Chapter XXI: Introduction (9)

"I can scarcely fancy any locality more beautiful for a city
than that of Naples, and, viewed at a distance, it has a very
imposing appearance; but in itself it is noisy, dirty, and
disagreeable, with the exception of the modern part of the
street which borders upon the bay. We had rooms in that street,
within forty feet of the water, and in rain or sunshine enjoyed
the beauty of the bay with equal delight. We returned hither in
company with Mr. and Mrs. Grinnell, and Mr. and Mrs. Rollins,
with whom we have been the greater part of the time since we
arrived in Florence in November. We are at lodgings with them
here, and, as you may suppose, very much enjoy our quiet
family party. We have also Dr. and Mrs. Kirkland, and Mr. and
Mrs. Gould, from our part of the country, and many from New
York.

"There is so much to be done here, and my husband is obliged to
do things so leisurely, that I know not that we shall ever see
half that is to be seen. There is a great difference between
travelling for health and mere pleasure. Almost all our friends
will be on the wing before us, but I trust we shall find our
way home in good time, and be the better for having come. Mr.
Ware's is just such an uncertain case, that it is impossible to
have any very decided opinion about it,--he sometimes seeming
almost as well as ever, then again prostrated by some very
trifle. On the whole, there is still much to hope from time and
care, but nothing to flatter one into the hope of speedy
restoration. May we have patience to wait with cheerfulness the
full development of the designs of Heaven with regard to us,
hoping for good, and willing to submit to trial!

"This is the season of Lent, which makes no apparent change in
the state of things, and before we leave Rome we shall have the
famous solemnities of Holy Week, when, if the Pope does not die
(which it is reported he is about doing), I hope to witness the
illumination of St. Peter's, and to listen to the _Miserere_.
So far, I have not heard any music in Italy which satisfied me,
except once the vespers of the nuns in one of the churches
here; it is all too loud, rapid, and theatrical. But it is time
to despatch my letter, so good by.

"Yours, most affectionately,

"M. L. WARE."

[Footnote 4: "A little village, or rather almost solitary inn, between Rome and Naples."]

The last date of the above letter is the 2d of March; and before the close of that month Mrs. Ware's second child was born,--a daughter, who still lives. Mr. Ware's letter, announcing the event to his brother in Boston, expresses his gratitude for the many mercies that surrounded them, among excellent friends, making "as pretty a little, quiet domestic circle as ever Rome has seen since the days of the twin founders." At the same time, he confesses his entire discouragement in regard to his own health, and their great embarrassment at what course to pursue. "I am weary of this miserably idle life, and yet I am fit for no other. I am afraid to go home, because I know I shall only be able to do half the requisite work, and to do that not more than half; yet to stay away is altogether out of the question." As usual, Mary was ready to do any thing that seemed best, even to go home alone with her new charge, if her husband would be benefited by remaining longer and acting freely. Some prompt and decided course she advised, at whatever sacrifice. "We have talked over this matter together, and the only relief which Mary is able to suggest is, that I should state my case exactly, resign the professorship, so as not to be a burden or hindrance to those for whom I care more than for myself, send her home from Havre, and spend a year in travelling Europe on foot and on horseback. This might be done at a very small expense, an expense which we could meet without taxing College or friends."

We can easily conceive of the anxiety of a high-minded woman, a devoted wife and mother, at such a crisis. We have said that Mrs. Ware has been known to refer to this experience as the great trial of her life, and we suppose the period of which we are speaking was the most trying of all; especially if we comprise in it the few months that preceded the birth of her child,--a season of which she has written more freely than of any other of her trials. Nor can we show the full power of her endurance at that time, and her wonderful energy,--such as is common only to woman,--unless by giving part of a letter written to her physician, describing this experience.

"Not for a single day free from positive pain, I felt determined to keep out of sight all physical as well as mental distress. In this I believe I succeeded, excepting when occasionally nature was overpowered, and I lost for a time my consciousness. But the effort to keep a cheerful outside, when the body was undergoing so great suffering, and the mind fully awake to all the uncertainties and possibilities which lay before us, can only be appreciated or known by one similarly situated. My faith never failed me, nor my confidence that the course I had adopted was the right one. But the degree of tension to which every faculty was stretched, all the time, was just as much as my reason could bear unshaken; and more than it could have borne, I believe, had not my nerves found relief in hours of tearful prostration, when Henry was asleep, or so far out of the way as not to detect it."

We have no further particulars to give of the sojourn in Rome. The travellers gladly turned their faces toward home the moment the season and their strength would permit. Early in May we hear of them in Geneva, and at the end of that month in Paris. From both those places Mr. Ware writes home, in a disheartened, yet decided tone, as to his return, showing what a burden of anxiety they were still bearing. "I have only spoken out more plainly what has for some time been my conviction, that I am gaining nothing; and I simply wish to have you prepared for a proper reception of my _miserability_ when I shall return." "I am sure I need not stay away; I am sure I am not fit to do any hard work; I do not think I could edit the Examiner. But I will come home by the packet of July 20th, and you shall judge. It will be the hardest of all I have yet done, to abstain from Cambridge, especially as Mr. Norton vacates his place, and there is the more need of other laborers."

In June, Mr. and Mrs. Ware were separated for a time, she taking lodgings with her infant at Waltham Abbey, and he making an excursion alone for his health. Soon after he left her, Mary wrote to him thus:--"I am quite sure it was best for you to go, though there was some risk in it. If you only keep a sharp watch upon your 'excitables,' not mistaking the effect of them for strength, and so do not overdo, you will, I doubt not, be better for the jaunt; you will be gaining much mental satisfaction, and I am sure that will help the body.... Yours to 'Miss Pickard' is just received. The dear little Miss is as good as possible; she knows how much I wish I were with you, and coos and smiles all the time to make me contented. I am thankful you are so well, and though I should have richly enjoyed being with you, I am sure it is better for you to be alone. I want to go to Chatham next week, if I feel better, but it is such a luxury to be at rest! O, dearest, how we shall enjoy it! I have had time to think a little, and collect my scattered wits, and I could pour out volumes of the result of my cogitations--but _voila_! the end of my paper! Do all you can, see all you can without injury, gain all that is possible to gain, and above all, _feel_ that you have time enough; that is, don't feel 'hurried'; it is destructive to comfort and profit."

In this letter we find also a hint, which tells something of Mary's continued thoughtfulness and generous provision for that poor old aunt whom she left at Osmotherly five years before. On first arriving in England, she had again visited, with her husband, that scene of singular interest and mingled recollections. And now that Mr. Ware is journeying alone in that direction, she writes to him: "Should you go to Osmotherly (which is not quite worth while, as it would take you two days), give Aunty her yearly allowance, if you can,--ten pounds. But no, I remember you did not take enough with you. Write her a word,--it will please her; and pay the postage." This was said at the very time that Mrs. Ware had denied herself the pleasure of going with her husband, on account of the added expense of travelling with an infant. She continued that annuity to her aunt as long as she lived, and a friend thinks it was doubled part of the time. We bring the fact to notice, because, from a delicacy which ought not, perhaps, to suppress facts so illustrative of character, we have forborne to give half the proof we found, in letters and in conversation with friends, of her noble generosity in connection with the strictest domestic economy, and withal a personal self-denial and simplicity that caused remark, if not censure. Could all the facts be given of her early surrender of property to a considerable amount, when she might have held it, and the rigid restriction of her personal expenditure, through life, within the limits of bare comfort and respectability, while there were times when she could have done much more for herself, and no time when her hospitalities were not without stint,--were it right, or were it desirable, to refer to facts and instances confirming this general statement,--we are sure it would be seen to be at the least worthy of honor and imitation. But the very thought of her disinterestedness, and _secret_ charities, checks and rebukes us.

Before leaving England, she wrote the following letter to the two children in America.

"_Waltham Abbey, June 19, 1830._

"MY DEAR CHILDREN:--

"It is a long time since I wrote to either of you, for I was
ill for some weeks, and since I got well, I have been
travelling almost every day, and have not had time to sit down
quietly. But all this while I have thought much of you,
particularly when I was lying on the bed sick. When I
remembered how great was the distance which separated us from
you, and how uncertain it was if we ever saw you again, I
wished that I could be sure that you would always be good,
doing that which would please God, that I might hope to be
united to you again in heaven. You do not know how often your
father and I have talked about you since we left you, or how
anxious we have felt that you should improve; we hope to find
that you have made a good use of the time of our absence, if we
are ever permitted to see our home again; and how happy we
shall be to have you with us, not to be separated again, I
trust, for a long time!

"You will be glad to know that your dear father is better than
when he left home. He has gone now to Manchester for a few
days, and I have come with little Baby from London to stay with
a cousin while he is absent. Baby will have been a great
traveller by the time she gets home, but she will not be any
the wiser for it; when she knows how many wonderful things she
has passed by, she will wish she had been old enough to observe
them. I have seen a great many grown-up people in our travels,
who, I think, will not know much more than she does of what
they have passed by, because they have not the habit of
observing and thinking about what they see; they remind me of
the story in 'Evenings at Home,' entitled 'Eyes and no-Eyes.' I
dare say you recollect it. Others are not wiser for their
travels, because they have not prepared themselves to
understand what they see, by reading; they care nothing about
the antiquities of a country, because they know nothing about
its history; or the works of art which they meet with, because
they do not know how they are made, or their uses. You will be
surprised to find, as you grow older and know more, how much
every thing which you have learned will add to your pleasure. I
dare say you have many lessons given you, of which you do not
see the use at present, but you will by and by, and if you fix
them well in your memory you will be very glad then.

"It is now the 26th of June, and we have just heard that the
king of England died this morning, and his brother, the Duke of
Clarence, was proclaimed king, at twelve o'clock, at
Westminster. On Monday he will be proclaimed at three places in
London, by heralds dressed in very gay costume, such as has
always been worn on like occasions for many centuries, of
course very different from modern dresses. They will use
trumpets in order to be heard by as many people as possible,
who will no doubt collect in great crowds to hear them. The new
king is called William the Fourth. There will be a great parade
at the king's funeral, and the new king's coronation, but we
shall not see either. I hope we shall be on the water before
they take place, for the preparations are to be so great, that
it is said three weeks at least will be necessary for the
funeral, and perhaps months for the coronation. The next heir
to the crown is a little girl, only a year older than you,
Elizabeth.

"Good by, my dear children.

"Your loving Mother."

On the passage home, in August, Mrs. Ware had another severe trial of her physical and mental energies,--a trial that is supposed to have essentially impaired the vigor of a remarkably strong and enduring frame. Mr. Ware, who had gained little if any strength during their whole absence, became severely ill from a painful and alarming attack of acute disease. His wife was his only nurse, and, if we recollect right, the only physician. And there, amid all the deprivations and discomforts of the _sea_, confined to the narrow range of a small state-room, carrying in her arms a restless infant, of which those most willing could but seldom relieve her, and with the whole weight of the responsibility upon her saddened heart, that wife and mother performed offices and made exertions, which, by some acquainted with all the circumstances, have been called "almost superhuman." One fearful night especially, the night which was to determine the result, she watched over the flickering and apparently expiring light of the life most dear to her, in anxious and most arduous services, until the crisis had passed. Her husband recovered from this attack almost entirely, before the end of the voyage; but the effect upon herself, of all she had done and endured in the last seventeen months, was a prostrating and protracted sickness soon after her return. Up to this time, we suppose Mrs. Ware to have possessed a power of action and endurance seldom equalled in her own sex or in the same walk of life. Yet she used to say that her natural temperament was sluggish rather than active, and that her activity was an exertion. Recurring, some years later, to this same season, she writes: "You do not know me as well as you might, or you would not talk of my _activity_. Naturally I am essentially indolent; and to this day no one knows the effort it often costs me to rouse myself from my lethargy. Still I have had a pride in my physical ability, which has sometimes impelled me when better motives ought to have operated. But that pride had a fall, when I went to Europe with Mr. Ware, from which, it seems to me, it can never rise again. Yet it may influence me when I do not suspect it, and I shall look out sharp for it."

It was in this connection also that Mrs. Ware repelled the idea of "sacrifice" in such relations. "The phrase 'sacrifice for those we love,' I do not quite understand. I should think the thing intended was more nearly allied to the germ of selfish gratification, and therefore as little entitled to the appellation of a virtue as any other selfish propensity." Just before leaving America for this European tour, when not strong herself, she had written to her husband, "I am very much afraid of becoming too thoughtful of this poor body of mine." And now, on her return, she was compelled to think of it more than ever before.

X.

LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE.

Mr. Ware's connection with his parish in Boston had been continued, at the earnest request of the people, in the hope, that, if he removed to Cambridge, he might still retain the pastoral office, and perform such of the duties as should be perfectly easy. A connection which had existed thirteen years, in perfect harmony and mutual attachment, could not be sundered without mutual pain. To no man living did permanence in the pastoral office seem more desirable or more important than to Henry Ware; and the time had not then quite come when pastor and people could separate in a day, with or without cause. Nor could Mrs. Ware be indifferent to such a change. It was the extinguishment of many hopes which she had fondly cherished, in becoming the wife of one whose earliest choice and highest ambition had been for the ministry and a parish life,--a life which had attractions hardly less strong for herself. But now they had no choice. Whatever the sacrifice required, neither of them was willing to remain in an office, whose duties they could not perform with vigor and entire devotion. A dissolution of the connection was therefore asked, immediately after their return from Europe. And the society, in yielding to the obvious duty of granting the request, expressed earnestly their sense of obligation and gratitude, not only to their pastor, but also to her who had been his co-laborer in their service. In their final letter, they say: "We should do injustice to our feelings if we failed, on this occasion, to make mention of her also, who has laid us under such obligations by her devotedness to you when we looked upon you as belonging to ourselves, and who, though not long with us, had already taught us how highly to value and how deeply to regret her."

In October, 1830, Mr. and Mrs. Ware took up their abode in Cambridge; where he entered at once, in improved, but still feeble health, upon the duties of the new Professorship of "Pulpit Eloquence and Pastoral Care." And except the place which they had been compelled to resign, for which they both retained, we think, as long as they lived, a strong preference and lingering desire, no situation could have been found more acceptable than this at Cambridge. A post of great responsibility, calling for all the strength and labor that any could bestow, it was yet a position of peculiar privilege and opportunity, in the midst of family connections, near to all their friends, and having close relations to the ministry which they so loved. In many ways, too, would these relations afford to Mrs. Ware herself facilities for action, and the exercise of her peculiar powers and affections.

Yet there were two great anxieties which Mrs. Ware brought to this new situation; one, relating to the health of her husband; the other, to their straitened pecuniary means. The first of these was known, and could be understood by all. The last will never be understood, except by those similarly situated, and as high-minded, generous, and desirous of usefulness. We speak of this as a general truth. There is more mental suffering, more physical feebleness, and greater loss to the community in regard to the energy and activity of those who would serve it, resulting from this one cause, than perhaps from any other. We say it in no temper of complaint, much less of censure; for we know not where the fault lies, if there be any. But we do know the fact, and there can be few who have not seen it in some of every calling,--that the necessity of incessant thoughtfulness and extreme carefulness for the things of this world, with the dread of debt or dependence of any kind, in the midst, too, of sickness and the utmost uncertainty, is a weight upon the heart, and an obstacle to the energies, such as no faith, or fortitude, or philosophy can wholly overcome; no, nor even the experience, as in this instance, of ceaseless kindness, and a liberality ready to do all that delicacy would permit. The fact remains,--better known than explained, and inseparable, it may be, from the constitution of society, possibly from the nature of man,--aggravated, as the trial often is, by the infirmity and helplessness which God himself appoints.

The beginning of their life in Cambridge was made memorable by one of the longest and most serious sicknesses that Mrs. Ware had ever known. We have already referred to it, as probably caused by the uncommon demands of their journey abroad and the voyage home. We did not refer, in its place, to a severe illness which she had in Geneva, of which she gives an account in a note some years later, and speaks of it as very serious. Many causes thus conspired to predispose her to this attack, which, for the first time in her life, so far as we know, was of a pulmonary character, and shut her up for the whole winter,--a severe trial, where so much was waiting to be done, and after so long a period of absence from home and active duty. There was greater prostration, and more imminent peril, than all were aware of, and more, we suppose, than ever before. Her sickness must have begun almost immediately after they went to Cambridge; for in the same month Mr. Ware writes to Rev. Mr. Allen of Northborough, as if he had for some time been very anxious, and was then only beginning to hope. "I am happy to be able to say, that Mary does seem to be doing better,--the first day that I have thought so. Her disorder has had transient intermissions, but never before seemed to yield. I think now she has fairly begun to mend. But she is wretchedly weak, and a little talking makes her hoarse. We have kept her as quiet as possible, and forbidden all visitors; yet she has not been as quiet as most persons, because she does not know how to take thought for herself, and continues her interest for all about her. She has suffered a great deal of severe pain, and her cough has been kept from distressing her only by opiates. You rightly guess how great a disappointment of our hopes this has been. I have not been without very serious apprehensions as to the result; and you may judge what must be felt, when we are apprehensive for one so perfectly invaluable as she. You know her in part, but one must know her intimately as I do, to understand half her worth." And, again, as late as November, Mr. Ware writes to Miss Forbes that Mary is not yet able to bear any visitor, not even one as intimate as she, whose society and sympathy they so much desired. And he adds, in concluding his letter to that excellent friend, "Emma," whom they had not seen since their return from Europe: "Since we met, we have all seen changes and trials, and are at least more experienced in the discipline of Providence. I esteem myself quite well; and if my cup were not dashed with the bitterness of Mary's ill health, I should have more sources of happiness than I could perhaps bear rightly."

In a few weeks, Miss F---- went to Mrs. Ware, and devoted herself entirely to the care of her for two months or more. The communion of these congenial minds was very beautiful, and will help at various points to illustrate the character of Mary. Their intimacy began early, and was never interrupted. How true they were to each other, how socially and spiritually confiding, how much they mutually imparted and received, through life and in death, can be known only to those who know all; for both their natures, even in their present exaltation, might shrink from the disclosure of some of the evidences of their tender and generous love. Their intercourse at this time, softened by the sickness from which Mary was very slowly rising, and which, we have seen, awakened many apprehensions, must have been peculiarly grateful. It was a season of precious experience to Mrs. Ware, as will be seen in the first letter she wrote,--her faithful annual to the friend in Worcester.

"_Cambridge, December 31, 1830._

"Another year has passed away, dearest Nancy, since I last
spread before me a fair white page, on which to tell you that I
was still in existence; and instead of 'St. Agatha' and the
disagreeables belonging to it, behold me in my own blessed
home, scribbling at the same old desk. A change, indeed, and
what a change, for one short year! You know it all, and I need
not, if I could, recount the various causes for deep, fervent
gratitude which rise to my memory in the retrospect. You can
understand, without explanation, why it is that the thought of
them so entirely overwhelms me that I cannot touch upon them
with sufficient calmness even to write about them. I shall be
less tired to-morrow morning, and will resume; but I could not
let this eve, so long sacred to _you_, pass without marking it.
Farewell, then, for this time.

* * * * *

"_January 16._ I have suffered a longer period to pass away
without continuing this than I intended. I know not how it is,
but I find that year after year passes off, and still the same
errors are to be mourned over; and for one I begin to fear that
the habit of procrastination will adhere to me through life. I
was weak, and my nerves so excitable, when I began this, that I
could not even recur in thought to the events of the past year,
and retain decent composure. But the impression of their review
has not passed away, and I trust never will; and I feel that it
would do my heart good to go over the ground with you (were
you only by my side), not of their external character, that you
know already, but of the effect of such discipline upon the
mind. Constant exposure to the weather hardens the skin, and
the habit of living under circumstances of trial deadens one's
sensibilities; and I could not now, if I would, be as strongly
affected by them as I used to be during my novitiate. Still, I
have not quite ceased to feel, and consequently to suffer and
to enjoy; and I trust that the joys and sorrows of the past
year have not been experienced without some beneficial result.

"I have long thought one of the greatest blessings of my life
to be that singular preparation which each event has given me
for that which was to succeed it; and I never realized this so
fully as during my late wanderings. Habit had given me the
power of sustaining easily and cheerfully circumstances which,
to one less experienced, would have brought labor and sorrow;
thus enabling me to pursue the one great object for which we
were striving, unclogged (if I may so say) by any
considerations for self, and thus lessening my trials, not only
to myself, but to those around me. Now that all is over, I am
conscious that the mental as well as the physical effort has
been great; and I consider this 'lying by' as advantageous to
my mind as to my body. I was beginning wrong, had for some time
felt that trifles were a burden to me; and although by the
application of strong stimulants, such as the joy of getting
home, I could keep alive my courage to act, I am persuaded that
it was something of the excitement which frequently precedes
entire failure, rather than any substantial good. In the
delightful quiet of my own snug chamber, I have had time to
look a little more into myself than I have been able to do for
a long, long time. The outward exigencies of the moment had so
long occupied every faculty, that it was not singular that I
had become almost a stranger to that void within, which is to
be known only in the 'secret silence' of tranquil thought. I
have felt grateful for this repose; and, so far from pitying me
for having been arrested in the pursuit of my domestic duties,
just as I was so happily restored to them, my friends would
rejoice for me, if they knew how much I needed, and how much I
have enjoyed, this rest. Don't think me quite insensible to the
trouble it has caused my friends, or the loss it has been to my
husband's comfort. I am not; but neither am I sure that in the
end both will not be gainers by it. I have not been very
sick,--not so sick as to require a suspension of any of the
daily operations of the household in my behalf. I could always
have my children about me, and except now and then could do
very well without any aid out of my family. I needed rest and
quiet more than any thing; and that did not interfere with
others' pursuits. Emma has been with me six weeks; and enacted
Mrs. Gerry, Queen's jester, Cerberus, and a 'thorn in the
flesh,' as she styles herself, with the perfection that belongs
to such an actress. She has been a real comfort and delight to
us both; for she has the faculty of _fitting in_ so exactly to
the circumstances of the case, that she does more good than she
intends to do, good as her intentions are.

But Emma says, 'Hold! enough!' I forget which of her characters
she appears under now; but I'll punish her by making her fill
this page with the bulletin of health of every man, woman, and
child belonging to the establishment, which I was just going to
give you myself.

"MARY."

In February, we find Mrs. Ware still a prisoner in that chamber of sickness; though not exactly a prisoner, for we have heard her speak of the reluctance with which she left that long confinement, to return to the glare and tumult of the world. And from the manner in which she wrote to Emma, soon after she had left her, it would seem that she had not expected to return at all. Indeed, some of her language indicates a serious apprehension on her part, of which few were aware. In refusing to let Emma come again merely to read to her, as she had proposed, Mary says: "I allow that it would be an especial comfort to be read to sleep sometimes, when my opium-fed imagination is conjuring up fancies that mar my rest for that night; and it would be a great pleasure to have my thoughts a little more diverted from self than I can divert them unaided. If my disease were rapidly gaining ground, the case would be altered. I know too well the luxury of having done 'the last' for a friend, to debar any one from it. But although I am aware that there are many _probabilities_ in favor of the idea that the disease never will be overcome, I see no reason to nourish the feeling which a state of uncertainty cannot but create. It may be that my days are to be few. And if the 'wearin' awa of snow-wreaths in the thaw' is to be the signal of like decay in myself, I shall surely need you more than now. At all events, the spring must be a season of lassitude and bodily trial to me; and if you will give me the promised visit then, you will have no reason to be dissatisfied with the degree of good you will do me." Two months later than this, Mrs. Ware wrote to the same friend, more at length.

"_Cambridge, April 20, 1831._

"DEAR EMMA:--

"I have watched you from my working-chair 'out of sight,' as
some of my Dublin friends would say; and now I have taken my
desk into my lap for sundry purposes, but the first that
suggests itself is, to commence an _omnium gatherum_ for you. I
shall want to say five hundred things at least every day for a
month to come; and I don't know why I should not indulge you
with one of the five hundred daily. What time so good to
commence, as that in which my heart is full of twice that
number of feelings of gratitude and love towards you? But no,
this is not a good time either, for they come rushing forward
with such a spirit of rivalry, each wishing to be represented
first, that they blind my eyes and make my pen tremble; so I
will teach them what a good disciplinarian I am, and make them
all keep silence until they have learned better manners.

"To-day I am as weak as possible, but free from pain. The truth
is, that I am feeling, just as I told you I should, the trial
of weakness much more, now that I can move about, than when I
was shut up. When I knew it was my part to give up trying to do
any thing, and turn my mind to the improvement which belonged
to such a state of things, I had not a wish to step over my
threshold, or an anxious thought about any thing beyond it. It
would be time enough when I could go among people and things, I
thought, and I would enjoy the luxury of idleness to the full.
I did; but now the case is changing. I am able to use my bodily
powers, and feel that I ought to exert my mental energies also;
but my strength fails me, mental and bodily, and this brings to
me a feeling of discouragement and dissatisfaction with myself,
that I find it hard to struggle against as I ought. In fact, it
carries me back to old Mary Pickard's spring feelings of
nothingness, which I fight with in vain. I fear that I have
been so long indulged in idleness, that I have lost my energy
of mind, or become selfish, and a thousand other wrong things
which do sometimes creep upon one without leave. You will tell
me this is merely the effect, the inevitable effect, of
weakness, as my husband does. I hope it is, and that I shall
rise in time to my wished-for energy.

"I was glad to find you had made so good a beginning of your
summer life. It is delightful to me to be able to think of you
enjoying so much, and doing so much, as I am sure you will. I
think it was very well to strike into the plan at once. May I
ask you, too, to take one half-hour daily, with your door
locked, for some little sentence and the thoughts which will
grow out of it, for the cultivation of that internal treasure
which you value so much, and in which you wish to feel more
vital, exciting interest? I know by my own experience that we
lose much of what we long to keep, by an unacknowledged but
constantly operating contempt for small means, hourly
attentions to the details of spiritual discipline. Having
calmly, thoroughly, may I add, prayerfully, viewed one
Christian virtue in the day, are we not almost secure of acting
in conformity to that one, for at least twenty-four hours? And
if every day we thus gain one victory, shall we not have reason
to hope we may in time be wholly conquerors? But more of this
in _our_ pretty book, which will contain preaching enough for
my share of your ear upon such matters.

"All send love, with that of your

"M. L. WARE."

In the spring, Mrs. Ware recovered, as to all apparent disease; but she continued feeble through the summer, and suffered much from her sense of inefficiency, in body and mind,--"literally unable," as she says, "to write a letter." Nor do we find any letters before October, when she wrote in full her own impressions of this important portion of her experience, with an account of its termination in the alarming illness of her husband, to whom she was summoned at a distance. His health had been constantly improving through the winter, and he had performed all the duties of his office, except preaching, which he had ventured upon but once for nearly three years, and then only on account of the death of Mrs. Emerson, the wife of his colleague and successor in Boston. In the summer vacation of the present year, 1831, Mr. Ware made a pedestrian tour, with a friend, to the White Hills; and, feeling strong enough, engaged to preach on his return at Concord, N. H. But before he could reach that place, he was prostrated with fever, and became severely, and he himself believed fatally ill. Under this full conviction, he made a great effort to write a few last words to his wife; and did write a note, which we wish we were at liberty to use, so moving as it is in itself and its circumstances, so characteristic of him who wrote it, and so touching and beautiful a tribute to her whom he loved, and whom he thought to see no more on earth.

It need not be told that Mrs. Ware went to her husband as soon as she knew of his sickness, though she had not entirely regained her own strength. He had been removed to Concord, where she joined him, and stayed till they could come home together. She seems not to have been surprised by this summons; it being one of her principles, and a fixed habit, to anticipate all probable, even possible events, as far as she could, and make them familiar to her thoughts; not to sadden or weaken, but to strengthen and prepare her mind for the duties and emergencies to which she might be called. If the events did not occur, nothing was lost. If they came, the shock was less, and there was greater preparation and fortitude to encounter it. This is not the common course, and will not commend itself to all. Not all would be capable of it; and it may not be necessary or desirable for all. The common habit is the very opposite, and the counsel usually given, from the pulpit and in private, is to anticipate nothing,--least of all, to anticipate evil; or, as the phrase is, never to "borrow trouble." This is not the place to discuss the subject. We wish only to record our vivid impression of the delight and instruction with which we have listened to that unpretending woman, as she argued the matter with those who differed with her; not asking them to do as she did, or assuming the smallest merit for the habit, but only showing them how completely the uniform experience of a life of trial had satisfied her that this course was best for _her_. And all who have seen her in trial and sickness will testify to the reality and power of this persuasion.

The account, to which we have already adverted, of their experiences during this first year at Cambridge, through her own illness and that of her husband, is contained in a letter written on the evening of the first Sabbath that Mr. Ware was able to preach in the College Chapel, when she also was able to hear him.

"_Cambridge, October 2, 1831._

"MY DEAR NANCY:--

"Were you ever so weak as to omit doing a thing which you
strongly desired to do, entirely because you knew you could not
do it thoroughly to your own satisfaction? If you have been,
you can better understand than I can describe the many foolish
feelings which have, from time to time, and a hundred times,
made me throw down my pen and say to myself, 'I cannot write to
her now; I have not time to say half I wish to say, or she to
hear.' It is just so now; I knew all the time it was wrong to
do so, and now I am determined to turn over a new leaf with
myself, at the commencement of this new year of my life; and as
your spirit has haunted my conscience more than any other, I
begin by laying it with the spell of my fairy pen. But where
shall I begin? I cannot remember where I left off, or rather do
not know what you have heard from others since I left you a
year ago.

"Of my winter's sickness I cannot write; it contained a long
life of enjoyment, and what I hoped would prove profitable
thought and reflection. I came out of my nest almost
reluctantly, for I had a dread of the absorbing power of
worldly cares and interests; and for a long time my head
remained so weak that I suffered from the necessity of giving
my whole mind to the trifling occupations of daily life in
order to perform them with tolerable decency. This has been a
bane to my comfort throughout the summer; and although I have
had Harriet Hall and Mary Ware, and many of those I rejoiced to
see, again around me, I have not profited much by the
privilege, my mind having all its capacity more than employed
by the care of our bodies. This was very humiliating for one to
whom all the outward cares of life have been mere play-work;
but I could contrive to keep externally quiet, and not appear
fidgety; so I try to think this was conquest enough for me in
my then state of weakness. The heat prostrated me very much. I
began to fear I should never be able to do any two things at
once again. But since my family has returned to its usual size,
and the cool days of autumn have sent their invigorating
influences to my bodily powers, my mind improves 'a little, not
much' (as my Rob says fifty times a day). Literally, I could
not write a letter through the whole summer; and now the task
is so novel a one, that I cannot expect to be coherent, this
being my first.

"In this state of things, my husband left me for a walk to the
White Hills. I felt sure that, if pursued with due discretion,
it would do him good. He was pretty well, but wanted something
to give him a spring before beginning to preach. I had not the
least objection to his going, but having watched him so long,
so incessantly, I felt very much as a mother does the first
night she weans her infant from her. In pursuance of my
long-established habit, I set myself the task of preparing for
any accident which might befall him, and I believe looked at
all the possibilities of the case; so that when the summons
actually came for me to attend him at Concord, where he was ill
of a fever, it did not take me by surprise. I was, as it were,
prepared for it, and could receive it calmly and act coolly. In
two hours I was on my way to him, confident in my own strength,
for no care of him present could be the weight on my mind which
the thought of him absent had been; and the bodily exertion was
not as great as I had been for some time making, having been
nearly all summer without my _quantum_ of help. I found him
very sick, but surrounded by kindness. He soon began to mend,
and we jogged homewards. Harriet had been with me, so that I
could leave my children without any anxiety; and the journey,
and the happiness which accompanied it, did me good. I have
been gaining ever since, and Mr. Ware too. I am now so well,
that I can walk an hour before breakfast, and into Boston with
ease; and to-day I have had the unspeakable joy of hearing my
husband perform all the services of the pulpit. This is a point
that I have so often thought of as the one blessing which I
dared not hope for, and have believed that, if it could be
granted, I should have nothing more to ask for, that I hardly
know how I feel, now that it is actually granted. One thing
more, however, I must ask,--that I may be truly grateful for
it.

"Yours as ever.

"M. L. W."

Happy was it for Mrs. Ware if she _could_ be always prepared for change and trial. For while her life was a favored one, and so regarded by her, few enjoying more in any condition, she was equally alive to all suffering, and seldom knew a long exemption. So far, however, she had been spared all trial in regard to her children. Not that they had been free from sickness, or had caused no solicitude, for there had been much of both; but their lives had been continued, and at this time she was rejoicing in their health. Three of them she had just taken to Milton, to enjoy a week with them at Brush Hill, where she had spent so much of her early life, but where she had not been at all since her children were born. Pleasantly does she contrast her present with her former enjoyment there. Writing to her husband from this place, she says:--"I am enjoying myself much, but find I was quite mistaken in thinking I could turn into Mary Pickard again by the power of association. I do very well under that character through the day, but with nightfall the remembrance of _home_ comes over me; the idea of the husband and child I have left there, and the three chickens who are asleep up stairs, rises before my mind's eye, as so many more blessings than poor Polly could boast, that I resign my pretensions with a very grateful heart. I am sorry, dear Henry, that you could not be a little longer with me here, (among other very disinterested reasons,) that I might read you sundry chapters in the life of that interesting personage just named,--chapters which are written about upon these trees and stone walls, and which no other place could recall. It is very delightful for me to live over those days again, and I am sure my mind will be refreshed by this visit, if my body is not. As to this latter concern, it does as well as I could expect."

This visit was made just before her summons to Mr. Ware's bedside at Concord. After their return to Cambridge, they took possession of a new house just built for them; and one of the first events that occurred in that house was the _death_ of Mrs. Ware's first-born, Robert, then three and a half years of age. It was a sore trial, and well do we remember the spirit in which it was met; for it was our privilege to be staying with them at the time, and to be present at the parting. The little sufferer had endeared himself to us all by his patience and sweetness of disposition. Separated from his parents in early infancy, and remaining apart until he was two years old, they had taken him back, when they returned, as a fresh gift from God; and though another had been granted them, there was a peculiar feeling connected with _him_, which every parent will understand. Movingly now does the scene return to us, of the mother sitting silently and reverently at the side of her expiring boy; and when the gentle breathing wholly ceased, asking--still silently--the husband and father, who knelt by her, to _pray_. Faintly, tremulously, more and more distinctly, and then most fervently, did that voice of submission and supplication fall upon our ears, and fill our eyes, and lift the heart into a region which death never enters! As the voice ceased, the mother fainted; but soon she rose, stronger rather than weaker, and ready for every duty. In referring to this bereavement afterward, she says, in the thought of her husband's constant danger: "Having had so long the greatest possible trial hanging over my head, every thing else seems comparatively easy to bear; and I sometimes doubt, whether any thing but that _one_ will ever wean me from the world, as I think a Christian should be." How much she felt, and how much she trusted, may be seen in her first letter after this trial.

"_Cambridge, December 31, 1831._

"MY DEAR FRIEND:--

"Again does this anniversary find us inhabitants of this world,
and again, as usual, does it present in my lot something of
solemn and interesting import, upon which we may dwell with
profit for a time. It is a privileged hour, and I shall use it
as I have been wont to do, in the full indulgence of selfish
egotism, trusting that some good may result to us both from
it. What does the retrospect of the year present to me? My
husband and myself have been again raised from the bed of
sickness and threatened death, and I have been called upon to
restore to Him who gave one of the dearest treasures which His
providence had bestowed upon me. These are great events for one
short year, designed to produce great effects, involving great
responsibility, bestowing great privileges. My own sickness
brought with it many pleasures, many pure and elevating views
and feelings; and although it did not bring me to that cheerful
willingness to resign my life after which I strove and hoped to
attain, it thereby threw light upon the weakness of my
religious character, calculated to subdue presumptuous
self-dependence, and teach a lesson of humility which may
perhaps be of more importance and advantage to my growth in
holiness. My husband's danger renewed the so oft repeated
testimony that strength is ever at hand for those who need it,
gave me another exercise of trust in that mighty arm which can
save to the uttermost, and in its result is a new cause for
gratitude to Him who has so abundantly blessed me all the days
of my life.