"Dear Mary, 't is the fourteenth daySince I was parted from your side;And still upon my lengthening wayIn solitude I ride;But not a word has come to tellIf those I left at home are well."I am not of an anxious mind,Nor prone to cherish useless fear;Yet oft methinks the very windIs whispering in my ear,That many an evil may take placeWithin a fortnight's narrow space."But no,—a happier thought is mine;The absent, like the present scene,Is guided by a Friend Divine,Who bids us wait, serene,The issues of that gracious will,Which mingles good with every ill."And who should feel this tranquil trustIn that Benignant One above—Who ne'er forgets that we are dust,And rules with pitying love—Like us, who both have just been ledBack from the confines of the dead?"Then, dearest, present or apart,An equal calmness let us wear;Let steadfast Faith control the heart,And still its throbs of care.We may not lean on things of dust,—But Heaven is worthy all our trust."
"Dear Mary, 't is the fourteenth daySince I was parted from your side;And still upon my lengthening wayIn solitude I ride;But not a word has come to tellIf those I left at home are well.
"I am not of an anxious mind,Nor prone to cherish useless fear;Yet oft methinks the very windIs whispering in my ear,That many an evil may take placeWithin a fortnight's narrow space.
"But no,—a happier thought is mine;The absent, like the present scene,Is guided by a Friend Divine,Who bids us wait, serene,The issues of that gracious will,Which mingles good with every ill.
"And who should feel this tranquil trustIn that Benignant One above—Who ne'er forgets that we are dust,And rules with pitying love—Like us, who both have just been ledBack from the confines of the dead?
"Then, dearest, present or apart,An equal calmness let us wear;Let steadfast Faith control the heart,And still its throbs of care.We may not lean on things of dust,—But Heaven is worthy all our trust."
"Newton, September 13, 1828."Thank you, dearest, for the pleasure your good long letters have given me; and if I am the more pleased that you called your Muse to aid you in my behalf, I hope it is one of the pardonable weaknesses of womankind, and trust your vanity will not take the alarm lest I should undervalue your own unassisted powers of pleasing. It is indeed a great and unceasing source of delight to me, that, although separated externally in our way, our thoughts, our spirits, are pursuing the same course, and we may meet inmeditation and prayer, sure that the same feelings of gratitude and trust are ever present to us both. I thought much of this, last Sunday, when I made my first attempt to attend public worship. I had felt a great desire to go to meeting upon that day, being the eighth week from the birth of my child; and, moreover, because the first Sunday in September has been a memorable day to me every year since 1813. I did not attempt it in the morning, but in the afternoon rode over to hear Mr. Wallcut at the Upper Falls. I had felt well and strong at home, but it was quite too much for me; my mind was too weak to bear it quietly. The reflection upon all that had passed since I last entered the house of God, which was forced upon me at one view, was indeed overwhelming. I could scarcely control myself sufficiently to join in the services. I longed to put every one out of the house, that I might prostrate myself bodily, and I did mentally, before that Being whose goodness had brought me to that hour. I did indeed think much ofyou; and there was a high and holy satisfaction in the idea that you were at the same time employed in the same way; and although all was uncertainty with regard to you, I doubted not, that, whether on earth or in heaven, I might safely rely upon this. How did I rejoice in that faith which could remove from me all anxiety and fear concerning you, which could enable me so calmly to suffer you to go from me for such a length of time, notwithstanding the very many uncertainties which must belong to your situation. I sometimes wonder at the peace which pervades my mind, but I know I have a right to feel it; it has its basis upon an immovable foundation. Mr. Wallcut gave us a very useful, solemn discourse, and I was strengthened by the service, and not injured by the excitement."Heaven bless you! Your own"Mary."
"Newton, September 13, 1828.
"Thank you, dearest, for the pleasure your good long letters have given me; and if I am the more pleased that you called your Muse to aid you in my behalf, I hope it is one of the pardonable weaknesses of womankind, and trust your vanity will not take the alarm lest I should undervalue your own unassisted powers of pleasing. It is indeed a great and unceasing source of delight to me, that, although separated externally in our way, our thoughts, our spirits, are pursuing the same course, and we may meet inmeditation and prayer, sure that the same feelings of gratitude and trust are ever present to us both. I thought much of this, last Sunday, when I made my first attempt to attend public worship. I had felt a great desire to go to meeting upon that day, being the eighth week from the birth of my child; and, moreover, because the first Sunday in September has been a memorable day to me every year since 1813. I did not attempt it in the morning, but in the afternoon rode over to hear Mr. Wallcut at the Upper Falls. I had felt well and strong at home, but it was quite too much for me; my mind was too weak to bear it quietly. The reflection upon all that had passed since I last entered the house of God, which was forced upon me at one view, was indeed overwhelming. I could scarcely control myself sufficiently to join in the services. I longed to put every one out of the house, that I might prostrate myself bodily, and I did mentally, before that Being whose goodness had brought me to that hour. I did indeed think much ofyou; and there was a high and holy satisfaction in the idea that you were at the same time employed in the same way; and although all was uncertainty with regard to you, I doubted not, that, whether on earth or in heaven, I might safely rely upon this. How did I rejoice in that faith which could remove from me all anxiety and fear concerning you, which could enable me so calmly to suffer you to go from me for such a length of time, notwithstanding the very many uncertainties which must belong to your situation. I sometimes wonder at the peace which pervades my mind, but I know I have a right to feel it; it has its basis upon an immovable foundation. Mr. Wallcut gave us a very useful, solemn discourse, and I was strengthened by the service, and not injured by the excitement.
"Heaven bless you! Your own"Mary."
In September, Mrs. Ware returned to their own house in Boston,—that house in which she had been so happy, and to which she hoped soon to welcome her husband back again, in restored health. She writes at once.
"Sheafe Street, September 26, 1828."Here we are, dear Henry, as comfortable as you could wish, in our own dear house, more grateful and happy than I could easily describe, every thing looking just as if we had not been away. Never did the place look more comfortable,—I had almost said, beautiful;—I will say so, for there were so many delightful associations with it that it possessed a moral beauty, if I may say so, exceeding any other itcouldhave had. I feel finely, and am sure I am as able to do all that is necessary as I ever was. It is not necessary just now that I should make any violent efforts; there is no call for it. Elizabeth is with me, as happy as a child can be; and the 'young rogue' likes his home so well that he has turned over a new leaf at once, and I believe means to behave well. All we want now is your presence, and that I trust we shall have in the right time. O, how willing does all this experience make one to leave all things in His hands, who has brought us through such troubled waters so safely, so joyfully! I have gained since Sunday; at least, I have none of the confused feeling I then had, which made me fear my head was too light for Boston. It is gettinghome, I believe; home and its peacefulness are the best restoratives. I trust you will find it so. I shall walk a little every day, and call first on those in affliction and the sick; there are but few, astonishingly few, for the time; none that you have not heard of, I believe. Peace be with you, dearest! Your"Mary."
"Sheafe Street, September 26, 1828.
"Here we are, dear Henry, as comfortable as you could wish, in our own dear house, more grateful and happy than I could easily describe, every thing looking just as if we had not been away. Never did the place look more comfortable,—I had almost said, beautiful;—I will say so, for there were so many delightful associations with it that it possessed a moral beauty, if I may say so, exceeding any other itcouldhave had. I feel finely, and am sure I am as able to do all that is necessary as I ever was. It is not necessary just now that I should make any violent efforts; there is no call for it. Elizabeth is with me, as happy as a child can be; and the 'young rogue' likes his home so well that he has turned over a new leaf at once, and I believe means to behave well. All we want now is your presence, and that I trust we shall have in the right time. O, how willing does all this experience make one to leave all things in His hands, who has brought us through such troubled waters so safely, so joyfully! I have gained since Sunday; at least, I have none of the confused feeling I then had, which made me fear my head was too light for Boston. It is gettinghome, I believe; home and its peacefulness are the best restoratives. I trust you will find it so. I shall walk a little every day, and call first on those in affliction and the sick; there are but few, astonishingly few, for the time; none that you have not heard of, I believe. Peace be with you, dearest! Your
"Mary."
Mr. Ware did return to Sheafe Street in October, but not to remain. His health was not restored; he could not resume his pastoral duties, and he was not willing to remain in Boston and among his people unemployed. A friend's house in Brookline was kindly offered them, and early in November they took leave—as it proved, a final leave—of their parish, and of that house where they had passed but a single year, yet one of the happiest of their lives. In the mind and memory of both of them, that abode seems to have been invested with peculiar interest. They have been heard to speak of the "Eden of Sheafe Street." Their children always revert to it with a tender fondness; and, beside theirs, there are many eyes that fill with tears even now, as they look back upon the happy hours and blessed influences enjoyed there, in their pastor's home. And she who helped to make that home what it was to pastor and people, loved to the last to live over again that precious season, though to her crowded with peculiar cares and trembling responsibilities.
They remained in Brookline that winter. In the spring of 1829, Mr. Ware virtually resigned his pastoral charge, and a colleague pastor was chosen, while a new professorship was planned for him in the Divinity School at Cambridge. At the same time, he was urged by generous friends, who offered the means, to go first with his wife to Europe, for entire rest and the recovery of his health. This unexpected opportunity he felt it right to use. And his wife, who was herself not well, thus speaks of it to Mrs. Paine, in a letter of several dates:—
"Brookline, December 31, 1828."My dear, kind Friend:—"I have been for a long time prohibited from using my eyes, or should ere this have despatched to you the epistle which for many a weary week has been prepared in my brain for you; and now being still under the same interdict, I can only venture to remind you that there is still in existence the same old friend, who has been wont upon this eve to pour forth to you a copious stream of egotism, who never longed for the time to come when she might do so, more than at this present; but who, for the trial of her patience, must lay aside her pen, and, wishing you every blessing, wait until she is at liberty to use her eyes to say more."January 23.Although still unable to use my eyes without suffering, I am strongly tempted, by an empty house and an unoccupied hour, to renew, in some small measure, the intercourse which has so long ceased between us, and cannot help seating myself, pen in hand, to give you a few moments. I have——"March 30.I was interrupted by company at the above pauses; and since then, dear N——, what a revolution in the state of things around me! It seems like a dream that I am again on the eve of departure for Europe. It is indeed a dream from which I should like to awake; and yet I am so sure that it is right to do just what we are doing, that the spirit faints not, nor even falters. I do not, indeed, dare to think, but have busied myself in visiting my parish, and do not fear but that power will be given. Yet, dear N——, what a lot is mine! Surely I ought to be better for all this various blessing."Ever yours."M. L. W."
"Brookline, December 31, 1828.
"My dear, kind Friend:—
"I have been for a long time prohibited from using my eyes, or should ere this have despatched to you the epistle which for many a weary week has been prepared in my brain for you; and now being still under the same interdict, I can only venture to remind you that there is still in existence the same old friend, who has been wont upon this eve to pour forth to you a copious stream of egotism, who never longed for the time to come when she might do so, more than at this present; but who, for the trial of her patience, must lay aside her pen, and, wishing you every blessing, wait until she is at liberty to use her eyes to say more.
"January 23.Although still unable to use my eyes without suffering, I am strongly tempted, by an empty house and an unoccupied hour, to renew, in some small measure, the intercourse which has so long ceased between us, and cannot help seating myself, pen in hand, to give you a few moments. I have——
"March 30.I was interrupted by company at the above pauses; and since then, dear N——, what a revolution in the state of things around me! It seems like a dream that I am again on the eve of departure for Europe. It is indeed a dream from which I should like to awake; and yet I am so sure that it is right to do just what we are doing, that the spirit faints not, nor even falters. I do not, indeed, dare to think, but have busied myself in visiting my parish, and do not fear but that power will be given. Yet, dear N——, what a lot is mine! Surely I ought to be better for all this various blessing.
"Ever yours."M. L. W."
In closing the first and only year of Mary Ware's "parish life," we remember that it was also the first year of her married life, and an immediate entrance upon the office of a mother. To her views of this office we have already referred, but have feared to say all we know to be true of her discharge of its duties. There is a veil which we may not raise, a sanctuary which none can enter. Yet it is due to her and to her children,—it is due to the greatness of a trust whose difficulties all see, but few estimate kindly,—to speak of the glowing filial love, the reverent and grateful obligation, expressed by those who were permitted to call her "mother," and whose sense of indebtedness grows with their days. By the exercise of a sound discretion in exigencies unavoidable and seldom allowed for,—by freedom of intercourse through the day, and prayer and blessing at night,—by a tenderness that made counsel always kind and discipline never disheartening,—in a word, by a yearning affection which has caused a start and regret at any allusion to her not being "their own mother," she took possession of their hearts for life; and her death called forth, in the simple words of one, the unutterable sentiment of both,—"Surely God never gave a boy such a mother, or a man such a friend."
On the 1st of April, 1829, Mrs. Ware sailed from Boston, with her husband, in the ship Dover, for Liverpool. One of the older children was left at board and in school, the other in Mr. William Ware's family, in New York; while the infant was confided to Mr. Ware's sister, Mrs. Lincoln,—an arrangement that relieved the mother of anxiety, as far as was possible with any separation. But no parent will need to be told what she must have suffered, at best, in leaving behind her her first babe, not a year old, to cross the ocean and go into distant lands for an indefinite time, with a sick husband on whose restoration or return no calculation could be made. Yet we see in her not a moment's hesitation, we hear from her no expression of doubt or the least despondence. Physicians and judicious friends advised the step, her husband's health and power of usefulness, if not his life, might depend upon it; and this was enough, even if her own judgment had differed, as we have no reason to think it did. It was a feature of her mind very prominent, as it must be of every well-balanced mind, that she never suffered herself to be tortured with doubts or fears for the future when the present duty was clear,and never lamented that she had done that which seemed right and best, whatever the issue. As she writes, on one occasion, of her own habits of mind and long experience:—"There is no one thing that has been more important to my comfort, under any result of my plans, than the consciousness that they were decided upon after a full and careful deliberation of all other possible plans, and a calm judgment concerning them all. Then I felt I had done all that poor human nature could do; the rest was in God's hands,—it was all in God's hands. I was satisfied that this decision was in the order of his providence, and, come what might, I could never regret it, or spend one vain, impiouswishthat I had taken another course. But, in order to make this decision satisfactory, I have always desired to know the whole truth, and be convinced that I had a perfect view of the whole case in hand; and have sought suggestions from others, not for my guidance, but that I might be sure I had deliberated upon all the varieties of plan which could be thought of."
This principle was now to be put to a severe test, the severest, perhaps, of her whole life. We have seen what she did, and what she suffered, in her former visit abroad. Totally different were the circumstances now, but none of them such as to make the trial less. Then she had been alone as a traveller, and also alone as to all exposure and peril. Now she was to feel and fear for the one most dear to her in life, one who was ill able to bear the fatigues and discomforts to which he must be subjected, and whom neither his own faith nor her serenity couldkeep from depression and discouragement. Through the whole period of their absence, which proved to be a year and a half, Mr. Ware could not be said to be well for a single day. Much of the time, he yielded to dejection and apprehension, as she had never known him before. He enjoyed much, but suffered more. Not bodily suffering wholly, or chiefly; but that which is much harder to bear,—the hardest of all,—a sense of helplessness and the increasing fear of uselessness; the conviction, in the very prime of life, that life's work must be left undone, a calling which he dearly loved be relinquished, and he either remain abroad a wanderer in search of health, or return home with only the capacity of projecting numerous plans and labors, not one of which would be ever accomplished. All this his wife shared, at least in its effect; against all this she had constantly to contend, bearing most of the responsibility of measures and results, her own health not strong, and soon subjected to peculiar and most anxious trials.
We have no desire to magnify these trials. We only wish to set them in their true light, as making an unusual—not an unprecedented, but an unusual—demand upon the trust, endurance, and energy of a wife and mother. She herself has been heard to say, that this was the most trying period of her life; that no other experience equalled it. Yet this would hardly be inferred from her letters at the time. They were necessarily few, but written with her usual cheerfulness and unfailing hopefulness. Not all of them, however. One or two we have seen, such as cannot be used, that intimate, rather than express,peculiar suffering and solicitude. But this was in confidence, and for counsel; it being one of the peculiarities of the case that it presented many points where it was very difficult to decide whether wisdom and duty should carry them farther on, or turn them instantly back,—and the decision was with her.
We will not attempt to follow them closely in their foreign tour. Those who wish to trace its progress, and note the dates and incidents, will find them in the Memoir of Henry Ware by his brother. They visited England, Scotland, Ireland, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and France, spending the winter in Italy. The first summer they passed over much of the ground and sought the spots, in England, so familiar and memorable to Mary from her former experience. They visited Wordsworth, Southey, Mrs. Hemans, Miss Edgeworth; and passed much time with Unitarian ministers, whom Mr. Ware wished particularly to see, that he might learn all he could of their position, cultivate a fraternal feeling, and open the way for a more frequent and friendly correspondence between those of the same household of faith in England and America. About the last of August they went to the Continent, taking Holland first, and thence through Switzerland into Italy, reaching Rome in December, and remaining there until April.
The few letters that Mrs. Ware wrote home will be given in the order of their dates, with little explanation or comment. Some are in the form of a journal; and here and there we see the hand of Mr.Ware, taking up the thread which his wife had dropped, and then leaving her to resume.
"Greta Bridge, July 8, 1829."My dear Emma:—"I slept last night in the very same room, at Barnard Castle, which you and I occupied four years ago. And having been in many places lately where we had been together, such as Studley, Ripon, and the George Inn at York, where we parted, and moreover, as you have visited me in my dreams, night after night, for a long time past, I feel that I must yield to the desire of writing to you, although it may be but a few lines of uninteresting matter. This place will, however, insure to the letter some value, for I remember well how you wished that the rain would abate, that you might see something of its beauties. I wished it also then, but I wish it much more now, that I have had an opportunity of——"Here the arrival of the coach which was to take us from this paradise cut short Mary's opportunity, and I dare say she will not remember what she was going to write; so that I, her substitute and lieutenant, go on to tell you how much we have mentioned your name while on these romantic grounds, and how glad we should have been to trace with you the paths of Rokeby and Greta in memory——"My lieutenant seems to have been cut off in his march rather abruptly also; so I must beg you to imagine what beautiful associations of persons or things he was about to recall, and proceed with my own plain story,—just to tell you that we were more than satisfied with our walk; it quite meets Scott's description. We trod the same path by which Bertram and Wycliffe wound their way from Barnard Castle to Mortham, and a wilder or more witching scene could scarcely be imagined. We had walked fromStockton to the Castle by the side of the Tees, sixteen miles, stopping for refreshment and rest at the little, humble inns which alone are to be found on this unfrequented route; and truly, after the parade and luxury of large hotels, it was a delightful change to see something of simple country life. You would have enjoyed it, too, notwithstanding the novelty of carrying the equipments of one's toilet in our pockets."At Penrith we found our letters by the May packet, and yours, dear Emma, was most welcome, not only for the news you gave me of my darling children, but for the kind feelings which dictated it, and the great entertainment it gave us. It was just such a letter as we wanted just at that time; it was the latest account, too, that we had had, for though one from Mrs. Barnard, and another from Dr. John and William, reached us at the same time, they were of earlier date. You brought my little Robert more vividly before my eyes than any thing I have heard of him. I could see his little hand resting on Clarissa's shoulder, looking half coaxingly at you; and if the picture made me long to try if he would notice me any better, I was amply compensated for my inability to do so by the knowledge that he was doing so well, and under such kind care. At Penrith I had an attack similar to that which I had when you were at Brookline with me, which detained us a day; but, as it rained, it was not of much consequence. We had projected a drive round the lakes in a gig, and this plan we entered upon the next day (Saturday, 11th),—just such a day as we should have asked for. We went to Ambleside, via Ullswater and Patterdale, where we spent Sunday; heard Wordsworth's son preach, and looked at Windermere. Monday we breakfasted with Wordsworth at that lovely place, which I doubt not is still visible to your mind's eye, as we saw it that beautiful morning. It looked just asbeautiful without, and as perfectly in keeping within, as we had imagined it. I confessed our theft, to the no small amusement of Mrs. Wordsworth, who did not, however, seem surprised at our feelings. Wordsworth, his wife, son, and daughter, composed the party. I wished I could have seen him again."July 16.Dear me, what a careless child! I have just discovered that I began my letter on a sheet which Mr. Ware had one quarter filled to another person; and, having no time to rewrite, I must send it piecemeal. I was going to say, that I wished I could have seen Wordsworth again, because he did not meet my expectation; and therefore I felt disappointed, in spite of all my reasoning with myself that my imagination should not be the standard in such a case. Besides, such a man could not be seen at one view; that which is most delightful in him would not be delightful if it were external."The ride to Keswick you will remember well. It lost nothing by being seen a second time. We were at the same inn at which we formerly stopped; and I could hear, perhaps, the same horses tramping along the same pavement over which our nags paced their way for us that memorable morning."We drank tea at Southey's, whose residence is much more like a poet's than it appeared at a distance, having a fine view of the lake between the trees with which it is almost enveloped. I heard him talk but little, as there was a party at the house; but was more pleased with that little than I expected to be. His study is just the most enviable one that I ever have seen. The next day we went upon an expedition to Crummock and Buttermere, which, though fatiguing, we enjoyed highly, having a fine row upon the lake. We returned to Keswick by a road which gigsseldom pass over, the Crag through Borrowdale. It was just such an expedition as you would have enjoyed on horseback, perhaps on foot, as we took it for three of the worst miles I ever passed over for roughness and wildness. The last part amply repaid us for our toil. We rode by the side of the Keswick lake for the whole length, just as the sun was setting, yesterday."July 17.O, what would you not give for the sight which is before me now!—'fair Melrose,' not by the 'pale moonlight,' but by the light of as beautiful a sunset as you could ask for upon such a scene. I have not been out of the house yet, having contented myself with looking at it from my window, and am now, with all diligence, scribbling for the next Boston packet, while Mr. Ware has gone to see Mrs. Hemans, who wrote us that we should find her in this neighborhood. This is no small addition to the attractions of Melrose. I feel very much as if I were going to see an old friend, so near does sympathy with a person's writings bring one to the writer himself, in soul at least, if not in the outward expression. On our way hither from Selkirk, we passed Abbotsford. A motley group of towers and chimneys did it appear; and it verily made me hold up my head, and feel stronger, at the thought of breathing the same atmosphere with its mighty inhabitant. We passed Branksome also to-day, and came through Teviotdale,—classic ground every inch of it. But it will not answer for me to run on at this rate; I shall scarcely complete one letter beside, when I wish to write fifty."Just at this point Henry returned from his call, with the original 'Dominie Sampson,' and the intelligence that Mrs. Hemans would join us in our intended visit to the Abbey. The moon is just now in full-orbed splendor. Thither, therefore, we repaired; and I met Mrs. Hemans for thefirst time on the top of one of the towers, in such a scene as beggars all powers of description. Never were mortals more favored by the heavens and the earth for such an expedition. The air was very mild; not a sound disturbed the midnight stillness but the chirping of the —— (I cannot remember its Scotch name; its sound is somewhat like a cricket's). There were just clouds enough to give us all the varieties of light and shade. We did enjoy it highly. And yet we almost wished we had been alone. One did not want to have the interest divided; and the Dominie's dry sayings and droll manner had such an effect upon our risibles, that we had, in spite of ourselves, a little too much of the ridiculous with the sublime. This Dominie, whose real name is Thomson, junior minister of the kirk of Melrose, is unique, notexactlysuch as Sir Walter has described, but quite as original.But I have come to the end of my letter, that is, my time. Love to all, at Canton, Milton, Brookline, Nahant, Roxbury, Boston,—a goodly company truly. We have just had a ride to Dryburgh Abbey, on the Tweed, a fine ruin beautifully situated. The river here answers Scott's description better than at Berwick. There are very many lovely situations upon its banks. But Imustclose. With Mr. Ware's united love, and sincere wishes that you were with us, yours most affectionately,"Mary L. Ware."
"Greta Bridge, July 8, 1829.
"My dear Emma:—
"I slept last night in the very same room, at Barnard Castle, which you and I occupied four years ago. And having been in many places lately where we had been together, such as Studley, Ripon, and the George Inn at York, where we parted, and moreover, as you have visited me in my dreams, night after night, for a long time past, I feel that I must yield to the desire of writing to you, although it may be but a few lines of uninteresting matter. This place will, however, insure to the letter some value, for I remember well how you wished that the rain would abate, that you might see something of its beauties. I wished it also then, but I wish it much more now, that I have had an opportunity of——
"Here the arrival of the coach which was to take us from this paradise cut short Mary's opportunity, and I dare say she will not remember what she was going to write; so that I, her substitute and lieutenant, go on to tell you how much we have mentioned your name while on these romantic grounds, and how glad we should have been to trace with you the paths of Rokeby and Greta in memory——
"My lieutenant seems to have been cut off in his march rather abruptly also; so I must beg you to imagine what beautiful associations of persons or things he was about to recall, and proceed with my own plain story,—just to tell you that we were more than satisfied with our walk; it quite meets Scott's description. We trod the same path by which Bertram and Wycliffe wound their way from Barnard Castle to Mortham, and a wilder or more witching scene could scarcely be imagined. We had walked fromStockton to the Castle by the side of the Tees, sixteen miles, stopping for refreshment and rest at the little, humble inns which alone are to be found on this unfrequented route; and truly, after the parade and luxury of large hotels, it was a delightful change to see something of simple country life. You would have enjoyed it, too, notwithstanding the novelty of carrying the equipments of one's toilet in our pockets.
"At Penrith we found our letters by the May packet, and yours, dear Emma, was most welcome, not only for the news you gave me of my darling children, but for the kind feelings which dictated it, and the great entertainment it gave us. It was just such a letter as we wanted just at that time; it was the latest account, too, that we had had, for though one from Mrs. Barnard, and another from Dr. John and William, reached us at the same time, they were of earlier date. You brought my little Robert more vividly before my eyes than any thing I have heard of him. I could see his little hand resting on Clarissa's shoulder, looking half coaxingly at you; and if the picture made me long to try if he would notice me any better, I was amply compensated for my inability to do so by the knowledge that he was doing so well, and under such kind care. At Penrith I had an attack similar to that which I had when you were at Brookline with me, which detained us a day; but, as it rained, it was not of much consequence. We had projected a drive round the lakes in a gig, and this plan we entered upon the next day (Saturday, 11th),—just such a day as we should have asked for. We went to Ambleside, via Ullswater and Patterdale, where we spent Sunday; heard Wordsworth's son preach, and looked at Windermere. Monday we breakfasted with Wordsworth at that lovely place, which I doubt not is still visible to your mind's eye, as we saw it that beautiful morning. It looked just asbeautiful without, and as perfectly in keeping within, as we had imagined it. I confessed our theft, to the no small amusement of Mrs. Wordsworth, who did not, however, seem surprised at our feelings. Wordsworth, his wife, son, and daughter, composed the party. I wished I could have seen him again.
"July 16.Dear me, what a careless child! I have just discovered that I began my letter on a sheet which Mr. Ware had one quarter filled to another person; and, having no time to rewrite, I must send it piecemeal. I was going to say, that I wished I could have seen Wordsworth again, because he did not meet my expectation; and therefore I felt disappointed, in spite of all my reasoning with myself that my imagination should not be the standard in such a case. Besides, such a man could not be seen at one view; that which is most delightful in him would not be delightful if it were external.
"The ride to Keswick you will remember well. It lost nothing by being seen a second time. We were at the same inn at which we formerly stopped; and I could hear, perhaps, the same horses tramping along the same pavement over which our nags paced their way for us that memorable morning.
"We drank tea at Southey's, whose residence is much more like a poet's than it appeared at a distance, having a fine view of the lake between the trees with which it is almost enveloped. I heard him talk but little, as there was a party at the house; but was more pleased with that little than I expected to be. His study is just the most enviable one that I ever have seen. The next day we went upon an expedition to Crummock and Buttermere, which, though fatiguing, we enjoyed highly, having a fine row upon the lake. We returned to Keswick by a road which gigsseldom pass over, the Crag through Borrowdale. It was just such an expedition as you would have enjoyed on horseback, perhaps on foot, as we took it for three of the worst miles I ever passed over for roughness and wildness. The last part amply repaid us for our toil. We rode by the side of the Keswick lake for the whole length, just as the sun was setting, yesterday.
"July 17.O, what would you not give for the sight which is before me now!—'fair Melrose,' not by the 'pale moonlight,' but by the light of as beautiful a sunset as you could ask for upon such a scene. I have not been out of the house yet, having contented myself with looking at it from my window, and am now, with all diligence, scribbling for the next Boston packet, while Mr. Ware has gone to see Mrs. Hemans, who wrote us that we should find her in this neighborhood. This is no small addition to the attractions of Melrose. I feel very much as if I were going to see an old friend, so near does sympathy with a person's writings bring one to the writer himself, in soul at least, if not in the outward expression. On our way hither from Selkirk, we passed Abbotsford. A motley group of towers and chimneys did it appear; and it verily made me hold up my head, and feel stronger, at the thought of breathing the same atmosphere with its mighty inhabitant. We passed Branksome also to-day, and came through Teviotdale,—classic ground every inch of it. But it will not answer for me to run on at this rate; I shall scarcely complete one letter beside, when I wish to write fifty.
"Just at this point Henry returned from his call, with the original 'Dominie Sampson,' and the intelligence that Mrs. Hemans would join us in our intended visit to the Abbey. The moon is just now in full-orbed splendor. Thither, therefore, we repaired; and I met Mrs. Hemans for thefirst time on the top of one of the towers, in such a scene as beggars all powers of description. Never were mortals more favored by the heavens and the earth for such an expedition. The air was very mild; not a sound disturbed the midnight stillness but the chirping of the —— (I cannot remember its Scotch name; its sound is somewhat like a cricket's). There were just clouds enough to give us all the varieties of light and shade. We did enjoy it highly. And yet we almost wished we had been alone. One did not want to have the interest divided; and the Dominie's dry sayings and droll manner had such an effect upon our risibles, that we had, in spite of ourselves, a little too much of the ridiculous with the sublime. This Dominie, whose real name is Thomson, junior minister of the kirk of Melrose, is unique, notexactlysuch as Sir Walter has described, but quite as original.
But I have come to the end of my letter, that is, my time. Love to all, at Canton, Milton, Brookline, Nahant, Roxbury, Boston,—a goodly company truly. We have just had a ride to Dryburgh Abbey, on the Tweed, a fine ruin beautifully situated. The river here answers Scott's description better than at Berwick. There are very many lovely situations upon its banks. But Imustclose. With Mr. Ware's united love, and sincere wishes that you were with us, yours most affectionately,
"Mary L. Ware."
"TO MRS. LUCY ALLEN AND MRS. HARRIET HALL."Geneva, October 11, 1829."My dear good Sisters:—"Wishing to say very much the same things to you both, and finding that the expense and trouble of transporting letters from this place across the Atlantic arepretty considerable, I am induced to address you both at once; hopingthat the question of title to the possession of this valuable document will not give rise to a more severe litigation than the lawyers of Massachusetts will be able to settle. Your letters reached us in the course of time; yours, Lucy, while we were in London, and Harriet's just three months after its last date; both most welcome. It is a pleasure which none but a pilgrim can understand, to see the veritable handwriting of a friend when separated by such a space. You say much of the pleasure we shall receive in these foreign parts from the novelty, &c. of what we may encounter. So it is; and I trust that I shall enjoy all that we should do from the privilege allowed us. But I can tell you, under the rose, that there is no pleasure in all this wide creation like that of sitting down in a quiet corner, no matter what may be around us, holding communion withhome; and I fully believe that all travellers would tell you the same, if their pride would let them."We have, as you may have learned, fulfilled in part your first wish, Harriet,—we have seen Miss Edgeworth, but not Sir Walter. She is a short, rather fat, extremely homely, perhaps I might say ugly woman, without a spark of intellectual expression in her still face, and not overmuch in her most animated moments; but as full of animation, kind feeling, good sense, and intelligence, in her conversation, as one could desire; a great talker, and a very good listener; not an item of pedantry or self-sufficiency, or indeed any thing of what one would fear to find in her father's daughter, or in any woman who had been so celebrated; easy, playful, natural. We forgot it was the renowned Miss Edgeworth, and felt only that it was somebody who must be loved and admired. We found her in the old family mansion at Edgeworthstown, whither we went fifty miles only out of our way to see her; but all the awkwardness of such a lion-seeking visit was entirely takenoff by the reception we met with from the whole family, and we should have felt quite at our ease to have passed a week there. We could stay only a part of three days; that is, part of two, and the whole of the intermediate one. The only impediment to our comfort was, that, being constantly in the family circle, which is a large one, we could not talk with the lady herself upon many points which would have been most interesting. Perhaps we saw her to peculiar advantage, but we certainly do feel that she has been greatly scandalized in having the reputation of acting the pedantic authoress, and partaking of her father's scepticism. So much for Miss Edgeworth."I wish I could tell you half as much of Sir Walter from personal observation, but he was out when Henry called with his friend, Mr. Hamilton; and he is so overpowered with visitors, that we were not willing to add ourselves to the list of the curious who persecute him. We were delighted with all that we heard of him; indeed, the nearer we viewed his character, through the medium of those who knew him, the more our admiration and desire to see him increased. It would really seem that his vast intellect is his least remarkable feature. We saw many of his familiar letters to Miss Edgeworth, and that was next best to hearing him talk, for they are just like conversation. Mrs. Hemans, too, we have seen, and Bowring a great deal, and some others of the noted of the present day; and we shall treasure the remembrance of the few, for they have been but few."It has been truly tantalizing to pass through Switzerland in clouds and darkness, now and then catching a glimpse of its beauties to show us what we were losing, but the far greater part of the time passing through the very finest portions of the Alpine scenery without any visible indications that we were not in a level country. But we haveproceeded thus far free from sickness, danger, or even difficulty, and have therefore too much reason to be grateful to find it possible to complain."We find a great deal to amuse us in the various habits and customs of the countries through which we pass, particularly since we left England; and the eating and drinking part of the business is not the least entertaining. We, however, manage to please ourselves, and our entertainers, too, pretty well. Henry eats his bread and milk as comfortably as he would at home, and I do what justice I can to the various dishes which are set before me, though, when they amount, as they have done, to twenty in number, in spite of all the 'J'ai fini's' I could utter, I have excited a smile of contempt from the waiter, who wondered at the barbarism of dining from one dish. We have not seen a carpet since we left Holland, except upon the sitting-room of an English lady here, and we have been in some handsomely furnished houses.... O this pen, ink, and paper! I will have no more to do with them, but leave them to Henry. Your sisterMary.
"TO MRS. LUCY ALLEN AND MRS. HARRIET HALL.
"Geneva, October 11, 1829.
"My dear good Sisters:—
"Wishing to say very much the same things to you both, and finding that the expense and trouble of transporting letters from this place across the Atlantic arepretty considerable, I am induced to address you both at once; hopingthat the question of title to the possession of this valuable document will not give rise to a more severe litigation than the lawyers of Massachusetts will be able to settle. Your letters reached us in the course of time; yours, Lucy, while we were in London, and Harriet's just three months after its last date; both most welcome. It is a pleasure which none but a pilgrim can understand, to see the veritable handwriting of a friend when separated by such a space. You say much of the pleasure we shall receive in these foreign parts from the novelty, &c. of what we may encounter. So it is; and I trust that I shall enjoy all that we should do from the privilege allowed us. But I can tell you, under the rose, that there is no pleasure in all this wide creation like that of sitting down in a quiet corner, no matter what may be around us, holding communion withhome; and I fully believe that all travellers would tell you the same, if their pride would let them.
"We have, as you may have learned, fulfilled in part your first wish, Harriet,—we have seen Miss Edgeworth, but not Sir Walter. She is a short, rather fat, extremely homely, perhaps I might say ugly woman, without a spark of intellectual expression in her still face, and not overmuch in her most animated moments; but as full of animation, kind feeling, good sense, and intelligence, in her conversation, as one could desire; a great talker, and a very good listener; not an item of pedantry or self-sufficiency, or indeed any thing of what one would fear to find in her father's daughter, or in any woman who had been so celebrated; easy, playful, natural. We forgot it was the renowned Miss Edgeworth, and felt only that it was somebody who must be loved and admired. We found her in the old family mansion at Edgeworthstown, whither we went fifty miles only out of our way to see her; but all the awkwardness of such a lion-seeking visit was entirely takenoff by the reception we met with from the whole family, and we should have felt quite at our ease to have passed a week there. We could stay only a part of three days; that is, part of two, and the whole of the intermediate one. The only impediment to our comfort was, that, being constantly in the family circle, which is a large one, we could not talk with the lady herself upon many points which would have been most interesting. Perhaps we saw her to peculiar advantage, but we certainly do feel that she has been greatly scandalized in having the reputation of acting the pedantic authoress, and partaking of her father's scepticism. So much for Miss Edgeworth.
"I wish I could tell you half as much of Sir Walter from personal observation, but he was out when Henry called with his friend, Mr. Hamilton; and he is so overpowered with visitors, that we were not willing to add ourselves to the list of the curious who persecute him. We were delighted with all that we heard of him; indeed, the nearer we viewed his character, through the medium of those who knew him, the more our admiration and desire to see him increased. It would really seem that his vast intellect is his least remarkable feature. We saw many of his familiar letters to Miss Edgeworth, and that was next best to hearing him talk, for they are just like conversation. Mrs. Hemans, too, we have seen, and Bowring a great deal, and some others of the noted of the present day; and we shall treasure the remembrance of the few, for they have been but few.
"It has been truly tantalizing to pass through Switzerland in clouds and darkness, now and then catching a glimpse of its beauties to show us what we were losing, but the far greater part of the time passing through the very finest portions of the Alpine scenery without any visible indications that we were not in a level country. But we haveproceeded thus far free from sickness, danger, or even difficulty, and have therefore too much reason to be grateful to find it possible to complain.
"We find a great deal to amuse us in the various habits and customs of the countries through which we pass, particularly since we left England; and the eating and drinking part of the business is not the least entertaining. We, however, manage to please ourselves, and our entertainers, too, pretty well. Henry eats his bread and milk as comfortably as he would at home, and I do what justice I can to the various dishes which are set before me, though, when they amount, as they have done, to twenty in number, in spite of all the 'J'ai fini's' I could utter, I have excited a smile of contempt from the waiter, who wondered at the barbarism of dining from one dish. We have not seen a carpet since we left Holland, except upon the sitting-room of an English lady here, and we have been in some handsomely furnished houses.... O this pen, ink, and paper! I will have no more to do with them, but leave them to Henry. Your sister
Mary.
"Dear girls, women, or wives: My loquacious helpmate has merely left me a place to send my love, and to say I wish I had room to write to you and your husbands. By way of supplement, I will just say of myself, that I am now able to talk while riding, without pain, which I never could do before we left England; and can also read loud a little while. This is something worth telling of. My visit to Geneva, owing to circumstances, is the least satisfactory that I have made. You will perhaps hear again from the land of the Cæsars, whence I will dictate a letter full of 'ettas,' and 'inas,' and 'issimas,' and 'ulinas,' and other satin euphonisms. Meanwhile, peace be with you! Your brother"Henry."
"Dear girls, women, or wives: My loquacious helpmate has merely left me a place to send my love, and to say I wish I had room to write to you and your husbands. By way of supplement, I will just say of myself, that I am now able to talk while riding, without pain, which I never could do before we left England; and can also read loud a little while. This is something worth telling of. My visit to Geneva, owing to circumstances, is the least satisfactory that I have made. You will perhaps hear again from the land of the Cæsars, whence I will dictate a letter full of 'ettas,' and 'inas,' and 'issimas,' and 'ulinas,' and other satin euphonisms. Meanwhile, peace be with you! Your brother
"Henry."
We have added Mr. Ware's pleasant little postscript to the last letter, chiefly to show, by his own confession, how very feeble he must have been, and how great her anxiety and care. Indeed, she says of him at this time, "His system requires rest; it will be long before it is fit for use again." She herself was far from well, and had the depressing prospect of a more serious sickness, in a foreign land, with added cares. And yet neither of them was idle, during any period of that trial. They accomplished a great deal in various ways, and prepared one distinct work for publication. We say,theydid it; for Mrs. Ware seems to have joined in that labor which afterward gave us one of the most useful of Henry Ware's works. We refer to his treatise on the "Formation of the Christian Character." It is probably known that this book was written almost entirely in travelling; first in this country, during the horseback jaunt which Mr. Ware took alone through New England to Canada, in 1828, and then abroad, at various stages of this European tour. And here it was in Mrs. Ware's power to be of essential service to her husband, in a way which she explains in a letter written late in life, half jestingly taking to herself a part of the credit for the work to which we refer. To Dr. John Ware she writes, in 1844, in reference to her husband's labors in this and other ways, at the time of which we are speaking:—
"You will gather from the letters of European friends in what estimate he was held by them. That is of little import; but it shows how faithfullyhe preserved his identity as a minister of the Gospel. In looking back upon the jaunt, as a whole, nothing is so prominent to my mind as the perpetual indications of his ruling passion, if I may call it so,—his love of his profession,—the eagerness with which he sought out his ministerial brethren wherever he heard of them, stopping by the way-side to introduce himself and extend to them the hand of fellowship, often going out of the way many miles for that purpose, and making all other objects subservient to that of increasing his knowledge of men and things pertaining to the ministerial life. Iknowhis visit was a useful one to his brethren in many respects...."You know, I believe, that the greater part of his work upon the 'Christian Character' was written on that tour. Its pages are to my memory a sort of diary of our progress, associated as they are with the pleasant evenings, when, after our autumnal day's journey, having despatched our supper, we settled ourselves at a little table before a cheerful wood-fire in our inn, and he with his writing materials, and I with my work, or writing or reading, could almost imagine ourselves at home. Thus were my evenings spent in alternate writing, reading, and criticism, until I almost felt as if I had written the book myself!"
"You will gather from the letters of European friends in what estimate he was held by them. That is of little import; but it shows how faithfullyhe preserved his identity as a minister of the Gospel. In looking back upon the jaunt, as a whole, nothing is so prominent to my mind as the perpetual indications of his ruling passion, if I may call it so,—his love of his profession,—the eagerness with which he sought out his ministerial brethren wherever he heard of them, stopping by the way-side to introduce himself and extend to them the hand of fellowship, often going out of the way many miles for that purpose, and making all other objects subservient to that of increasing his knowledge of men and things pertaining to the ministerial life. Iknowhis visit was a useful one to his brethren in many respects....
"You know, I believe, that the greater part of his work upon the 'Christian Character' was written on that tour. Its pages are to my memory a sort of diary of our progress, associated as they are with the pleasant evenings, when, after our autumnal day's journey, having despatched our supper, we settled ourselves at a little table before a cheerful wood-fire in our inn, and he with his writing materials, and I with my work, or writing or reading, could almost imagine ourselves at home. Thus were my evenings spent in alternate writing, reading, and criticism, until I almost felt as if I had written the book myself!"
The end of the year 1829 found Mr. and Mrs. Ware travelling from Rome to Naples; and on the "last night," faithful to her friendships everywhere, she began the regular "annual" to Mrs. Paine, which she did not finish till after their return to Rome, thus giving some account of their condition in both places.
"St. Agatha,[4]December 31, 1829."My dear Nancy:—"This is not the first annual which you have received with a foreign date; neither can you be surprised at any aberration in my orbit. And yet methinks you will have to consider twice before you can quite realize that it is 'Pearl Street Mary Pickard,' who is writing you from this region of ancient glory and far-famed beauty. But so it is; and could you look in upon me, you would wonder, as I do, that the very peculiar changes of the eighteen years you have known me should leave me so precisely the same. I begin to think that I am made of most invulnerable materials; for here I sit—surrounded by as singular and trying circumstances as any which I have ever known—as easy and happy, I had almost said as indifferent, as if the world were jogging on with me in the tamest way imaginable. At no period of my life have I had more for which to be thankful in reviewing the year which has passed,—that we should have travelled so far without the slightest accident, leaving our dearest interests so well provided for, finding so much kindness wherever we have been, and so many facilities for our enjoyment; and above all, that my husband, though not much better, should not have been made much worse by all the disadvantages under which he has labored of climate and weather. If I were at your elbow, how I should love to give you a detail of some of our experiences during the year. You know enough of the outlines to guess at the minutiæ in many instances, and enough of us both to imagine the internal effects produced by them."Rome, March 2d.Back in Rome again, after a fiveweeks' sojourn in Naples, from which place I should have despatched this, but that I did not think it quite worth while to send such a piece of egotism so far by mail. We had almost incessant rain while at Naples, which prevented our doing and seeing as much as we wished; but the few fine days we had, we enjoyed and employed to the utmost. Although in January, they were like our June days. A shawl was too warm a garment to be borne in the sun, and upon our out-of-town expeditions we took our lunch in the open air. These were rare days, to be sure, but they gave us some idea of what the climate would have been had the season been a common one, for so much rain at that time, they told us, was almost unprecedented. We went of course to Pompeii, where I had many and pleasant recollections of your husband, tell him; for the explanations which he gave me, when we saw the panorama of that place together in London, had made it all so familiar to my mind that I could not easily overcome the impression that I had been there before. Vesuvius we were content to admire at a distance, fearing the ascent would be injurious to my husband. But the classical regions of Avernus and the Elysian fields, the abode of the Cumæan Sibyl, and the beautiful temples of Baiæ, we explored at our leisure."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 youmay 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 theMiserere. 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."
"St. Agatha,[4]December 31, 1829.
"My dear Nancy:—
"This is not the first annual which you have received with a foreign date; neither can you be surprised at any aberration in my orbit. And yet methinks you will have to consider twice before you can quite realize that it is 'Pearl Street Mary Pickard,' who is writing you from this region of ancient glory and far-famed beauty. But so it is; and could you look in upon me, you would wonder, as I do, that the very peculiar changes of the eighteen years you have known me should leave me so precisely the same. I begin to think that I am made of most invulnerable materials; for here I sit—surrounded by as singular and trying circumstances as any which I have ever known—as easy and happy, I had almost said as indifferent, as if the world were jogging on with me in the tamest way imaginable. At no period of my life have I had more for which to be thankful in reviewing the year which has passed,—that we should have travelled so far without the slightest accident, leaving our dearest interests so well provided for, finding so much kindness wherever we have been, and so many facilities for our enjoyment; and above all, that my husband, though not much better, should not have been made much worse by all the disadvantages under which he has labored of climate and weather. If I were at your elbow, how I should love to give you a detail of some of our experiences during the year. You know enough of the outlines to guess at the minutiæ in many instances, and enough of us both to imagine the internal effects produced by them.
"Rome, March 2d.Back in Rome again, after a fiveweeks' sojourn in Naples, from which place I should have despatched this, but that I did not think it quite worth while to send such a piece of egotism so far by mail. We had almost incessant rain while at Naples, which prevented our doing and seeing as much as we wished; but the few fine days we had, we enjoyed and employed to the utmost. Although in January, they were like our June days. A shawl was too warm a garment to be borne in the sun, and upon our out-of-town expeditions we took our lunch in the open air. These were rare days, to be sure, but they gave us some idea of what the climate would have been had the season been a common one, for so much rain at that time, they told us, was almost unprecedented. We went of course to Pompeii, where I had many and pleasant recollections of your husband, tell him; for the explanations which he gave me, when we saw the panorama of that place together in London, had made it all so familiar to my mind that I could not easily overcome the impression that I had been there before. Vesuvius we were content to admire at a distance, fearing the ascent would be injurious to my husband. But the classical regions of Avernus and the Elysian fields, the abode of the Cumæan Sibyl, and the beautiful temples of Baiæ, we explored at our leisure.
"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 youmay 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 theMiserere. 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."
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 trialof 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 inParis. 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 mymiserabilitywhen 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 isbetter 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—butvoila! 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,feelthat 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, tosuppress 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, andsecretcharities, 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 mighthope 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 thatthe 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."
"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 mighthope 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 thatthe 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 thesea, 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 withthe 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 myactivity. 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.
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 returnfrom 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, relatingto 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 theuncommon 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 beenwithout 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 thesickness 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 toyou, 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 woulddo 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 notsingular 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 offitting inso 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."
"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 toyou, 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 woulddo 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 notsingular 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 offitting inso 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 thereluctance 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 manyprobabilitiesin 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 anomnium gatherumfor 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 toold 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 inourpretty 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."
"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 anomnium gatherumfor 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 toold 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 inourpretty 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 ofinefficiency, 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.