G.o.d and the whole existence, she never doubted long. Her decision was taken deliberately, with respect and gentleness, but with a force and faith that never wavered, and never failed to supply strength and consolation in her varied trials. Indeed, it was amid trials, as we have seen, that she first consecrated herself to Christ, soon after her mother's death. And now that she was daily watching the decline of another life very dear to her, at the bedside of her aged grandmother, her letters are chiefly filled with accounts of her vivid interest in the _preaching_ she hears, and the effect it has upon her character. Two of these letters we give together, as relating to the same subject, though written several months apart.

"_Boston, Sunday Evening, Sept 15, 1816._

"How frequently have I heard it said, that we never feel the true happiness of having a friend more than when, overwhelmed with feelings it cannot control, the heart seeks relief in the sympathizing bosom of that Being who alone can comprehend them; and never, my dear N----, did I feel this truth more than at the present moment, never did I feel more eager to open to your view my whole heart, to _show_ you the emotions excited in it, for I feel sensible that I cannot describe them. It will not surprise you that Mr. Channing's sermons are the cause; but no account that I can give could convey any idea of them. You have heard some of the same cla.s.s; they so entirely absorb the feelings as to render the mind incapable of action, and consequently leave on the memory at times no distinct impression. That in the morning from this text, 'He that forsaketh not all that he hath, cannot be my disciple,' was calculated more than any thing I had _then_ heard, to exalt the Christian character; but that this afternoon was as if an angel spoke,--'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Learn of me, for I am meek and lowly of heart, and ye shall find rest to your souls.' Happiness, or, as it is here expressed, 'rest to the soul,' does not, it is evident, depend on our situation, as may be proved by a slight view of the condition of mankind in general. We see them constantly aspiring to something beyond what they possess, but which, when attained, adds not to their peace, but rather increases their discontent....

"I doubt whether I have succeeded in giving you any idea of what Mr. Channing's sermon really contained, as I cannot remember any thing of it but the impression it made on my feelings, and I have, I find, given you rather a transcript of them than any of his original ideas, as you will readily perceive. The object of it, however, was to prove that the only real happiness to be enjoyed in the world was to be found in that peace of mind which a true and lively faith in the wisdom and mercy of G.o.d necessarily inspires in the Christian, and without which all the pleasures this world can give will fail to convey to the heart even one transient gleam of real enjoyment. Could you only have been here, you would, I know, have been much benefited by it; but you could not feel it as I did, for you do not so much require it. My reason and conscience have always told me that it was not right to let any of the trials I have met, and still meet with, destroy for a moment my peace; and though they have sometimes conquered my weaker feelings, yet there are times when I find my own strength so insufficient that I am almost tempted to doubt whether it be in my power to attain. This morning, I felt more than ever my weakness, from having had a long and unsuccessful struggle the whole of yesterday with myself. That the precious privileges this day has afforded me are not lost upon me, I hope to prove in the day of future trial. Forgive my egotism, but I know to whom I write.

"MARY."

"You said to me, as we were returning from meeting to-day, in answer to my observation that 'I had been depending on this day during the whole week, and had unexpectedly realized all the feelings I antic.i.p.ated,' that you, too, had expected much, thinking that Mr. Channing would give us the sermon he did. I have often thought that the very great pleasure we take in hearing him preach has given us other feelings and motives in our attendance on church than ought to be allowed by the devout Christian. The good which is to be obtained from one of _his_ sermons particularly is indeed a great object, and sufficient to induce us to attend the hearing of them whenever there is an opportunity; but in our eagerness to hear the sermon, to admire it, and endeavor to improve by it, the original intention of public wors.h.i.+p, I fear, is in a manner lost on us. Do we, when we go to the house of G.o.d, feel that we are as it were entering his more immediate presence? He is, it is true, present with us in all places, and at all times; but in the world it is not required, neither is it practicable, that our whole thoughts should be devoted to any one subject; but when we go to the house of wors.h.i.+p, is it not that we may, by shutting out of our minds the world and all that it contains, give to the Lord of the Sabbath every thought? Was it not for this end he gave us the day, and renews our strength every week? We are called together to wors.h.i.+p, not merely with our lips, but to unite every thought and feeling in adoration. It is a privilege thus to be enabled to call our minds entirely from the cares and troubles of life; it gives to those who are oppressed by them some idea of heaven, when all the trials which now torture them will be for ever forgotten; and to all it should be esteemed a high and holy privilege, setting aside the delightful instruction we receive, thus to hold communion with Heaven, for I can compare it to nothing else. It seems often to me, while in the hour of prayer I give myself up to the thought of heaven, as though I had in reality left the world, and was enjoying that which is promised to the Christian. I fear, however, these feelings are too often delusive; we subst.i.tute the love of holiness for the actual possession, and often deceive ourselves. But if we can keep our reason unclouded, we have nothing to fear from feeling too much. I would not be understood to mean, that the delightful, improving preaching we are in the habit of hearing is not a good motive for carrying us to meeting; but it is not enough, if it be the only one; if the happiness of an unreserved devotion of thought to G.o.d is not sufficiently great to induce us to seek every opportunity of enjoying it, I fear the true, vital piety, which is the only support of religion, is imperfectly gained by us.

"I have not time to write more. I doubt if I have explained myself intelligibly, but more of this at some future period. I presume there is an appearance of vanity in one paragraph, which I will some time explain.

"MARY."

This fervid religious interest and enjoyment seems to have filled her heart, and absorbed her thoughts, more and more, until, in the following summer, it led to a personal interview with Dr. Channing, of the most interesting kind, to be described only in her own words.

"_Boston, July 10, 1817._

"There is a certain state of feeling, or I may now say pa.s.sion, in which the heart must either find relief in utterance, or burst; when all the powers of mind and body are suspended, and thought, feeling, sensation, are all centred in one sole object. It is at such moments as these that we feel the true value of a friend who will submit patiently to our detail, and sympathize in all. I have just had a long--(I do not know what to call it)--with our dear minister. You know how long I have wished, yet dreaded it. That I should ever have _dreaded_ it appears now a most astonis.h.i.+ng fact, except that I knew it would humble me to the dust. And why should I not be so humbled?

"It chanced that grandma was too unwell to see him; and I, though not in the most composed state of mind that can be imagined, was to sit down alone with him, fully determined to improve the opportunity and say all that I had so long wished.

I put on as collected an appearance as could possibly be required, and, trembling at the very centre of my heart, met him with a smile of joy. Indifferent subjects soon entirely subdued all kind of internal embarra.s.sment, (external, I did not permit,) when, to my great annoyance, C---- walked in! O that I could have rendered him invisible,--deaf, dumb,--any thing, for the time being! But patience triumphed; I contrived at last to let him understand that I wished him far away. He took the hint, but when he rose to go, Mr. Channing did so also! I could not but detain him. How I did it, or what followed on my part, I know not; I heard all he said, I laid every word carefully aside in my mind to be enjoyed at some future period, but how foolish, how weak, how every thing irrational _I_ was, I cannot, dare not, think. I told him as well as I could, with what views and feelings I presumed to deviate from the path in which I had been led by my parents, what he had done for me, and what I hoped to do for myself. I could not have been intelligible, but I will not regret that I attempted, though I could not succeed. I am relieved by what he said of many unpleasant, oppressive feelings. I felt that I was detaining him, or I might have been rather more collected. What a state has he left me in! O, could I for ever preserve the remembrance of what now fills my heart, could I ever feel as I now do, that I am one of the least of all beings, capable of being better but shamefully neglecting my best interests, awfully responsible for the inestimable privileges I enjoy, but wholly unmindful of them.

"Dearest N----, I am wrong to impose on your patience, but I am too selfish to resist. Forgive this sentence. I do not doubt your interest, but I may talk too long. This is not the fervor of sudden enthusiasm; no, I have long felt my sinfulness, but the excitement of talking to Mr. Channing has made me now utter it. Give me your prayers, give me your advice, a.s.sist me in elevating my heart to higher objects, purer joys, than this world can give. I love it too well; I want the severing hand of trial to rend asunder the thousand evil pa.s.sions which connect me with it.

"I have scribbled this at your desk; this quiet retreat has calmed me. It is, perhaps, fortunate that you were not at home, except that you would have been saved this fine specimen of what an egotist can write. O dear, how weak I am! excitement is so new to me, that it almost deprives me of the use of my understanding, or I should not thus betray myself. I know not what I am coming to; I was very foolish yesterday; I have been worse to-day. Do come and see me to-morrow and lend me a little sense, or if you cannot spare it, exercise it yourself over the mind of your senseless friend,

"MARY."

During this season of peculiar experience, Mary sought the confidence, and enjoyed the sympathy, not only of the one friend to whom the last letters were written, but also of her late instructors in Hingham. The correspondence between them is of the most confiding character, and shows a mutual respect and sense of obligation in pupil and teacher.

"Talk not of grat.i.tude, my dear Mary," the latter writes; "has not every kindness we have ever had it in our power to show you been more than cancelled by your unremitting a.s.siduities to serve and please us? The uniform disposition you have ever shown to promote the ease and happiness of all around you, will long remain a sweet remembrance of one whose image is connected in my mind with every softer virtue, accompanied by that strength of mind which would enable you, if called upon, to sustain uncommon trials. No, I shall not, I cannot, be disappointed in you, my dear young friend; you will be all that your opening character now promises, because you have built on a sure foundation. If my life is spared, I antic.i.p.ate much pleasure from the continuation of a friends.h.i.+p thus commenced. May it be increased and strengthened while we sojourn together on earth, and may we have the happiness of exciting each other to a higher standard of excellence than is generally adopted by the world, and thus be prepared for the society of those pure and holy beings we hope hereafter to join." These expressions of confidence and encouragement were probably induced by the trying circ.u.mstances in which Mary was then placed, partly from her father's misfortunes and feeble health, and partly from the weight of her responsibilities in a household where there was not only sickness, but other and sorer trials. She went very little into society, and was thrown entirely upon her own resources, in the midst of arduous and delicate duties. Some of her struggles, and the sources of her peace, are intimated in the following letters to Miss Cus.h.i.+ng.

"_Boston, June 19, 1817._

"As I can neither see you nor hear from you, my dear Miss Cus.h.i.+ng, I must write you, if it be only to say how much I think of and desire to see you. I know too well that I do not deserve any indulgence from you, but there is something so solitary, and at times almost overpowering, in the idea that those whom we have best loved, with whom we have pa.s.sed happy hours of intercourse and sympathy, are, though still dear, divided from us, not perhaps by distance, but by circ.u.mstances which we cannot control, that I am almost tempted to repine that such must be our situation. You will, I know, be ready to ask why I have so neglected the only means in my power of continuing that intercourse? I would not complain of it, but I have little time, and so many occupations which the call of duty bids me not neglect, that I seldom write to any one, and always in so much haste that I should be ashamed to send such epistles to you. Beside all this, I have so little intercourse with the world, or those in it in whom I think you would be interested, that I must, from a dearth of ideas in this poor brain, write almost wholly of self, the most odious and wearisome of all topics. But this very isolation makes me depend so much on every little iota of external excitement, that I should be satisfied, or rather content, with any thing in the form of a letter you would find time to give me....

"I have felt, and I believe have expressed to you, or Miss P----, a kind of discontent sometimes operating on my mind at the want of opportunity to become what I have vainly thought I might be. But this is all over, and I am satisfied that I must be content with a very low degree in the scale of knowledge.

But I trust I may be good, though never great, and am confident that the peculiar situation in which I am placed is one more calculated for me than any I could choose for myself. Trial is necessary to me, and I am happy in it, except when I am conscious it is not improved as it should be. It is not for us, who have so many blessings, to murmur if our faith is sometimes put to the test; did we view things aright, what now seems judgment is in truth mercy. What should we be, were we not sometimes reminded of our sins and the weakness of our minds?

Surely, then, whatever may be the trials which bring us to a true sense of our accountability to our Father in heaven, they are the kindest expressions of his goodness. I never could have any gloomy views of religion, and the more experience I have of its cheering influences in the hearts of its votaries, the more I am convinced that it is the only sure guide to happiness even in this world; how much more in another!

"You will forgive me for writing you just what happened to occupy my mind. It is an indulgence that I cannot resist, to be able to communicate a few of my feelings and thoughts. I fear you will think I impose too much on your goodness.

"MARY."

"_Boston, August 20, 1817._

"MY DEAR MISS CUs.h.i.+NG:--

"There are, I believe, moments in the lives of all human beings, when, from some cause or other, the heart is saddened by a feeling of peculiar loneliness, which, though perhaps rather a disease of the imagination than the effect of real circ.u.mstances, is nevertheless irresistible. I have felt this in the gayest period of my life, and it is not strange that I should now often experience it. Leading a perfectly monotonous existence, my resources of animal spirits are not entirely sufficient to supply the call of duty and the hour of solitude too. And when evening closes, and my beloved charge is laid peacefully to rest, excitement ceases, and I am thrown on myself for pleasure. Then it is that I long to be with friends, whom I can only visit in imagination; then I long to annihilate distance, and talk with you. It is, I know, imposing on your goodness to attempt to write you under the influence of such feelings, but it is an indulgence I can hardly resist, convinced as I am that, when you are a.s.sured it is a relief to a poor solitary, your benevolent heart will pardon me. I would not convey that I am unhappy in this situation. O, no!--there is such a thing as being 'pleased, and yet sad'; and though sometimes

'The heart will feel, the tear will steal, For auld lang syne sae dear,'

yet I rejoice with joy unspeakable that the present is still filled with many privileges and pleasures, and that I can with perfect trust refer the future to Him who appointeth all things in mercy. I wish most sincerely I could communicate something interesting to you, to redeem my miserable letters from the charge of perfect egotism, but I live so wholly out of the sphere of the interesting part of the world, that I am as ignorant of all that pa.s.ses within it as those who know not that it exists. It is this reason which has often withheld me from writing you when indeed I wished for my own sake to indulge in it, and I think you will be fully convinced of the wisdom of my forbearance after the perusal of this.

"M.L.P."

And now another trial impended, to be followed by other and important changes in her condition of life. In the autumn of this year her grandmother died. For the event itself, so long expected and not to be lamented, she was prepared. But some of its circ.u.mstances were unusually trying, and she well knew that its consequences might be still more sad.

Yet how little these considerations affected her, in comparison with the moral aspects and spiritual lessons of the change, may be seen in her own account of the last sickness, to N. C. S.

"_Boston, Sunday Night, October 12, 1817._

"You have so long indulged my selfish propensity of communicating to you every feeling that chances to be excited in my heart, that I find it difficult, when under the influence of any peculiar emotion, to resist the ever-present desire to impart all to you. But this would be the height of folly and weakness, and I therefore contend against it with all my powers. There are, however, certain kinds of feeling of such a doubtful nature, that the agency of some external power is absolutely necessary for the proper management of them. Of this nature, I am persuaded, are those by which I am now overpowered; and lest I should be too much led away by them, I must beg your a.s.sistance in ascertaining their origin and tendency. This may seem too systematic for any one who feels _much_, but the violence of the tempest has pa.s.sed, and that deadly calm which always succeeds the raging of the elements naturally inclines the mind to thought and reflection.

"I have lived for the last few months in the hourly contemplation of a most striking picture of the end of human life, the termination of all its joys and sorrows, the annihilation of its hopes and wishes. This could not fail to impress with sadness a mind in full possession of its powers of enjoyment, and for a time to give it almost a disgust of all those pleasures and pursuits which must so soon fail before the dim eye and feeble energies of approaching age. It had, in a great degree, this effect on me; for the moments have been when I would willingly have surrendered life rather than live in the expectation of such an end,--to outlive the ability to engage in its duties. I now tremble at the thought of ever having suffered such feelings for a moment, to possess my mind.

Continued and deep reflection on the object of all this, the comparative nothingness of every thing in this world, the hopes and prospects of another and better, meditation on the spiritual life, and occasional experience of the real happiness of that elevation of soul above earthly things which religion alone can impart, have overcome this melancholy, and sometimes produced almost a feeling of triumph. I have this evening been almost overwhelmed with a variety of emotions, of which this was the most prominent. Grandma has thought herself dying, and has been conversing with me on her approaching change with that most heavenly calmness which those only who rely on the mercy of G.o.d, through the merits of his Son, can experience at this trying hour. This, together with joining in prayer with her that we might all welcome this hour as she did, and her final parting with all in the house, has elevated my mind so much above this transitory scene, that I can scarcely believe I shall ever be so weak as again to be engrossed by it. I cannot describe the state of my mind. I never _felt_ so before, though I have often imagined that others have. It is almost a kind of transport at the thought that this mortal shall put on immortality, that there is within us an ethereal spark which can never be extinguished or grow dim, capable of rising superior to the pains and weakness which bend these frail bodies to the ground. O, it is a joy unspeakable! Viewed through this medium, death loses its sting, and the idea of a glorious immortality alone presents itself with the view of its approach.

"But alas! I can place no dependence on the continuance of my feelings beyond the moment that excites them. My life is a mere vision; the world in which I act has no connection with that in which I think. My pleasure, my happiness, is so far independent of the objects around me, that I can hardly a.s.sociate them together. Having little else to do than meditate, I exist almost in imagination, and communicate so little with others on the subject of my thoughts, that it seems like living two beings; the greater part of my time is pa.s.sed in this ideal world, and I am consequently unfitted to mix in the real one in which I am placed. This is a misfortune and a fault. Which has the greatest share of blame? It is most unfavorable to true Christian humility; for, as Mr. Channing says of the effects of a diseased imagination, 'We feel superiority to the world in ascending the airy height, and pride ourselves in this refinement of the mind. After arraying ourselves in the robes of glory, we cannot take the lowly seat which Christianity a.s.signs us.' Thus, then, although this elevation above the objects of this vain world may be a right spirit when it rises from the pure flow of real piety, if it be only the enthusiasm of the moment, which rises for a time and then vanishes away, an abstract theory which would not be practised upon in the hour of temptation, it had better never have been. When we have once been imposed on, we know not what to trust. All my purposes of goodness and high resolves are as yet but theories, which I fear I should never put in practice should temptation a.s.sail me. O, I dare not be thus happy!