Chapter XX: Introduction (8)

"... All classes have come to see me, even the poorest, and
seem quite disposed to be pleased. I have said distinctly that
I wish ours to be entirely a social intercourse, and they take
me at my word. I have not told you of my own private joys, nor
can I in this little space. That they are great, immensely
great, you can believe; and even with the ----. _August 16._
Here I was interrupted more than a fortnight ago, and do not
now remember what was to have been the close of the sentence. I
might add, that I feel it happy for me, that, with all these
blessings and pleasant circumstances, I have so much of
responsibility and anxiety as will effectually prevent my head
being turned by it. But I have not room for further detail.
Yours ever.

"MARY."

The sense of "responsibility" just referred to might be called one of Mary's characteristics. And it had this peculiarity, if no other, that she felt it to be a blessing rather than a burden. Indeed, in cases where others would speak, as almost all do speak, of "the _burden_ of responsibility," she used the other and brighter word. As, at this time, she said, in a note to a friend,--"My fate is a singular one in this respect,--that, whatever may be the variety of the scene, it is always filled with the extremes of blessing and responsibility; and I know not that I ever felt more fully the _blessing_ of responsibility than now. Had I not great and almost overpowering duties and cares, my head would almost of necessity be dizzy with the bright prospect before me. As it is, I rejoice with a serious, but most grateful spirit,--a _sober_ bliss certainly, but not the less valuable." There was one utterance of her "sober bliss" of which we have not spoken as we might, for it was habitual with her through life. We refer to her love of singing, and her use of sacred hymns in the family, which began, as we have seen, with the first Sabbath in her new home, and, as we are to see, ended only with life. One who lived with her just before her marriage tells us how much she indulged and enjoyed in this devotional, but cheerful melody, for "it seemed in her to be truly singing hymns of _praise_." She would sing after withdrawing for the night, at the close of the busiest and most distracting days; and sometimes, "after having actually retired, she would think of a charming tune, always selecting the most beautiful words, and joined by Miss K----, they would enjoy an hour in this way." Distinct are the echoes which linger in many hearts still, from her soft and expressive voice,--the voice of the soul!

The biographer of Henry Ware says that the year of which we are speaking, that which followed this second marriage, "was one of the most active, and also, to all human appearance, one of the most successful, of his ministry." It was marked by the efficiency of his labors, increased attention to his preaching, a growing congregation, and many proofs of favor with the community in general. He repeated, that winter, and enlarged, his Lectures on the Geography of Palestine; and, beside his Bible class and vestry service, his house was open to his parish every Tuesday evening for social intercourse and religious conversation. In this last, as in other parochial ways, Mrs. Ware was an efficient helper. Nothing could be more to her taste, or in unison with her best powers, nothing certainly could contribute more to her deepest joys, than this whole manner of life. If we may not believe that she was reserved for this very position, we may confidently say that she could have filled no other with more ease, more energy, or happier results. We attempt no enumeration of the relations and offices in which she endeavored to serve her husband's society, or the larger community. Boston is not more remarkable for its noble charities, than for the noble women who find sphere and activity enough in devising or directing so many of those charities. Mrs. Ware sought no publicity or distinction in these movements, and was less prominent, perhaps less efficient, than many others. Comparisons she seldom attempted, and never made them a rule of conduct. Her rule seems to have been, to refuse no service asked of her for which she was competent, if it interfered not with any duty to her family or parish. From the opportunities she had enjoyed and improved, when abroad, of visiting various charitable institutions, she was frequently consulted in regard to them, and she sent to England for plans and hints. She was a directress of a Charity Sewing School; and always regretted that sewing was not taught in the public schools, and made essential to a complete education with every class. In all her views and efforts there was that practical good sense, which is better than the best theories or brightest abstractions. Yet she did not despise theory and abstraction, nor suppose that either she or her own generation had learned all there was to be learned. Indeed, we use no great boldness in saying, that, without the slightest tendency to reckless innovation or foolish experiment, there never was man or woman more interested in reform, or anxious for progress, or fearless for truth, than Henry and Mary Ware.

Of Mary's ideas of the _reward_ which the benevolent and the good should desire, an amusing illustration has been given us by one who heard the remark at the time. A motion being made in a charitable Society for a "vote of thanks for the minister's prayer," Mrs. Ware said to a lady near her, "While I was secretary of the Society for the Employment of Female Poor, I never recorded votes of thanks. I thought members should do _all they could_, and when that was done, they might make their courtesy to each other!"

In March, 1828, Mrs. Ware, after the labors and anxieties of the first winter, made a visit to Mrs. Hall in Northampton, where she wrote her first letter to her husband, containing expressions whose full import we cannot know, but whose intimations of self-distrust and increasing sense of responsibility many will understand.

"_Northampton, March 19, 1828._

"DEAR HENRY:--

"No letter from you yesterday; but I did not expect one,
knowing that Saturday and Sunday are busy days. I feel sure of
one to-day, however, and while waiting its arrival with all the
patience I can summon, I cannot please myself better than by
talking a little to you; and if I am willing to believe that in
this, as in many other matters, our tastes may correspond, pity
my delusion, but do not destroy it,--it is the brightest dream
of life to me.

"I find it is a very different thing to be lone Polly Pickard,
beating about the world, conscious that it could not interfere
with any one's comfort or convenience if she were out of it,
and to call myself Mary Ware, with all the appendages which
belong to her,--the cares and comforts, the duties and
privileges, from which she cannot disconnect herself. It is
almost incredible to me that a short year should have made one
who was before utterly reckless of danger so careful and
cautious,--I had almost said, anxious. And, oh! what a lesson
it has taught me! I thought I was deeply sensible of my danger;
I thought I realized fully the strength of the temptation which
assailed me to rest satisfied with my earthly blessings, and to
depend upon them entirely for my happiness. But this little
separation has shown me the state of my mind in a truer light
than I ever saw it before, and compelled me to confess, with
deep sorrow, that my trial was greater than I could bear. I had
borne sorrow and deprivation, loneliness and calumny, unmoved,
erect, fearless,--but had sunk before the greater trial of
satisfied affection. May this knowledge do me real good! And if
it should please our kind Father to restore us to each other,
let us strive with greater zeal to conquer this enemy. While we
rejoice, as we must, in the blessings of His providence in
calling us together, may we use our comforts without so
abusing them as shall make them instruments of evil instead of
good to our souls.

"Do not think I am nervous or inclined to croak. I am perfectly
well, and while I look at these things seriously, I feel a
cheerful courage to contend manfully, nothing doubting that
strength will be given in aid of all right effort, and that all
these trials, if rightly used, will be so many additional aids
in attaining that heavenly-mindedness which alone can satisfy.

"All blessings attend you, dearest Henry. All send love. Your
own

"MARY."

Expressions of self-distrust and extreme discouragement seem strangely unintelligible to many minds, when they come from those who are thought better than others, and are always striving and advancing. Yet these are the very persons to feel discouraged, because of the high mark they set for themselves. And the fact that they are thought better than others, with their keen insight of their own failings, is more apt to mortify and depress than to exalt the humble and earnest spirit. Never, perhaps, was Henry Ware doing more for others or himself than in the winter and spring of the year we are reviewing. Yet in a letter to his wife, written a few weeks after that which we just gave from her, we find the expression of a dissatisfaction with himself, even greater than hers. It was written on his birthday, and shows also his sense of the great blessing which the last year had brought him. "I never yet was satisfied with my mode of life for one year,--perhaps I may except one. But since that I have been growing worse and worse. I did think soberly, that, when I was settled down with you, I should turn over a new leaf; and I began; but, by foolish degrees, I have got back to all my accustomed carelessness and waste of powers, and am doing nothing in proportion to what I ought to do. Yet other people tell me I do a great deal, and I am stupid enough to take their judgment instead of my own.... These, dear Mary, are the morning reflections with which I open my thirty-fifth year. "Will the year be any better for them? I hope so, but I fear not; for I do not _feel_ the weight and solemnity of these considerations as they ought to be felt."

Different, indeed, from the anticipations of either did the opening year prove. The season which had been the first of Mary's cooperation with Mr. Ware, was the last of his active service as a pastor. He had overtasked his energies, and that change was impending which affected the whole of their remaining work in life. On his return from Northampton, where he had been preaching, in the month of May, 1828, he was arrested at Ware by a violent fever, which was followed by extreme prostration, and confined him there several weeks. His wife was in Boston, and in a state of health that made travelling neither easy nor wholly safe. But she wrote so persuasively to the physician for leave to join her husband, that it could not be refused, and she was soon at his side. Under date of June 16th, she writes from Ware: "How grateful and happy I am, to be here! All the few feelings of doubt about the expediency of the jaunt, which others' fears forced upon my notice, have vanished, and my own strong convictions that it was best have become perfect certainty. With the unspeakable satisfaction of being with my husband, so unexpected to him, and scarcely hoped for by me, what can there be to dread which can be a balance for such blessings?"

As soon as Mr. Ware was well enough, they went on to Worcester, where they remained six weeks. And there, on the 13th of July, Mrs. Ware's first child was born; a son, who lived but few years, yet long enough to leave a deep impression of beauty and promise. Toward the last of August, Mr. Ware set out alone on a horseback journey for his health, riding through New Hampshire and Vermont to Montreal and Quebec, and returning in October. During the first part of this interval, his wife and infant child were at lodgings in Newton, where her next letter is dated, referring in the opening to a poetical epistle which she had received from her husband. That epistle, as published at length in the Memoir of Mr. Ware,[3] many will remember; but its tenderness, and its allusions to their common experience at this period, will furnish an excuse, if we insert a part of it, as a preface to the letter which follows.

"Dear Mary, 't is the fourteenth day
Since I was parted from your side;
And still upon my lengthening way
In solitude I ride;
But not a word has come to tell
If those I left at home are well.

"I am not of an anxious mind,
Nor prone to cherish useless fear;
Yet oft methinks the very wind
Is whispering in my ear,
That many an evil may take place
Within a fortnight's narrow space.

"But no,--a happier thought is mine;
The absent, like the present scene,
Is guided by a Friend Divine,
Who bids us wait, serene,
The issues of that gracious will,
Which mingles good with every ill.

"And who should feel this tranquil trust
In that Benignant One above--
Who ne'er forgets that we are dust,
And rules with pitying love--
Like us, who both have just been led
Back from the confines of the dead?

"Then, dearest, present or apart,
An equal calmness let us wear;
Let steadfast Faith control the heart,
And still its throbs of care.
We may not lean on things of dust,--
But Heaven is worthy all our trust."

[Footnote 3: Memoir of Henry Ware, p. 220.]

* * * * *

"_Newton, September 13, 1828._

"Thank you, dearest, for the pleasure your good long letters
have given me; and if I am the more pleased that you called
your Muse to aid you in my behalf, I hope it is one of the
pardonable weaknesses of womankind, and trust your vanity will
not take the alarm lest I should undervalue your own unassisted
powers of pleasing. It is indeed a great and unceasing source
of delight to me, that, although separated externally in our
way, our thoughts, our spirits, are pursuing the same course,
and we may meet in meditation and prayer, sure that the same
feelings of gratitude and trust are ever present to us both. I
thought much of this, last Sunday, when I made my first attempt
to attend public worship. I had felt a great desire to go to
meeting upon that day, being the eighth week from the birth of
my child; and, moreover, because the first Sunday in September
has been a memorable day to me every year since 1813. I did not
attempt it in the morning, but in the afternoon rode over to
hear Mr. Wallcut at the Upper Falls. I had felt well and strong
at home, but it was quite too much for me; my mind was too weak
to bear it quietly. The reflection upon all that had passed
since I last entered the house of God, which was forced upon me
at one view, was indeed overwhelming. I could scarcely control
myself sufficiently to join in the services. I longed to put
every one out of the house, that I might prostrate myself
bodily, and I did mentally, before that Being whose goodness
had brought me to that hour. I did indeed think much of _you_;
and there was a high and holy satisfaction in the idea that you
were at the same time employed in the same way; and although
all was uncertainty with regard to you, I doubted not, that,
whether on earth or in heaven, I might safely rely upon this.
How did I rejoice in that faith which could remove from me all
anxiety and fear concerning you, which could enable me so
calmly to suffer you to go from me for such a length of time,
notwithstanding the very many uncertainties which must belong
to your situation. I sometimes wonder at the peace which
pervades my mind, but I know I have a right to feel it; it has
its basis upon an immovable foundation. Mr. Wallcut gave us a
very useful, solemn discourse, and I was strengthened by the
service, and not injured by the excitement.

"Heaven bless you! Your own

"MARY."

In September, Mrs. Ware returned to their own house in Boston,--that house in which she had been so happy, and to which she hoped soon to welcome her husband back again, in restored health. She writes at once.

"_Sheafe Street, September 26, 1828._

"Here we are, dear Henry, as comfortable as you could wish, in
our own dear house, more grateful and happy than I could easily
describe, every thing looking just as if we had not been away.
Never did the place look more comfortable,--I had almost said,
beautiful;--I will say so, for there were so many delightful
associations with it that it possessed a moral beauty, if I may
say so, exceeding any other it _could_ have had. I feel finely,
and am sure I am as able to do all that is necessary as I ever
was. It is not necessary just now that I should make any
violent efforts; there is no call for it. Elizabeth is with me,
as happy as a child can be; and the 'young rogue' likes his
home so well that he has turned over a new leaf at once, and I
believe means to behave well. All we want now is your presence,
and that I trust we shall have in the right time. O, how
willing does all this experience make one to leave all things
in His hands, who has brought us through such troubled waters
so safely, so joyfully! I have gained since Sunday; at least, I
have none of the confused feeling I then had, which made me
fear my head was too light for Boston. It is getting _home_, I
believe; home and its peacefulness are the best restoratives. I
trust you will find it so. I shall walk a little every day, and
call first on those in affliction and the sick; there are but
few, astonishingly few, for the time; none that you have not
heard of, I believe. Peace be with you, dearest! Your

"MARY."

Mr. Ware did return to Sheafe Street in October, but not to remain. His health was not restored; he could not resume his pastoral duties, and he was not willing to remain in Boston and among his people unemployed. A friend's house in Brookline was kindly offered them, and early in November they took leave--as it proved, a final leave--of their parish, and of that house where they had passed but a single year, yet one of the happiest of their lives. In the mind and memory of both of them, that abode seems to have been invested with peculiar interest. They have been heard to speak of the "Eden of Sheafe Street." Their children always revert to it with a tender fondness; and, beside theirs, there are many eyes that fill with tears even now, as they look back upon the happy hours and blessed influences enjoyed there, in their pastor's home. And she who helped to make that home what it was to pastor and people, loved to the last to live over again that precious season, though to her crowded with peculiar cares and trembling responsibilities.

They remained in Brookline that winter. In the spring of 1829, Mr. Ware virtually resigned his pastoral charge, and a colleague pastor was chosen, while a new professorship was planned for him in the Divinity School at Cambridge. At the same time, he was urged by generous friends, who offered the means, to go first with his wife to Europe, for entire rest and the recovery of his health. This unexpected opportunity he felt it right to use. And his wife, who was herself not well, thus speaks of it to Mrs. Paine, in a letter of several dates:--

"_Brookline, December 31, 1828._

"MY DEAR, KIND FRIEND:--

"I have been for a long time prohibited from using my eyes, or
should ere this have despatched to you the epistle which for
many a weary week has been prepared in my brain for you; and
now being still under the same interdict, I can only venture to
remind you that there is still in existence the same old
friend, who has been wont upon this eve to pour forth to you a
copious stream of egotism, who never longed for the time to
come when she might do so, more than at this present; but who,
for the trial of her patience, must lay aside her pen, and,
wishing you every blessing, wait until she is at liberty to use
her eyes to say more.

"_January 23._ Although still unable to use my eyes without
suffering, I am strongly tempted, by an empty house and an
unoccupied hour, to renew, in some small measure, the
intercourse which has so long ceased between us, and cannot
help seating myself, pen in hand, to give you a few moments. I
have----

"_March 30._ I was interrupted by company at the above pauses;
and since then, dear N----, what a revolution in the state of
things around me! It seems like a dream that I am again on the
eve of departure for Europe. It is indeed a dream from which I
should like to awake; and yet I am so sure that it is right to
do just what we are doing, that the spirit faints not, nor even
falters. I do not, indeed, dare to think, but have busied
myself in visiting my parish, and do not fear but that power
will be given. Yet, dear N----, what a lot is mine! Surely I
ought to be better for all this various blessing.

"Ever yours.

"M. L. W."

In closing the first and only year of Mary Ware's "parish life," we remember that it was also the first year of her married life, and an immediate entrance upon the office of a mother. To her views of this office we have already referred, but have feared to say all we know to be true of her discharge of its duties. There is a veil which we may not raise, a sanctuary which none can enter. Yet it is due to her and to her children,--it is due to the greatness of a trust whose difficulties all see, but few estimate kindly,--to speak of the glowing filial love, the reverent and grateful obligation, expressed by those who were permitted to call her "mother," and whose sense of indebtedness grows with their days. By the exercise of a sound discretion in exigencies unavoidable and seldom allowed for,--by freedom of intercourse through the day, and prayer and blessing at night,--by a tenderness that made counsel always kind and discipline never disheartening,--in a word, by a yearning affection which has caused a start and regret at any allusion to her not being "their own mother," she took possession of their hearts for life; and her death called forth, in the simple words of one, the unutterable sentiment of both,--"Surely God never gave a boy such a mother, or a man such a friend."

IX.

EUROPEAN TOUR.

On the 1st of April, 1829, Mrs. Ware sailed from Boston, with her husband, in the ship Dover, for Liverpool. One of the older children was left at board and in school, the other in Mr. William Ware's family, in New York; while the infant was confided to Mr. Ware's sister, Mrs. Lincoln,--an arrangement that relieved the mother of anxiety, as far as was possible with any separation. But no parent will need to be told what she must have suffered, at best, in leaving behind her her first babe, not a year old, to cross the ocean and go into distant lands for an indefinite time, with a sick husband on whose restoration or return no calculation could be made. Yet we see in her not a moment's hesitation, we hear from her no expression of doubt or the least despondence. Physicians and judicious friends advised the step, her husband's health and power of usefulness, if not his life, might depend upon it; and this was enough, even if her own judgment had differed, as we have no reason to think it did. It was a feature of her mind very prominent, as it must be of every well-balanced mind, that she never suffered herself to be tortured with doubts or fears for the future when the present duty was clear, and never lamented that she had done that which seemed right and best, whatever the issue. As she writes, on one occasion, of her own habits of mind and long experience:--"There is no one thing that has been more important to my comfort, under any result of my plans, than the consciousness that they were decided upon after a full and careful deliberation of all other possible plans, and a calm judgment concerning them all. Then I felt I had done all that poor human nature could do; the rest was in God's hands,--it was all in God's hands. I was satisfied that this decision was in the order of his providence, and, come what might, I could never regret it, or spend one vain, impious _wish_ that I had taken another course. But, in order to make this decision satisfactory, I have always desired to know the whole truth, and be convinced that I had a perfect view of the whole case in hand; and have sought suggestions from others, not for my guidance, but that I might be sure I had deliberated upon all the varieties of plan which could be thought of."

This principle was now to be put to a severe test, the severest, perhaps, of her whole life. We have seen what she did, and what she suffered, in her former visit abroad. Totally different were the circumstances now, but none of them such as to make the trial less. Then she had been alone as a traveller, and also alone as to all exposure and peril. Now she was to feel and fear for the one most dear to her in life, one who was ill able to bear the fatigues and discomforts to which he must be subjected, and whom neither his own faith nor her serenity could keep from depression and discouragement. Through the whole period of their absence, which proved to be a year and a half, Mr. Ware could not be said to be well for a single day. Much of the time, he yielded to dejection and apprehension, as she had never known him before. He enjoyed much, but suffered more. Not bodily suffering wholly, or chiefly; but that which is much harder to bear,--the hardest of all,--a sense of helplessness and the increasing fear of uselessness; the conviction, in the very prime of life, that life's work must be left undone, a calling which he dearly loved be relinquished, and he either remain abroad a wanderer in search of health, or return home with only the capacity of projecting numerous plans and labors, not one of which would be ever accomplished. All this his wife shared, at least in its effect; against all this she had constantly to contend, bearing most of the responsibility of measures and results, her own health not strong, and soon subjected to peculiar and most anxious trials.

We have no desire to magnify these trials. We only wish to set them in their true light, as making an unusual--not an unprecedented, but an unusual--demand upon the trust, endurance, and energy of a wife and mother. She herself has been heard to say, that this was the most trying period of her life; that no other experience equalled it. Yet this would hardly be inferred from her letters at the time. They were necessarily few, but written with her usual cheerfulness and unfailing hopefulness. Not all of them, however. One or two we have seen, such as cannot be used, that intimate, rather than express, peculiar suffering and solicitude. But this was in confidence, and for counsel; it being one of the peculiarities of the case that it presented many points where it was very difficult to decide whether wisdom and duty should carry them farther on, or turn them instantly back,--and the decision was with her.

We will not attempt to follow them closely in their foreign tour. Those who wish to trace its progress, and note the dates and incidents, will find them in the Memoir of Henry Ware by his brother. They visited England, Scotland, Ireland, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and France, spending the winter in Italy. The first summer they passed over much of the ground and sought the spots, in England, so familiar and memorable to Mary from her former experience. They visited Wordsworth, Southey, Mrs. Hemans, Miss Edgeworth; and passed much time with Unitarian ministers, whom Mr. Ware wished particularly to see, that he might learn all he could of their position, cultivate a fraternal feeling, and open the way for a more frequent and friendly correspondence between those of the same household of faith in England and America. About the last of August they went to the Continent, taking Holland first, and thence through Switzerland into Italy, reaching Rome in December, and remaining there until April.

The few letters that Mrs. Ware wrote home will be given in the order of their dates, with little explanation or comment. Some are in the form of a journal; and here and there we see the hand of Mr. Ware, taking up the thread which his wife had dropped, and then leaving her to resume.

"_Greta Bridge, July 8, 1829._

"MY DEAR EMMA:--

"I slept last night in the very same room, at Barnard Castle,
which you and I occupied four years ago. And having been in
many places lately where we had been together, such as Studley,
Ripon, and the George Inn at York, where we parted, and
moreover, as you have visited me in my dreams, night after
night, for a long time past, I feel that I must yield to the
desire of writing to you, although it may be but a few lines of
uninteresting matter. This place will, however, insure to the
letter some value, for I remember well how you wished that the
rain would abate, that you might see something of its beauties.
I wished it also then, but I wish it much more now, that I have
had an opportunity of----

"Here the arrival of the coach which was to take us from this
paradise cut short Mary's opportunity, and I dare say she will
not remember what she was going to write; so that I, her
substitute and lieutenant, go on to tell you how much we have
mentioned your name while on these romantic grounds, and how
glad we should have been to trace with you the paths of Rokeby
and Greta in memory----

"My lieutenant seems to have been cut off in his march rather
abruptly also; so I must beg you to imagine what beautiful
associations of persons or things he was about to recall, and
proceed with my own plain story,--just to tell you that we were
more than satisfied with our walk; it quite meets Scott's
description. We trod the same path by which Bertram and
Wycliffe wound their way from Barnard Castle to Mortham, and a
wilder or more witching scene could scarcely be imagined. We
had walked from Stockton to the Castle by the side of the
Tees, sixteen miles, stopping for refreshment and rest at the
little, humble inns which alone are to be found on this
unfrequented route; and truly, after the parade and luxury of
large hotels, it was a delightful change to see something of
simple country life. You would have enjoyed it, too,
notwithstanding the novelty of carrying the equipments of one's
toilet in our pockets.

"At Penrith we found our letters by the May packet, and yours,
dear Emma, was most welcome, not only for the news you gave me
of my darling children, but for the kind feelings which
dictated it, and the great entertainment it gave us. It was
just such a letter as we wanted just at that time; it was the
latest account, too, that we had had, for though one from Mrs.
Barnard, and another from Dr. John and William, reached us at
the same time, they were of earlier date. You brought my little
Robert more vividly before my eyes than any thing I have heard
of him. I could see his little hand resting on Clarissa's
shoulder, looking half coaxingly at you; and if the picture
made me long to try if he would notice me any better, I was
amply compensated for my inability to do so by the knowledge
that he was doing so well, and under such kind care. At Penrith
I had an attack similar to that which I had when you were at
Brookline with me, which detained us a day; but, as it rained,
it was not of much consequence. We had projected a drive round
the lakes in a gig, and this plan we entered upon the next day
(Saturday, 11th),--just such a day as we should have asked for.
We went to Ambleside, via Ullswater and Patterdale, where we
spent Sunday; heard Wordsworth's son preach, and looked at
Windermere. Monday we breakfasted with Wordsworth at that
lovely place, which I doubt not is still visible to your mind's
eye, as we saw it that beautiful morning. It looked just as
beautiful without, and as perfectly in keeping within, as we
had imagined it. I confessed our theft, to the no small
amusement of Mrs. Wordsworth, who did not, however, seem
surprised at our feelings. Wordsworth, his wife, son, and
daughter, composed the party. I wished I could have seen him
again.

* * * * *

"_July 16._ Dear me, what a careless child! I have just
discovered that I began my letter on a sheet which Mr. Ware had
one quarter filled to another person; and, having no time to
rewrite, I must send it piecemeal. I was going to say, that I
wished I could have seen Wordsworth again, because he did not
meet my expectation; and therefore I felt disappointed, in
spite of all my reasoning with myself that my imagination
should not be the standard in such a case. Besides, such a man
could not be seen at one view; that which is most delightful in
him would not be delightful if it were external.

"The ride to Keswick you will remember well. It lost nothing by
being seen a second time. We were at the same inn at which we
formerly stopped; and I could hear, perhaps, the same horses
tramping along the same pavement over which our nags paced
their way for us that memorable morning.

"We drank tea at Southey's, whose residence is much more like a
poet's than it appeared at a distance, having a fine view of
the lake between the trees with which it is almost enveloped. I
heard him talk but little, as there was a party at the house;
but was more pleased with that little than I expected to be.
His study is just the most enviable one that I ever have seen.
The next day we went upon an expedition to Crummock and
Buttermere, which, though fatiguing, we enjoyed highly, having
a fine row upon the lake. We returned to Keswick by a road
which gigs seldom pass over, the Crag through Borrowdale. It
was just such an expedition as you would have enjoyed on
horseback, perhaps on foot, as we took it for three of the
worst miles I ever passed over for roughness and wildness. The
last part amply repaid us for our toil. We rode by the side of
the Keswick lake for the whole length, just as the sun was
setting, yesterday.

* * * * *

"_July 17._ O, what would you not give for the sight which is
before me now!--'fair Melrose,' not by the 'pale moonlight,'
but by the light of as beautiful a sunset as you could ask for
upon such a scene. I have not been out of the house yet, having
contented myself with looking at it from my window, and am now,
with all diligence, scribbling for the next Boston packet,
while Mr. Ware has gone to see Mrs. Hemans, who wrote us that
we should find her in this neighborhood. This is no small
addition to the attractions of Melrose. I feel very much as if
I were going to see an old friend, so near does sympathy with a
person's writings bring one to the writer himself, in soul at
least, if not in the outward expression. On our way hither from
Selkirk, we passed Abbotsford. A motley group of towers and
chimneys did it appear; and it verily made me hold up my head,
and feel stronger, at the thought of breathing the same
atmosphere with its mighty inhabitant. We passed Branksome also
to-day, and came through Teviotdale,--classic ground every inch
of it. But it will not answer for me to run on at this rate; I
shall scarcely complete one letter beside, when I wish to write
fifty.

"Just at this point Henry returned from his call, with the
original 'Dominie Sampson,' and the intelligence that Mrs.
Hemans would join us in our intended visit to the Abbey. The
moon is just now in full-orbed splendor. Thither, therefore, we
repaired; and I met Mrs. Hemans for the first time on the top
of one of the towers, in such a scene as beggars all powers of
description. Never were mortals more favored by the heavens and
the earth for such an expedition. The air was very mild; not a
sound disturbed the midnight stillness but the chirping of
the ---- (I cannot remember its Scotch name; its sound is somewhat
like a cricket's). There were just clouds enough to give us all
the varieties of light and shade. We did enjoy it highly. And
yet we almost wished we had been alone. One did not want to
have the interest divided; and the Dominie's dry sayings and
droll manner had such an effect upon our risibles, that we had,
in spite of ourselves, a little too much of the ridiculous with
the sublime. This Dominie, whose real name is Thomson, junior
minister of the kirk of Melrose, is unique, not _exactly_ such
as Sir Walter has described, but quite as original.

But I have come to the end of my letter, that is, my time. Love
to all, at Canton, Milton, Brookline, Nahant, Roxbury,
Boston,--a goodly company truly. We have just had a ride to
Dryburgh Abbey, on the Tweed, a fine ruin beautifully situated.
The river here answers Scott's description better than at
Berwick. There are very many lovely situations upon its banks.
But I _must_ close. With Mr. Ware's united love, and sincere
wishes that you were with us, yours most affectionately,

"MARY L. WARE.

* * * * *

"TO MRS. LUCY ALLEN AND MRS. HARRIET HALL.

"_Geneva, October 11, 1829._

"MY DEAR GOOD SISTERS:--

"Wishing to say very much the same things to you both, and
finding that the expense and trouble of transporting letters
from this place across the Atlantic are _pretty considerable_,
I am induced to address you both at once; hoping that the
question of title to the possession of this valuable document
will not give rise to a more severe litigation than the lawyers
of Massachusetts will be able to settle. Your letters reached
us in the course of time; yours, Lucy, while we were in London,
and Harriet's just three months after its last date; both most
welcome. It is a pleasure which none but a pilgrim can
understand, to see the veritable handwriting of a friend when
separated by such a space. You say much of the pleasure we
shall receive in these foreign parts from the novelty, &c. of
what we may encounter. So it is; and I trust that I shall enjoy
all that we should do from the privilege allowed us. But I can
tell you, under the rose, that there is no pleasure in all this
wide creation like that of sitting down in a quiet corner, no
matter what may be around us, holding communion with _home_;
and I fully believe that all travellers would tell you the
same, if their pride would let them.

"We have, as you may have learned, fulfilled in part your first
wish, Harriet,--we have seen Miss Edgeworth, but not Sir
Walter. She is a short, rather fat, extremely homely, perhaps I
might say ugly woman, without a spark of intellectual
expression in her still face, and not overmuch in her most
animated moments; but as full of animation, kind feeling, good
sense, and intelligence, in her conversation, as one could
desire; a great talker, and a very good listener; not an item
of pedantry or self-sufficiency, or indeed any thing of what
one would fear to find in her father's daughter, or in any
woman who had been so celebrated; easy, playful, natural. We
forgot it was the renowned Miss Edgeworth, and felt only that
it was somebody who must be loved and admired. We found her in
the old family mansion at Edgeworthstown, whither we went fifty
miles only out of our way to see her; but all the awkwardness
of such a lion-seeking visit was entirely taken off by the
reception we met with from the whole family, and we should have
felt quite at our ease to have passed a week there. We could
stay only a part of three days; that is, part of two, and the
whole of the intermediate one. The only impediment to our
comfort was, that, being constantly in the family circle, which
is a large one, we could not talk with the lady herself upon
many points which would have been most interesting. Perhaps we
saw her to peculiar advantage, but we certainly do feel that
she has been greatly scandalized in having the reputation of
acting the pedantic authoress, and partaking of her father's
scepticism. So much for Miss Edgeworth.

"I wish I could tell you half as much of Sir Walter from
personal observation, but he was out when Henry called with his
friend, Mr. Hamilton; and he is so overpowered with visitors,
that we were not willing to add ourselves to the list of the
curious who persecute him. We were delighted with all that we
heard of him; indeed, the nearer we viewed his character,
through the medium of those who knew him, the more our
admiration and desire to see him increased. It would really
seem that his vast intellect is his least remarkable feature.
We saw many of his familiar letters to Miss Edgeworth, and that
was next best to hearing him talk, for they are just like
conversation. Mrs. Hemans, too, we have seen, and Bowring a
great deal, and some others of the noted of the present day;
and we shall treasure the remembrance of the few, for they have
been but few.

"It has been truly tantalizing to pass through Switzerland in
clouds and darkness, now and then catching a glimpse of its
beauties to show us what we were losing, but the far greater
part of the time passing through the very finest portions of
the Alpine scenery without any visible indications that we were
not in a level country. But we have proceeded thus far free
from sickness, danger, or even difficulty, and have therefore
too much reason to be grateful to find it possible to complain.

"We find a great deal to amuse us in the various habits and
customs of the countries through which we pass, particularly
since we left England; and the eating and drinking part of the
business is not the least entertaining. We, however, manage to
please ourselves, and our entertainers, too, pretty well. Henry
eats his bread and milk as comfortably as he would at home, and
I do what justice I can to the various dishes which are set
before me, though, when they amount, as they have done, to
twenty in number, in spite of all the 'J'ai fini's' I could
utter, I have excited a smile of contempt from the waiter, who
wondered at the barbarism of dining from one dish. We have not
seen a carpet since we left Holland, except upon the
sitting-room of an English lady here, and we have been in some
handsomely furnished houses.... O this pen, ink, and paper! I
will have no more to do with them, but leave them to Henry.
Your sister

MARY

* * * * *

"Dear girls, women, or wives: My loquacious helpmate has merely
left me a place to send my love, and to say I wish I had room
to write to you and your husbands. By way of supplement, I will
just say of myself, that I am now able to talk while riding,
without pain, which I never could do before we left England;
and can also read loud a little while. This is something worth
telling of. My visit to Geneva, owing to circumstances, is the
least satisfactory that I have made. You will perhaps hear
again from the land of the Caesars, whence I will dictate a
letter full of 'ettas,' and 'inas,' and 'issimas,' and
'ulinas,' and other satin euphonisms. Meanwhile, peace be with
you! Your brother

"HENRY."

We have added Mr. Ware's pleasant little postscript to the last letter, chiefly to show, by his own confession, how very feeble he must have been, and how great her anxiety and care. Indeed, she says of him at this time, "His system requires rest; it will be long before it is fit for use again." She herself was far from well, and had the depressing prospect of a more serious sickness, in a foreign land, with added cares. And yet neither of them was idle, during any period of that trial. They accomplished a great deal in various ways, and prepared one distinct work for publication. We say, _they_ did it; for Mrs. Ware seems to have joined in that labor which afterward gave us one of the most useful of Henry Ware's works. We refer to his treatise on the "Formation of the Christian Character." It is probably known that this book was written almost entirely in travelling; first in this country, during the horseback jaunt which Mr. Ware took alone through New England to Canada, in 1828, and then abroad, at various stages of this European tour. And here it was in Mrs. Ware's power to be of essential service to her husband, in a way which she explains in a letter written late in life, half jestingly taking to herself a part of the credit for the work to which we refer. To Dr. John Ware she writes, in 1844, in reference to her husband's labors in this and other ways, at the time of which we are speaking:--

"You will gather from the letters of European friends in what
estimate he was held by them. That is of little import; but it
shows how faithfully he preserved his identity as a minister
of the Gospel. In looking back upon the jaunt, as a whole,
nothing is so prominent to my mind as the perpetual indications
of his ruling passion, if I may call it so,--his love of his
profession,--the eagerness with which he sought out his
ministerial brethren wherever he heard of them, stopping by the
way-side to introduce himself and extend to them the hand of
fellowship, often going out of the way many miles for that
purpose, and making all other objects subservient to that of
increasing his knowledge of men and things pertaining to the
ministerial life. I _know_ his visit was a useful one to his
brethren in many respects....

"You know, I believe, that the greater part of his work upon
the 'Christian Character' was written on that tour. Its pages
are to my memory a sort of diary of our progress, associated as
they are with the pleasant evenings, when, after our autumnal
day's journey, having despatched our supper, we settled
ourselves at a little table before a cheerful wood-fire in our
inn, and he with his writing materials, and I with my work, or
writing or reading, could almost imagine ourselves at home.
Thus were my evenings spent in alternate writing, reading, and
criticism, until I almost felt as if I had written the book
myself!"

The end of the year 1829 found Mr. and Mrs. Ware travelling from Rome to Naples; and on the "last night," faithful to her friendships everywhere, she began the regular "annual" to Mrs. Paine, which she did not finish till after their return to Rome, thus giving some account of their condition in both places.

"_St. Agatha,[4] December 31, 1829._

"MY DEAR NANCY:--

"This is not the first annual which you have received with a
foreign date; neither can you be surprised at any aberration in
my orbit. And yet methinks you will have to consider twice
before you can quite realize that it is 'Pearl Street Mary
Pickard,' who is writing you from this region of ancient glory
and far-famed beauty. But so it is; and could you look in upon
me, you would wonder, as I do, that the very peculiar changes
of the eighteen years you have known me should leave me so
precisely the same. I begin to think that I am made of most
invulnerable materials; for here I sit--surrounded by as
singular and trying circumstances as any which I have ever
known--as easy and happy, I had almost said as indifferent, as
if the world were jogging on with me in the tamest way
imaginable. At no period of my life have I had more for which
to be thankful in reviewing the year which has passed,--that we
should have travelled so far without the slightest accident,
leaving our dearest interests so well provided for, finding so
much kindness wherever we have been, and so many facilities for
our enjoyment; and above all, that my husband, though not much
better, should not have been made much worse by all the
disadvantages under which he has labored of climate and
weather. If I were at your elbow, how I should love to give you
a detail of some of our experiences during the year. You know
enough of the outlines to guess at the minutiae in many
instances, and enough of us both to imagine the internal
effects produced by them.

* * * * *

"_Rome, March 2d._ Back in Rome again, after a five weeks'
sojourn in Naples, from which place I should have despatched
this, but that I did not think it quite worth while to send
such a piece of egotism so far by mail. We had almost incessant
rain while at Naples, which prevented our doing and seeing as
much as we wished; but the few fine days we had, we enjoyed and
employed to the utmost. Although in January, they were like our
June days. A shawl was too warm a garment to be borne in the
sun, and upon our out-of-town expeditions we took our lunch in
the open air. These were rare days, to be sure, but they gave
us some idea of what the climate would have been had the season
been a common one, for so much rain at that time, they told us,
was almost unprecedented. We went of course to Pompeii, where I
had many and pleasant recollections of your husband, tell him;
for the explanations which he gave me, when we saw the panorama
of that place together in London, had made it all so familiar
to my mind that I could not easily overcome the impression that
I had been there before. Vesuvius we were content to admire at
a distance, fearing the ascent would be injurious to my
husband. But the classical regions of Avernus and the Elysian
fields, the abode of the Cumaean Sibyl, and the beautiful
temples of Baiae, we explored at our leisure.