Chapter XXIII: Introduction (11)

"It is only tantalizing to meet in Boston, to fritter away the
few moments of intercourse which we want for better purposes in
the idle, profitless gossip of city life. Is it because I have
so little interest in other people, or is it for a better
reason, that I have no patience with hearing people descant
upon the whys and wherefores of their neighbors' concerns;
discussing their actions with as decided judgment upon their
merits, as if the secret springs of thought, and all the
various causes which led to them, were as fully developed to
us as they can be to the Omniscient only? I know we may learn
much from others' experience, both in warning and example; and
to do this, we must closely observe them, and follow or vary
from their course as our own conscience and judgment may
dictate. But surely it is not necessary that we should be all
the time speculating and gossiping with each other, upon every
portion of the lives of our neighbors, or such portions as
cannot from their very nature be of any importance to us in any
way. Is it just to our minds so to employ them? Is it Christian
charity towards others? I may see clearly my neighbor's faults,
and if there be any chance of doing him good by it, I may speak
of them to him freely. I may consult a friend, who I know will
treat the subject with the same tender feeling that I have
myself, upon all the views which could result in good to the
guilty or ourselves. But to talk publicly to any and all about
the matter, for no possible result but the getting rid of so
much time, fostering contempt on the one hand and self-conceit
on the other, seems to me the wickedest abuse of the high
privilege of speech that I know of, next to absolute falsehood.
And how often does this habit lead to falsehood, and all manner
of injustice!... But enough. Perhaps I am too much of a recluse
to judge justly of the temptations of city life, and am
committing the very sin which I am condemning. Suffice it to
say, that thus was my whole comfort in town destroyed, and I
came home feeling that, so far as regarded our knowledge of
each other's inner woman, we might as well not have met."

With all the variety of the Cambridge life, there was necessarily a sameness which makes it needless to mark every year, or follow exactly the order of events. The chief "events" of these twelve years were the death of one child, the birth of four, and the variations of health and sickness to both parents. In the experience of sickness, the year 1836 brought one of the sorest visitations. We subjoin Mrs. Ware's account of it soon after its occurrence, and her review of the year at its close.

"_Cambridge, May 29, 1836._

"MY DEAR N----:

"... You have heard, no doubt, enough of the outline of our
story to have traced us in all our outward movements. But you
cannot know what rich experience the last four months have
brought to us, and the compass of a letter can tell you little.
The first stroke was a heavy one. Henry had been very well all
winter, and had gained a degree of strength and ability to
labor unharmed, which, in our most sanguine moments, we never
even hoped for, so that the disappointment was even greater
than when he was taken ill at Ware, as the height from which he
fell was greater. He was attacked, for the first time since
that, upon the lungs; and when, for the first few days, it
seemed quite reasonable to expect that the consequences, if not
even more alarming, would be at least as lasting as those which
followed the former attack, the prospect was heart-sickening.
It required the industrious use of all the few moments of
thought I could borrow from my occupations, to gather strength
enough to nerve me for the calm contemplation of the picture.

"His own view of the case was a very reasonable one; and the
calmness with which he looked at the improbability of
recovery, was at once an aid and a source of high enjoyment to
me. A few weeks, however, gave us more encouragement; the
attack was not a severe one, and yielded readily to the
remedies applied. And although we could not but look forward to
a long confinement at that season of the year, there was much
in his state to give us pleasure. His mind is always, when he
begins to recover, in a very animated state, very active, and
upon the most entertaining subjects. This time he injured his
eyes by looking over newspapers and books, in the early part of
his illness; so that, as soon as my most arduous duties as
nurse ceased, I had to commence those of reader and amanuensis.
I never was so literary in my life. I did nothing but read and
write; nor have I done much else since, for he cannot yet do
either for himself. Thus passed ten weeks, a period equal to
our whole residence at Ware and Worcester; and yet, owing to
the difference of the season, he could not get out of his room
more than once or twice a week, when he was carried in arms to
a carriage. At this time, too, I sunk for a short term, not
with disease, but exhaustion from confinement and incessant
effort of some kind or other. I soon got rested; but whether
from the interruption which this caused to Henry's literary
employments, or because the time had come for a change, I know
not,--his own animation ceased, and he seemed in danger of
losing all his energy and strength for the want of air and
exercise. I had hoped that he would be sent to a warmer region
as soon as he had strength to get there, for air and exercise
are always essential to his recovery. But he dragged on, until
I was not willing to be submissive any longer; and I begged
that he might go to New York at least, for a city is so much
more protected than the country, that he could walk there in
weather that would have kept him in here. I went to New York
with him, but could not well stay; and as he was in a second
home there, it did not seem necessary. He came home just in
time to sit down by a fire during this long storm! It was most
unlucky, but cannot be helped. Were it possible, I would go off
with him as soon as the sun shines, to keep him from going to
work. I never say any thing is _impossible_, but it seems to me
next to it that I should leave home now. All my five children
are at home,--to say nothing of not having attended to any of
my domestic duties since last January;--a little sewing to be
done, you may fancy. Still, if it is _necessary_ to go, some
way of effecting it will present itself.

"Yours in all true love.

"MARY L. WARE."

* * * * *

"_Boston, December 31, 1836._

_Saturday Night._

"MY DEAR N----:

"What a crowd of recollections rush upon my mind as I date this
letter! It is nine years since I have affixed 'Boston' to this
annual epistle; and the last 'Saturday night' which found me
thus occupied was eleven years ago, at _Osmotherly_, 1825; and
the last time I wrote the whole date was to a note which
accompanied a pair of pegged gloves which I sat up till
midnight to finish for your brother, in 1814. What an
interesting and varied picture do these dates present to my
mind's eye, and how many remembrances are associated with them
of joy and sorrow, of trial and happiness! I could willingly
spend hours in recalling all in detail, and I feel as if it
would do us both good, should I do so; for I find that, in the
full occupation of the present, the lessons of the past are
losing their power over me. Their voice cannot be heard in the
busy bustle of life; and it is only at a few favored moments
like these, when all creation within and around us pauses, as
it were, before taking another onward step towards eternity,
that we can hear their distant, solemn murmur. It is good,
then, to turn our hearts to the teaching, and to fix in them
more deeply the warning and encouragement which we may thus
receive....

"I have been led lately to think more than usual of the past,
by Mrs. B----'s death. I believe I do not exaggerate when I
rest in the idea that she was a woman of rare powers to
interest and influence those around her. My own recollections
bring with them a sense of almost romantic enthusiasm with
regard to her; and I am quite sure that I owe as much of my
conception of the _loveliness_ of a truly religious being to
her exhibition of it, as to any one other source. With the
thought of her in her glory, comes the remembrance of many who
have been taken from time to time from our communion; and it
amazes me to find how large is their number. How soon will it
be, that it will become a rare thing to meet one of the
companions of our childhood!... Perhaps I generalize too much
from my own individual experience; but I find it so difficult
to keep before my eyes the uncertainty of life, or to feel as I
would do the _reality_ of the spiritual world, so busy am I
with the occupations of this material one, that I should like
to be recalled to the subject by some irresistible voice every
hour of the day.

"I have spent this evening in our old church at the North End,
for the first time upon this occasion since I lived in Sheafe
Street, when Henry preached; and as I look back upon the
experience I have had since that time, it seems to me I have
little hope of ever being what I ought to be, when all this has
had so little effect.

* * * * *

"_January 9._ Yesterday, heard Dr. Channing preach and
administer the communion, the latter of which is more to me
than even his best sermons, so great is the power of
association.... I find I almost lose sight of some of my best
_pleasures_, when I have been for any length of time free from
great _trial_. In truth, all this nomenclature is wrong. Ease
and prosperity make our greatest trial; we are never more
blessed than when we are said to be in affliction. It is
remarkable, that not one year has passed since I began this
custom of recording to you these mercies, that there has not
been some striking one on the list. What is to come this year?
God knows; and in this I can rest satisfied. Henry's eyes are
useless, and mine still in requisition; of course I do nothing
else, except at odd moments, when he is away or asleep.

"MARY."

Mr. Ware's severe illness at this period seems to have been a crisis; for the two following years, both with him and her, were probably the best of all they passed at Cambridge, in their freedom from sickness, their ability to work, and the amount of their work. We connect them in this respect, for it is not easy to separate their spheres and agencies, even in regard to his professional labors. Of course, we mean to imply nothing as to any special mental aid, for no woman ever made less pretension, or less attempt, at any thing more than could be done by every sensible and interested mind. But so completely did she enter into all his engagements, so constantly did she watch the degree of his strength and the effect of his exertions, and so often was she called to assist him directly, as reader or writer, from the failure of his eyes and his frequent debility, that her cooperation was not wholly a figure of speech. Then, too, her heart was as much enlisted in the welfare and success of his pupils in the Theological School, as it had been in his Boston parish. All that she had a right to know, she did know; all that a woman and friend could do for those pupils, in sympathy, counsel, encouragement, or personal aid, she invariably did. A son, then a member of the School, says of her: "As a Professor's wife, I do not think father's heart was more in the School than was hers. I suspect she knew every thing about it, and was his constant assistant and counsellor. How much directly she had to do with the young men, I cannot say. They were encouraged to be at the house, came to tea constantly by invitation, and in all sicknesses she cared for them; especially M---- and B----, who were brought to the house, and C----, and also an undergraduate, sick. She did what she could for the destitute among them; and I remember her getting shirts made, &c., &c. I remember, too, the delicate way in which I was sent, on a cold New Year's evening, with a large bundle to an undergraduate who was friendless and penniless." There are others, and many, who could tell much more; and whose recollections of her delicate sympathy, generous aid, and unpretending goodness, will hardly suffer them to speak of her, but with silent tears. They felt her _moral_ power; and all the more, because she seemed utterly unconscious of it. "Never have I been with her," writes one, who says he had but a common acquaintance, "no matter how short the time or slight the occasion, without the feeling of greater elevation of soul. I never knew one of whom this were truer. Virtue came out of her." And he only adds, of one connected with him, "Even now the thought of Mrs. Ware moves her more than the presence of any living friend."

While writing these passages, we have received the testimony of another of those students, more extended, but too pertinent and valuable to be abridged.

"The members of the Theological School were always sure of her
sympathy. They went to her as they would to an elder sister.
There was something peculiarly engaging and attractive about
her, which we all felt, but could not well understand. Yet she
did not encourage, as some kind-hearted women do, the morbid
sensibilities of young men, which, even while apparently
depreciating their own powers, almost always have their origin
in an exaggerated egotism or some masked form of selfishness.
Mrs. Ware's peculiar excellence was, that, without encouraging
such a state of mind and without repelling those who had
cherished it, she, by the healthiness of her own mind and the
cheerful disinterestedness of her character, dissolved the
gloomy spell, and sent away her visitors with new hope and
life. It was the atmosphere in which she lived, more than any
particular words or acts, that made her presence in Cambridge
so attractive, and so beneficent to the young at that period of
life when they are likely to be in a morbid condition. To go
from our rooms to her house, when we had got discouraged or
worn down, was like going into a different climate. And we
went back, like invalids who have been spending a winter at the
South, with new vitality in our veins.

"While connected with the School, in 1834, I had a short but
violent attack of brain fever. I was in Divinity Hall, and very
kindly taken care of by my associates in the School, who did
for me every thing that young men know how to do in such a
case. After a few days, Mrs. Ware came to see me. The bare
sight of her countenance, and the sweet, gentle tones of her
voice, I shall never forget. They changed the whole aspect of
the room. As soon as it could be done, I was removed to her
house. And the delicacy of her touch, as in my helplessness she
washed my hands and face, with the air of motherly cheerfulness
and tenderness, was to my diseased nerves like the ministry of
one from a better world. During the months of confinement and
extreme debility which succeeded, the remembrance of her
kindness was a constant source of comfort, and I cannot now
recall it without deep and grateful emotion."

In connection with exertions for others, it is but just to refer again to the laborious efforts, self-denial, and perpetual solicitude, to which Mrs. Ware was driven, at home, in regard to pecuniary means. The difficulty came at last to its height. They found it impossible to live as they did, and yet impossible to retrench more than they always had. We would not speak of this so freely, did we not feel--beside the light it throws upon character and results--that it is due to the professors and ministers of all denominations, whose energies are crippled, and power of serving as well as enjoying sadly abridged, by the conflicting facts of unreasonable demand and incompetent support. Those of us who do not suffer, and are only grateful, have the better right to speak for others; and we speak in the memory, and as by the authority, of those two unsparing and noble workers, whose sentiments on the subject we well know, and whose power of usefulness should never have been hampered, as it often was, by the want of means which hundreds were both able and willing to furnish. Yes, willing; for it is no want of _generosity_ that we speak of; were we capable of that injustice, especially in the community and the family under review, we should expect almost to hear the reproof of the departed ones, whose gratitude was as intense as their solicitude. Not for themselves did they feel, but for others; for the School, for the ministry; for the students who were prevented from entering the School, or forced to leave it, by poverty and the fear of debt, some of whom were retained only by promises of aid, whose fulfilment cost added labor and wearing anxiety. There is better provision now, we know; ample provision for those willing to accept it. Still are there wants and straits in the actual ministry which are not duly considered. And this it is that is needed,--not generosity in the few, but consideration in the many, and the cooperation of all. If the institutions of the Gospel are worth having, they are worth supporting. If young men are expected to engage in a service that becomes every year more perplexed and exacting, they must be able to see a fair prospect of such remuneration and sympathy as will at least set them free from worldly anxiety. We believe that in no one way can the ministry be more strengthened and elevated, than by a consideration and provision, not extravagant, not large, not perhaps proportioned to the labor and reward of other callings, but _sure_; and sufficient, while it imposes the necessity of all the exertion, prudence, simplicity, and sacrifice that should be expected and be seen in the service of CHRIST, to save from all depression, and the necessity of other pursuits.

Is this a digression? No; for it entered into the daily thought, and affected the life, not only of Henry Ware, but equally of her whose life was his, and whose spirit was always striving to allay his fears, and nurse his powers and resources. Reluctantly did she consent to his taking upon himself new burdens and extended responsibilities, as he did in 1838, when his father resigned to him his active duties, by a liberal arrangement made for both of them. "While this makes us very grateful," she writes, "it involves more anxiety about health; but we will trust."

Just at the time of these new offices and brighter hopes on the one hand, and increased labor and danger on the other, a heavy affliction fell upon them both, in the sudden death of a sister; the first death in thirty years of an adult member of that family, from which six have since gone to the spirit-land. Ought any considerations to prevent our giving to others the Christian thoughts and high affections called forth from Mrs. Ware by that event? They were many and comforting. Some she thus expressed to Mrs. Allen, a surviving sister. "The more I dwell upon what she was, of what she was capable, and how deeply she suffered from the mere load of humanity, the more I am thankful that the season of discipline is over, the more I rejoice at the thought of what she is now enjoying. Can we conceive of a higher bliss than that which must be experienced by a soul of such capacities as hers, which has struggled, as we believe, most strenuously with temptation both within and without while here, freed at last for ever from the burden of the flesh, throwing off all obstacles to its progress in a purer state, _bounding_ forward to perfection? O, who would recall her here, even for the best happiness which this world could give her? But we are yet too earthly to part with our treasures without suffering. It is meant that we should suffer. It is a part, a most important object, of the dispensation; the inevitable consequence, too, of that which we esteem the best blessing of our existence,--our capacity for the exercise of the affections. It seems as if so great an event as I feel this to be must have great objects; and who can doubt that the improvement of those who suffer by it is the principal one? I have never felt this so deeply with regard to any event that ever happened to me in life. I have never had so loud, so imperious a call. O my God, give me grace to profit by this call, to be made better by the mental exercises to which it has given rise!"

At the end of 1838 we find Mary very happy, in gratitude for the past and cheerful hopes of the future, with sober but not sad thoughts of the recent sorrow.

"_Cambridge, December 31, 1838._

"MY DEAR N----:

"... O that blessed thing, Faith,--faith in the truth of
friendship! Among other changes, I have not yet grown old
enough to lose my youthful faith in those I love; and between
you and me, I begin to suspect that I never shall. I certainly
do not find myself, at forty, one whit nearer misanthropy than
I was at sixteen. Is this symptomatic of folly at the very
core? Or is it only the effect of my superior good luck in
life? Whatever it may be, I bless God for it, for I find in it
too much happiness to be willing to regret it, even if it be a
weakness.

* * * * *

"_January 9._ Just so far had I got, when I found my eyes so
dim and my head so giddy that I was compelled to go to bed. And
there have I been most of the time since, quite sick with one
of my old attacks upon the lungs, which threatened to keep me
there the rest of the winter, if it did not end in lung fever,
so obstinate and violent was my cough.... I have been living in
the past very much lately, from having many of Harriet's
letters to read. Some of them, written in Exeter, have brought
before my mind people of whom I had not thought for years; and
circumstances having intimate connection with events in which I
was immediately interested at the time, have unfolded a long
and beautiful page of life before me, which I seldom have
opportunity to recall. O that Past! what stores of wisdom and
happiness are not laid up in it! Why should it be that the busy
bustle of the Present hides it so much from our sight? Should
we not, by an effort, give ourselves more to its retrospection,
that we may profit more by its teaching?...

"But here we are, dear N., at the end of another year,
certainly not growing younger, yet I think not at all losing
our capacity for enjoying. So far from it, I am surprised to
find, that, while with regard to some things my happiness
becomes more and more every day a sober certainty, it does not
in the least diminish my susceptibility of enjoyment from any
new source that chances to present itself from day to day. In
fact, it is a much more agreeable thing to grow old than I
expected to find it. This is not strange, you may say, in my
case, whose blessings increase with every year. Truly it is so,
and I never felt it more than at this present. Never since I
was married could I look back upon a year of such freedom from
sickness in my own family; never was my husband so well for the
same length of time in his preaching life; and if I had no more
to be grateful for than my precious baby, who has been nothing
but a comfort ever since she was born, that is enough for one
year. One sad blight has passed over us, and it has indeed
solemnized our hearts, and made us feel, as we never felt
before, by how slight a tenure we hold all earthly blessings.
But these afflictions serve to make us more grateful for those
blessings which cannot be taken away.

"O, how I do wish you were within talking distance, that I
might know whether you feel as I do about bringing up children.
I have no comfort yet in my management of my little ones. I
have not yet got upon the right track, and begin to think I
never shall. Lucy comes and comforts me a little now and then,
and if I had her power I should no doubt have her success; but
that makes all the difference in the world.

"Yours ever, in true love.

"M. L. W."

Another year closed its record with similar expressions of thankfulness, though we see that it brought sickness and discipline. But these are not spoken of as trials; for Mrs. Ware appears in fact, as well as in word, to have caused sickness to change its name and its face. It had become to her a friend, whose absence she almost dreaded. "It is so long since I have had the slightest physical drawback, that I had almost forgotten that I could be other than strong. I am glad to be reminded that I am not free from the common lot in this respect; in truth, that I am to be subject to the salutary discipline which the prospect of certain suffering and weakness, with all their possible consequences, brings to the soul." She had great faith in the relation of events to each other. She looked upon nothing in the providence of God as either accidental or insulated; every thing had a design and a connection. "If any one thing more than any other strikes me powerfully as I advance in life, gaining confirmation from every day's experience, it is the beautiful adaptation of circumstances to accomplish the great object of existence, each succeeding event pointing to some end which the other events of life have not particularly aimed at. It seems as if we had only to keep our vision clear, to find around us all the teaching which we can possibly need to bring us to perfection." She had not much respect for the common view of "circumstances," as securing all the good and accounting for all the evil in men's conduct and character. To her mind, the responsibility was as great of turning adverse circumstances to good account, as of using well the most favoring and prosperous condition. Yet here she dealt more severely with herself than with any one else; too severely sometimes, as may be the case with all conscientious sufferers who are at the same time conscientious workers. They exact too much of their own frames. They make too little allowance for those natural limits and occasional weaknesses, for which many minds allow too much. Most of us suffer the body to be master, where it should be servant; while they of whom we speak are apt to forget that the body _will_ sometimes rule, and affect the mind unfavorably yet helplessly. There are various intimations, some of which we have seen already, that Mrs. Ware was not free from all errors or dangers of this kind, though she soon detected them. After a short visit to Mrs. Paine, in 1839, she says of it: "I did enjoy my visit to you hugely; I do enjoy it now even more; for I was fighting all the time with an evil demon within in the shape of an uncommonly violent attack of 'Mary Pickardism,' making me feel that I might as well be out of the world as in it. But that is over; and I have learnt from it that our minds are more frequently under the control of our _physique_, than we, in our pride, are very willing to admit."

The season of exemption and favor continues; not without qualifications and exceptions, as others might think them, but without serious interruption to the labors or joys of Mr. and Mrs. Ware. And we see the effect of it in the pleasant and playful mood of the next letter.

"_Cambridge, January 1, 1841, 1.20 o'clock, A.M._

"MY DEAR N----:

"There is some difference truly between a solitary spinster
sitting in her quiet parlor with her desk before her, pen in
hand, without a shadow of a hope or fear of interruption from
any demand of domestic duty or pleasure, and the mother of
seven children, one of them a most agreeable youth of six
months, with a husband and nurse to boot, to be looked after
and taken care of. For instance, after a vain attempt to get
all the new year's presents finished and arrayed in due order
before the clock should strike twelve upon the 31st of
December, 1840, I was obliged at the first date to content
myself with just recording the hour with one hand, while the
other held in durance the two hands of the above-named youth,
who had been for the previous hour exercising his utmost power
of fascinating blandishment to attract and monopolize my
attention. And now I must re-date, _One o'clock, P. M., January
3d_, being my very first moment, since the aforesaid date, that
I could in conscience give to the luxurious employment of
writing to you. I think the said little (or, rather, large)
gentleman had a strong desire to write to you himself, or he
would not have been so remarkably wakeful upon that occasion;
but I chose to enact the part of the dog in the manger,--if I
could not do it myself, I would not let him. He is a most
bewitching creature, by the way, and there is no telling what
you may have lost by my selfishness. Nothing can be sweeter
than a healthy, bright child of his age; there is certainly
something far beyond the mere animal in the enjoyment we derive
from such a creature. I am sometimes tempted, when I watch the
animated expression of his little visage, to go all lengths
with the modern spiritualists, and believe that there is a
higher sense and fuller knowledge of the deep things of heaven
inclosed in that little casket now, than can be found in it
after the wisdom of the world has entered there....

"O, how the business of life thickens as one goes onward! I
sometimes wish I knew whether there is ever to be such a thing
as _rest_ in this life for me, wherein to breathe a little more
freely, and feel it right to forget, for a moment at least, the
care of the earthly. Or I should like still better to know how
far it is practicable to keep one's mind at ease, and yet do
all that ought to be done. It does not seem as if it could have
been intended that we should be the careworn drudges that most
of us are, hardly giving ourselves time to enjoy the sight of
the beautiful world around us, or know any thing of that within
us. I have often great misgivings upon the subject, much
doubting whether it is not, after all, more my bad management
than the necessity of the case, which makes me so pressed from
want of time to do what I wish. But I have looked around and
within in vain for a remedy for the evil.

"I am just where I was a year ago, only a little more involved
from having one child more, and that one that cannot be tended
by any one who is not tolerably sizable herself. This is not as
it should be, (not my baby, but my incessant occupation,) and I
feel the evil effect upon my intellectual and physical
too,--the one becomes utterly empty, the other too crowded.
Thought is free, happily, but one uses up the material for
thought if not refreshed by outward subjects occasionally; or
rather one's thoughts take too uniform a track, and become
morbid. I should like to peep into some other person's mind and
see how the land lies; one is apt to think that no one is as
wicked as himself, but perhaps the same causes lead to the same
results. It would be a comfort to know, upon the old principle,
that 'misery loves company.' Yours,

"MARY."

A change was approaching. The favored interval had been unusually long, and an amount of work had been accomplished of which we attempt not to give an idea. It had been to Mrs. Ware, as to her husband, a "golden age," in vigor, labor, and enjoyment. In the family, the school, and the community, both were busy, both happy. There was no diminution of care, rather an increase with an increasing family, unnumbered visitors, and interruptions, engagements, and claims, of every possible kind. But all this went on easily and naturally. A casual observer would not be likely to see that there was much done, or to be done. There was no hurry, no apparent exertion. Each caller or claimant was received so quietly, and listened to so patiently, that he might have thought he was the only one, or the favored. To be sure, Mrs. Ware felt, as we have seen, that there was no such thing as rest, nor time to do the half that she would. But very few saw the feeling, and it prevented neither her own serenity nor others' enjoyment. Very grateful did she feel for her husband's continued health and active usefulness. At the same time, we can see that her experienced eye and watchful heart discovered symptoms of coming change,--as in passages of her letters of different dates.

"_December 31, 1841._ I look at my husband with a sort of
wonder, to find that another whole year has passed without any
serious consequences to his health. I dare not look forward for
him, for it seems presumption to expect that he can be long
exempt. His duties are very perplexing from their variety, and
I think the effect upon his system, by harassing his mind, is
really worse than a greater amount of labor would be upon a
more concentrated and satisfactory object. He is the greater
part of the time in that dragging, half-sick state, which
leaves neither freedom of mind nor comfort of body. I often
think he could be happier, and do in fact more good, in a
parish, than here; and were it not that men at his time of life
get to be too old-fashioned and 'conservative,' as the phrase
is, to suit the rising generation, I should hope he might yet
end his days in the vocation which he best loves. I would not
have you suspect me of a discontented spirit; but my heart
leaps at the idea of parish-meetings in my own parlor, and
other _pastoreen_ enjoyments. But I have no care about the
future, other than that which one must have,--a desire to
fulfil the duties which it may bring.

* * * * *

"_January 16, 1842._ I have been prevented by all sorts of
things from finishing this; it is not worth while to enumerate
them. I will only say, that for the last fortnight I have had
little thought or time for any thing but preparing my husband
for a six weeks' absence. Not that I had so very much to do for
him (although it is a different thing to poor folks, to live
where their clothes can be mended every day, or must go without
mending for six weeks); but he has been very unwell lately, and
I am so little accustomed to the idea of his going away sick
without going with him, that I found it very hard to bring my
mind to submit to it. I did not feel quite clear whether it
would be right to let him go, in the hope that change of scene
and occupation would do him good, or to prevent it from fear
that the necessity of the case would tempt him to exert
himself, whether he was able or not. However, he has gone; and
went too upon the anniversary of dear Dr. Follen's loss. But I
have heard of his safe arrival in pretty good case, and I hope
for the best. Yet I am a very baby at the prospect of so long a
separation. Truly one's affections do not become blunted by
age,--do they?"

What _her_ affections were appears in the letter which she had already written to her husband,--written in fact the very night of the day he left her; for her heart was full. Its quick, keen sensibilities told her that this was more than a common parting. Seldom had Mr. Ware gone from home since they were married, without being sick, or without her going to him. And though she had not the least superstition, nor even indulged gloomy apprehensions, she held herself ready for the worst, and saw reason at this time to expect some decided result from such a journey in mid-winter, with all that had preceded it. Before she slept, therefore, she gave utterance to the emotions--prayers and blessings we might call them--which were yearning within her.

"_Cambridge, January 12, 1842, 1/2 past 11._

"DEAR HENRY:--

"And you are really gone! And notwithstanding I have looked
forward to this moment for so long a time, and, as I thought,
realized over and over again all that I should feel when it
should arrive, I am ashamed to find how little all my
anticipations have prepared me for it. I do not mean to
overwhelm you with an outpouring of all my woman's weakness,
but I could not go to bed without saying, 'Good night to you,
dearest.' I have a quiet faith that all is well with you, and I
have much hope that this expedition will result in good to your
mind and body both. I can say from my heart, 'God speed you!'
And the thought that His care is over you reconciles me to
having you withdrawn from mine, as nothing else could do. I
feel that, in your absence, great responsibilities rest upon
me, and I cannot therefore go to my solitary chamber for the
first time without many solemn and affecting thoughts. But my
hopes are bright, and my confidence unshaken; and I can send my
mind forward with a cheerful trust, although the tear will come
to my eye. So good night, again. I know your thoughts are with
me, as mine with you, and that this union in the spirit can
never cease, whatever may betide our outward being.

* * * * *

"_Friday Evening, 14th._ Thanks for your letter,--and many most
grateful thanks to the Giver of all good for your safety! It
could not be but that the recollection of the past should be
present to our minds; it was good that it should be so, and I
trust it has not been without great blessing to our souls. For
myself, I almost feared that I was a little superstitious, or
rather inclined to forebode evil; for I feel so much that we
have been peculiarly blessed in having so many times had
threatened evils averted, that, upon every new exposure, I find
I am inclined to think it is presumption to expect exemption
this time; and I never felt this more strongly than now. I hope
I have behaved well outwardly. I have tried to do so, but the
struggle has been very great. This experience is a new lesson
of trust and comfort for us. May it have its due influence!

"Farewell. Blessings be with you!

"M. L. WARE."

The result of the visit to New York is known. Mrs. Ware had not over-estimated the importance of the period. It was a crisis. The second Sunday of her husband's absence was the last time that he ever attempted to preach. He was attacked in the pulpit with bleeding, as he supposed from the lungs, and did not finish the service. It was the end of his career as a preacher, and the extinction of many bright hopes in those united minds and devoted hearts. For to Mrs. Ware, also, was this a disappointment of cherished purposes, not simply as his wife, but from her own fervid interest in the Christian ministry, and her sympathy with the aspirations and the struggles of those engaged, or about to engage, in this great work.

Her account of the change, and other changes that followed, closing the Cambridge life, may be best given in extracts from various letters, which will constitute a journal of the time.

"_March, 1842._ Mr. Ware had not been well for two months
previous to his going to New York; no difficulty upon the
lungs,--simply out of order from too close and wearisome
attention to a vexatious variety of duty, having no rest, and
not time enough to do any thing well. His system seemed
disarranged, and he thought he should be most benefited by
going away, changing the scene entirely, and obtaining rest to
mind and body. He went. Every letter spoke of improvement, and
I had made up my mind, that, in spite of all my fears, he was
doing the best possible thing. So I said to his father on
Sunday evening; and on Monday I received his letter, telling
me of his having been taken in church with raising blood. Of
course I went immediately to him, arriving at his lodgings at
nine, Tuesday morning. The weather was very mild, and the
uncertainty of its continuing so made me anxious to get him
home. After some reluctance on the part of his physician had
been overcome, we decided to return that day. So, after
spending eight hours in New York, I turned my face homeward,
and in forty hours after leaving my own door landed at it with
my precious charge, none the worse for the journey. You may
suppose it all seemed a dream to me. It was, however, a sad
reality to him, a _very_ sad disappointment.... Your picture of
'rest' is a beautiful vision,--one which many of our friends
have brought before our eyes at this time. But what can a man
do, with seven children, and only his own hands to depend upon?
I scruple not to say, that a ten-foot house, and bread and
water diet, with the sense of rest to _him_, would be a luxury,
and I trust some door will be opened to us by which we shall
obtain it. Now he is tied, bound hand and foot; and if he does
not die in the bonds, it is more than any one has a right to
calculate upon. How various the trials of life! and how
difficult always to feel that elasticity of spirit which is
needful to make one as cheerful as we ought to be at all
times!"

* * * * *

"_May 1, 1842._ You will hear in a few days of the change that
has come to us. I have been entirely satisfied, ever since last
October, that it must come to this, and I felt, the sooner
Henry stopped, the better for him. But the utter uncertainty as
to the future support of such a large family, and a reluctance
to leave his father's side in his declining years, important as
he is to his parent's comfort, could not but make him
deliberate.... And now, dear Nancy, we are once more afloat on
the world's wide sea. You will easily guess how much there is
of deep, soul-stirring emotion in all this, and how much more
there must be before we quit for ever our dearly loved home,
rendered doubly dear by the hours of sickness and sacred sorrow
experienced in it. What will be our destination, I know not. We
have some plans, but the execution of any must depend upon
contingencies now hidden from us. The first thing to be thought
of is Mr. Ware's restoration to health; and had we the means, I
should like to spend a week or two in riding about home, or in
little excursions, giving him the opportunity of doing what he
could by conversation for the class about to leave the School.
Should he ever get well, there are some possible projects
already presented which would support us, but in the mean time
all is dark,--that is, we know nothing about it. I am satisfied
that we have done _right_, and I am ready for the consequences,
be they what they may. I am not as strong as I once was to meet
hard labor, but I am willing to work to the extent of my
ability; and I know that no amount of bodily labor can be so
wearisome as the mental struggle of the last two years. I feel
as if I could meet any thing better than seeing my husband
declining; can he only be spared, no matter what comes. Do not
think that I am unmindful of the difficulties which poverty
brings,--the hindrances to the satisfactory education of
children, the loss of intellectual privileges, and the wear and
tear to the spirit by the uncertainties of daily supply for
even the necessary wants of life. I understand it all; and I
know that in all there is useful discipline for heaven, and I
think for my children, that, if the means of one kind of
education are denied them, they may in other ways gain the
essentials for spiritual life more readily. I cannot distrust
or doubt the good providence of God under all circumstances;
how can I, after the experience I have had in life?... If Mr.
Ware and I should ride off anywhere, it will probably be
towards Worcester. O the money, the money! what can be done
without money! I have written to the end of my paper, and all
about self; but I have much to say about other things."

* * * * *

"_May 8, 1842._ I have tried in vain, dear Emma, to find time
and ability to answer your kind notes, for I have longed to
tell you something of the mighty movement which has been going
on within our little domestic world, as well as to satisfy you
of Mr. Ware's gradual progress towards health. But for the
first three weeks of his sickness, his case demanded my
undivided attention; and since the day he wrote his letter of
resignation, I have been, with the exception of three 'poor
days,' sick myself. Not made sick by that fact, I beg you to
understand,--unless the reaction of relief from anxiety might
make one sick, and the exhilaration consequent upon it act too
powerfully upon the nervous system. It is indeed an
unspeakable relief to my mind, and I could see that it was also
to Henry, for he began to improve at once when the deed was
done. It is a great step, at our time of life, with so large a
family, and so little substantial health in the acting portion
of it, to be launched forth upon the wide world to obtain a
support we know not how. But of what use is experience, of what
value is faith, if they cannot enable one to meet the changes
of life without fear?... I have been quite sick, having had a
sudden and severe attack threatening fever. I felt for a little
while as if I could _not_ have one of my long sicknesses just
at this juncture, as if I was for once too important a person
to be laid upon the shelf, and I never was more truly thankful
than when I found myself relieved by the first applications. I
have not yet been down stairs, but expect to ride to-morrow, if
it is pleasant. The breaking up will be severe, I know; but I
think I am prepared for it. It is not the first time that the
strong ties which bind me always to my _home_ have been
severed. And although I have never before felt so much that my
home was indeed my own creation, the thought that it is _right_
to leave it, and the oppression of spirit which the last two
years have witnessed here, reconcile me to all the suffering in
prospect. Don't think me a romancer, that I can feel joyous
when I know not how we are to be fed and clothed. If God gives
me strength, I am willing to work, and prefer that my children
should be obliged to; and I have no fears but that, _if we do
the best we can_, God will take care of us. He has many agents
of mercy."

Mr. Ware was able to remain in office the rest of the theological term, and to carry through the graduating class, with whom his last exercises were deeply affecting. Very soon after this, in the summer of 1842, the family left Cambridge; having fixed upon Framingham, Mass., as their place of retreat, after looking at many places, and weighing all considerations of position and expense.

Of the last days in Cambridge, we have obtained the recollections of their oldest son, himself a member of the class just spoken of, as the last that enjoyed the instruction and benediction of his father. We give the account in his own unstudied words.

"That last summer was a very pleasant one, as I remember it.
Things were very much as ever; if any thing, the little social
gatherings of neighbors were more frequent, as all felt they
must be few. The drives with father to find a place, the
selection of Framingham, the pilgrimages there, occupied a good
deal of the time, as also the gradual preparation, and the many
adieus. The 'breaking up' was one of the gravest trials of
mother's life. Thoroughly convinced of its necessity, looking
forward to it as a relief in all ways, yet the whole summer was
tinged by the thought of it. I remember long talks; one in
particular, in which she drew nearer to me and I to her. I
think that, feeling obliged to keep up before father, she
yearned to confide in us. When it came to the last, it was
hard. The children and all were gone. Mother, father, and I
were left, and I was to be left, for I was just going into the
world myself. The wagon was at the door. Father got in, merely
wringing my hand, but most deeply moved. I could see it and
feel it. If he had spoken, it would have been more than he
could bear. I never till that moment imagined, so feverish had
been his desire to get away, how much his heart was in that
spot. Mother was behind, and had got down one step, when she
turned round and threw her arms about my neck, and there we
stood. It was one of the _moments_ of life. 'God bless you, my
child!' I have heard her say it many times, but it never meant
more. Father could not bear it. He urged her away; the horse
started at his quick word; I was alone,--and that chapter of
life was ended! We never all three of us entered Cambridge
together again, until the night that mother and I brought with
us from Framingham 'the last of earth.'

"Since writing this, I have chanced upon father's first letter
afterward. He says: 'The struggle at the last moment was a hard
one; but we got composed after a while, and then found
ourselves excessively overcome with weariness.'"

XII.

LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM.