Mary Pickard returned from England in the summer of 1826, and was warmly
welcomed by her many friends in Boston. Her last home before going
abroad had been at Miss Bent's in Washington Street, where she now went,
and stayed through the fall and winter with the exception of short
visits to friends in the vicinity. Thronged with visitors, and occupied
with business of her own which she never left to others if she could do
it herself, she had no time for large correspondence, and we find few
letters for some months. But there are brief notes which show the
fulness of her enjoyment and gratitude, enhanced by the recollection of
the trying scenes through which she had passed, but which she rarely
named and never magnified, as we are assured by some who were constantly
with her. The mercies of the past, more than the trials, filled her
thoughts. "My whole absence has been but a succession of mercies, for
which I could not in a long life show the gratitude I feel; and this the
greatest of all, the safe restoration to my beloved home and blessed
friends,--it is indeed overwhelming. I have been borne through
afflictive trials by that Power which alone can enable us to bear them;
may I also find the same strength sufficient to keep me firm and
uninjured, amid the greater trial of prosperity and joy." This was said
to one of her former instructors in Hingham, with whom she spent a week
in November, reviving the memory of the "first awaking of the mind to
high and holy thoughts and resolves."
To the trial of prosperity of which she speaks, she may have been
exposed at this time, if at any. She had returned after a long absence,
in which she had accomplished all that she proposed, and more than to
most minds would have seemed possible. She was again in the midst of
endeared and delighted friends, more free from care and solicitude for
others than she had ever been before; her society sought by a larger
circle of devoted and admiring acquaintance, paying her marked
attention. There was every thing to gratify, and much to flatter. And
she was happy, very happy,--"more lively and joyous, I think, than at
any time of her life," writes an intimate friend. But she did not remain
long unemployed, or live for herself. She sought other objects of
interest, places and ways of laboring for those in need. She took
classes of poor children in more than one Sunday school, and visited the
houses of the poor during the week; of several families in Sea Street
she is said to have taken particular care through that first season,
though a season crowded with engagements of friendship and society, and
occupied before its close with an unexpected and absorbing interest.
The last night of the year, Mary made one of that great congregation
who listened to that discourse of HENRY WARE on the "Duty of
Improvement," which few who heard have forgotten, and of which one
hearer has said, "No words from mortal lips ever affected me like
those." We may conceive the emotions with which they were heard by her,
in whose mind religious concerns were always paramount, and who already,
as we have reason to believe, was compelled to feel a personal interest
in the preacher. For we now approach that event which is considered the
crisis of a woman's life, and which was certainly to change the whole
aspect of a life that was felt to be peculiarly insulated. But we may be
anticipating. No engagement yet existed, and in the letter written after
the services of the "last night" to one who was never forgotten on that
occasion, there is no allusion to new events, unless in the close.
"_Boston, December 31, 1826._
"Were I by your side, dearest N----, I might be able to satisfy
myself by talking; but when I think of committing to paper what
I wish to say to you, I am almost discouraged, and have a great
mind to give up the attempt. I do verily believe I should for
once play truant, and shut up my desk, did I not fear, should I
do so, that the ghost of the departing year would start up in
visible form before me and pronounce a fearful malediction upon
me for my apostasy. Indeed, so wedded am I to old customs, and
really superstitious about the fulfilment of certain vows, that
I should not dare to hope for peace or prosperity for the year
to come, if I allowed myself to yield to the tempter.
"When I look back only upon the past month, I feel as if it
were the work of an age to give you any idea of its interest;
and when the year, nay, years, of which I wish to speak come in
array before my mind's eye, it is not strange that I know not
how to begin, or how to confine myself to the limits of a sheet
of paper. You know, however, enough of the circumstances of the
past year to understand something of the feelings which this
period has brought with it. Perhaps I am inclined to exaggerate
the peculiarity of the events of my life, which, after all, may
have been no more exciting than every body meets with; but be
that as it may, there can be no harm in magnifying the
blessings. And as there is more hope of attaining a high degree
of excellence, if our standard of comparison be high (even if
it be beyond our reach), so I will hope that the more enlarged
is our estimate of our subjects for gratitude, the more deep
and heartfelt will our gratitude be. It does seem to me, that
no being can have _more_ for which to give thanks, than I have
in past and present blessings; and that no one can fall as far
short as I do of the effect that should follow such a belief.
"I have been reading the letter I was writing you at this time
last year, and it does make me tremble to the very soul, when I
contrast my situation now with what it then was, to think how
much is required of one, who has been saved from such peril,
and brought back to so much good. But it is in vain to attempt
to tell you what I think or feel at this hour. One idea above
all the rest will rise, and this you will join me in,--that the
proofs which the experience of the past year gives of the
never-ceasing, all-sufficient care of God should make us look
forward with perfect trust to whatever the future may bring,
without a doubt that all will be well that He directs,--that
our weakness will be strengthened, our fear removed, and our
spirits sustained and soothed under all trials, if we will but
rest in faith upon his almighty arm. I have felt this so much,
that I had begun to be presumptuous, and almost thought that no
possible temptation could make me doubt its sufficiency. But I
dare not hope so much. I find there are temptations of which I
have hitherto known nothing, and under the influence of which I
may have to learn a new lesson. It is said of Bishop Sewell,
who once most strangely departed from his faith, that his fall
was necessary to teach him humility, and improve his character.
Perhaps it may be so with me. If I do fall, I hope it may have
the same good effect.
"I have wished to-day, as I often do, that you could have an
ear where mine was. Mr. Channing gave us a most useful sermon
this morning upon the office of Christ, from the words, 'I am
the way, the truth, and the life.' Mr. Gannett this afternoon
upon the retrospect of the past,--good and solemn. And this
eve, notwithstanding the violence of the snow-storm, Mr. Ware's
house has been filled to overflowing, to hear his usual
address. It was one of the most eloquent and impressive I ever
heard from him; a powerful exhortation on the necessity of
Progress, delivered with an energy which gave it great effect.
I have heard but one of those discourses before this, but I
should think it a most profitable service. The occasion is
certainly one by which all who are capable of feeling seriously
must be solemnly impressed; and the great interest which is
generally felt in Mr. Ware gives him the power of making a good
use of such a predisposition. And now that it is _possible_
that he may accept the call to New York, his influence is
greater than ever.
"I have passed a quiet, delightful week at Hingham, made my
long talked of visit to Mrs. P----, and returned on Christmas
day to be quiet at home (if possible) until I go to you; and
yet I ought to be stationary for a time for business' sake. I
need not tell you how much you have been in my thoughts during
the past week, so strongly are all the singular events which
have taken place in it associated with you. It has not been
suffered to pass without its own special interest; to me it has
indeed been _full_.
"Most heartily yours, with best wishes for the coming year.
"M. L. P."
The year 1827 opened upon Mary differently from any previous year of her
life. Its first month was to witness the consummation of a purpose,
which could not be lightly regarded by a mind like hers. Strange that it
can be by any! Yet we have such reason to fear it, that we deem it a
sufficient apology, if any be needed, for disclosing her own thoughts at
this time more fully than might otherwise seem right. Sure we are of
_her_ permission, whose conversations on the forming of a connection so
often made the subject of trivial jesting were as free as they were
serious. By nothing earthly is the social or moral community more deeply
affected than by the prevalent views of Marriage, and the feelings with
which its momentous obligations are assumed. And when there are revealed
to us by death, under that seal of sacredness which deepens our
conviction of their sincerity, such sentiments as those which Mary
Pickard brought to this relation, our view of duty, and even of
delicacy, moves us to impart rather than withhold them. Not that we
suppose them peculiar to her, or that she has given them any remarkable
expression. They may be common to every right and earnest mind. But
various considerations prevent their being publicly presented with that
personal reality which adds so much to their power. Thankful would all
be, and none more than those perfected spirits of which we now speak, if
the young and the mature would take exalted and sober views of the
holiest and happiest relation in life.
Mary's views were expressed to her two most intimate female friends, the
same night; to one in a short note, to the other more at length.
"_January 30, 1827._ Dearest Emma, I am not willing that any
other than my own pen should communicate to you the events of
this day. I would not that you should think it possible for me,
under any circumstances, so far to lose my identity as to be
unmindful of the feelings of one whom I so love; and though it
requires some effort, I will do the thing with my own hand.
Know, then, dear E., that a change has passed over the spirit
of my earthly dreams, and, instead of the self-dependent,
self-governed being you have known me, I have learned to look
to another for guidance and happiness; and, more than that,
have bound myself, by an irrevocable vow, to live for the
future in the exercise of the great and responsible duties
which such a connection inevitably brings with it.... You need
no explanation, nor have I time to give any; it would require
one of our long nights to trace the rise and progress of the
influences that have thus terminated. At present, the idea of
the change I am making is so solemn, so appalling, that my
faculties are almost paralyzed.
* * * * *
"_Boston, January 30, 1827._
"MY DEAR N----:
"I have been sitting with this sheet before me for the last
half-hour, trying to find out in what way to begin the long and
eventful story which I wish to convey to your mind as clearly
as I see it in my own. I am in truth hardly able to write at
all, from absolute exhaustion of body and mind, and therefore
am driven to the necessity of beginning at the end of the
chapter, lest I should not have time to tell the whole. Will it
be an entire surprise to you to hear that this day has been to
me the most important of my whole life, the turning-point of
existence, the witness of my solemn and irrevocable promise to
unite for the future my fate with that being, who, when we last
met, I thought was doomed to be a stranger to me for ever? It
seems, indeed, like a dream, and yet it is true, dreadfully
true, that I have taken upon myself great and unknown duties
for which I feel incompetent,--true that I have gained the best
blessing life can give.
"You need no explanation to teach you the progress of this in
my own mind, for you know me well enough to read it without
book, and you may easily imagine how I feel at such a crisis.
O, it is solemn, it is awful, thus to bind one's self for life!
and yet I am conscious my whole heart is with the act, and my
happiness intimately dependent upon it. This feeling of
distrust and fearfulness will soon pass away. I have not been
used to its interference in any case where I have known it was
my _duty_ to act; it is only when we seem to have the direction
of events in our own hands, that the feeling of doubt as to
what _is_ duty weakens our confidence in our success. You will
say, feeling must be the guide; and so it must so far as this,
that we may be sure that that path is not the right one to
which it does _not_ impel; but there is danger of its tempting
to the wrong one notwithstanding, and it cannot be safe
unhesitatingly to follow its impulses.
"Mr. Ware goes to New York on Thursday, for four weeks, to
preach; he will, I suppose, return by the way of Northampton,
and I hope you will not object to a visit from him on the way.
But I must put an end to this. I am in truth unable to write
more.
"Yours most truly,
"M. L. P."
The relation thus viewed by a Christian woman has often one aspect, as
in the present instance, which is thought more delicate and
unapproachable than any other. Mary was to take the place, not only of a
wife, but of a "step-mother,"--a name that should be redeemed from the
inconsiderate and unjust odium to which it is commonly subjected. Why
should that odium attach to this, more than to all _unfaithful_ use of
the conjugal relation? Does not this, the more difficult office, exhibit
proportionably as many noble wives and true mothers as the other?
According to the difficulty and the delicacy, is the greatness of the
trust and the merit of fidelity. Let honor be rendered where honor is
due; and let no vulgar prejudice or unkind prediction hide a beauty and
excellence of woman that are less rare than may be supposed.
In aid of these thoughts, as well as in illustration of the character we
are delineating, we are glad to be allowed to quote from two letters of
Henry Ware himself; the first bearing the same date as Mary's just
given, the other written after a more intimate acquaintance. They are
both addressed to his sister at Northampton, to whom he had confided the
care of his children while they were without a mother. The mother whom
they had lost three years before had left a void not easily filled. A
woman of more than common qualities and powers, doomed for several years
to more than ordinary suffering from an insidious and fatal disease, she
had still given much time to the parish, and discharged to the last the
duties of a wife and mother, with a fidelity and affection whose loss
was very grievous, and was felt more and more by Mr. Ware from the
necessity of separation from his children, and their own growing years
and needs. We can understand, therefore, the feelings with which he
formed another connection, and made it known to one who was now to
resign her charge to other hands.
"_Boston, January 30, 1827._
"DEAR SISTER:--
"There is no one who will have more sincere and hearty pleasure
in the tidings I am going to communicate than you, or from whom
I shall receive more sincere and affectionate congratulations.
I therefore lose not a moment in telling you that I am to build
up again my family hearth, and bring my children to their
father's side, and have a home once more. With whom, I need not
tell you. Providence has thrown in my way one woman, whose
character is all that man can ask, of a singular and exalted
excellence. You know how admirable she is, and how well suited
to fill the vacant place by my side. She consents to do it; and
that I feel grateful and happy, a privileged man, you will not
doubt.... Write me at New York. Love to you all.
Affectionately,
"HENRY WARE, JR."
* * * * *
"_Saturday Evening, March 3, 1827._
"MY DEAR HARRIET:--
"You will not be troubled, I hope, if I pour out from my mind
a little of the satisfaction which I feel, and in which I am
rejoicing more and more every day. Since my return, the
congratulations of my friends have been absolutely
overpowering; and from seeing more and more of Miss Pickard, I
am made to feel more and more grateful for the kind providence
which has led me to this result. You know all my feelings and
views, and the process of my mind, and I shall therefore be
understood by you as by nobody else. It is not a common feeling
which fills me; it is something peculiar, sacred, as if I had
been under a supernatural guidance, and been made to act from
pure and elevated and disinterested motives, for the purpose of
accomplishing some great good. Every thing is connected with
the memory of the past and with my former happiness, in such a
way as not to sadden the present, but to give to it a singular
spirituality, if I may so say; and I feel that, if the departed
know what is transacting here, my own Elizabeth would
congratulate me as sincerely as any of my friends. I have
sought for the best mother to her children, and the best I have
found. I have desired a pattern and blessing for my parish, and
I have found one. I have wished some one to bear my load with
me, and to help, confirm, and strengthen my principle by her
own high and experienced piety, and such I have found. All
these things, meeting in one person,--I might have looked for
each alone, but where else are they to be all found in such
excellent proportions united? I surveyed them with cool
judgment, and I shall by and by love them ardently.
Dear Harriet, I must have somebody to pour out myself to; so
bear the infliction charitably. Good by. Yours ever lovingly.
"HENRY."
The character of Mary Pickard would not be drawn, but one of her noblest
traits be left out of view, if we failed to speak frankly of the former
affection to which Mr. Ware refers, and the memory of which she herself
cherished, at first and always. She had no sympathy, and little respect,
for that narrow view which insists that one affection must crowd out
another; that the departed and the living cannot share the same pure
love of the same true heart. The happiness of husband and wife and
household has sometimes been impaired by a mistaken apprehension on this
subject, and a suspicion of feelings in each other which had no real
existence, or existed only from the want of mutual and free expression.
We have even known cruel attempts made by others to prejudice the minds
of those most concerned, and especially the children of a former mother.
For such attempts, and all thoughts of the kind, we cannot repress our
indignant reproof. No false delicacy should prevent the utterance of
truth, where the best affections and dearest interests are involved.
Instead of avoiding the subject, we are grateful for the opportunity
which such characters as Henry and Mary Ware give us, of presenting the
just, generous, and Christian view. One of her own children has said of
her: "Perhaps no one thing in her character and conduct has oftener
struck common minds with surprise, and superior ones with admiration,
than this entire freedom and frankness in regard to the first wife? 'She
was the nearest and dearest to _him_,' she would say, 'how, then, can I
do otherwise than love her and cherish her memory?' And her children she
received as a precious legacy; they were to her from the first moment
like her own; neither she nor they knew any distinction."
We are permitted to add one other letter of Henry Ware, beautifully
illustrating the character of Mary, and showing his own large and holy
view of this particular relation. It was addressed to Mrs. William Ware,
sister of that first wife the memory of whose excellence and love he so
blended with the new affection.
"_May 15, 1827._
"MY DEAR MARY:--
"I believe that I have said to you, two or three times, how
much I had calculated on your long visit, as a means of making
you and Miss Pickard well acquainted.... And I am not sure that
I should have said even as much as this, were it not for one
circumstance, which has given me a satisfaction that I never
had hoped to enjoy, and which will be increased by imparting it
to you. I have known so much of the selfishness of human love,
and heard so much of the sensitiveness with which women are apt
to regard a former affection, that I had not dared to hope that
I ever should be able to speak as I feel of former days, and
the memory of my earliest love. Yet, as I longed to cherish it,
and as all my present plans and feelings are interwoven with
the thoughts and images of the past, it would have been an
exceeding pain to me to feel that there was any reserve, or any
of that--I don't know what to call it--which would compel me to
hide such feelings, and seem not to have them. I cannot tell
you, then, how happy I have been in finding Miss Pickard
entirely above all mean and selfish feelings, which I have
supposed to be so common. She enters into my views, and we have
talked freely of other days; and she helps to keep me right by
speaking of the pleasant impressions she used to receive from
Elizabeth's character, and what she has heard of her. I wish I
could go into particulars. So unexpected a communication
between us has been a source of gratification to me unspeakably
great; and I do not know when I have felt more truly exalted
and spiritualized, than when, after such a conversation which
has freed us from every selfish and earthly feeling, we have
knelt down together and prayed for blessing from that world,
where, I feel sure, if the departed regard those whom they left
behind, there is no sorrow or displeasure at the course I am
pursuing. I take pleasure in telling you this, because nothing
can or shall divide me from you, or lessen that feeling in
which I have so long regarded you as one of the nearest, the
very nearest, to me; and I long that all who are near to me
should be so to you. Best love to you, and all happiness with
you and yours. Till I see you, adieu.
"Yours,
"HENRY."
Immediately after her engagement, Mary visited her friend in Worcester;
and from that place we find a very long letter, relating more to others
than to herself, written in a cheerful mood, but showing how deep and
sober had been her meditations on the change that was before her, of
which she writes more fully in the first letter after her return to
Boston.
"_Worcester, February 18, 1827._
"DEAR EMMA:--
"I have been hunting round the room to find a small sheet of
paper upon which to do the pretty thing, and pay a troublesome
debt. But my search has been in vain, so I have e'en changed
the object of my pen, and determined to let it follow the
dictates of my inclination, in covering a sheet of Grandpa
McAdam's 'Bristol-best' with such lines and scratches as it
may be impelled to make; nothing doubting but its impulses will
give you some satisfaction, if they go no further than the
expression of the sincere sympathy felt with you by your
friends here, in your present state of joyful excitement. I do
indeed rejoice with you in your happiness at the return of your
brother; and you may be assured I am joined in this by the
whole household. Although I have never known from experience
what are the precise feelings you may have, I think I can enter
into them at all times. And now, whether it is that my mind is
more than usually attuned to joy, or whether it is more
interested for you than it ever has been in similar cases with
respect to others, I know not; but sure I am, that I never felt
so much before, or seemed to myself so wholly awake to the
feelings and interests of my friends, as at this moment. You
must enjoy a great deal in the next few months, and I know you
will not let so much cause for gratitude pass without its full
effect. It has always seemed to me a most humiliating fact,
that so much _suffering_ should be necessary to teach us our
dependence. Why should we not be equally taught by the
blessings which are bestowed upon us, that we are and have
nothing but as He wills it to be; and does it not seem a
natural effect of such testimonies of love, to draw our hearts
towards a Being who is so good to us? Let us at least, dear
Emma, prove that it may have this influence.
"Nancy is very well, and bright and happy; and could I drive
away from her a foolish feeling of a parting visit which hangs
upon her mind, and fills her eyes whenever she speaks to me, we
should be in a very merry key. As it is, however, we enjoy
much, for I have much to tell her of the adventures of the last
three years, which takes her away from the present; and she is
at heart so truly satisfied and happy, that we cannot get up
any thing like real melancholy.
"I wish indeed, with you, that I could attain something of your
animation, and for a longer period than that you prescribe; for
I do not hold it in such contempt as you do. It might not,
perhaps, add to my individual happiness, for it seems to me I
am as happy as mortal can be; but I do feel sure it would give
me the means of communicating more pleasure to others, and this
could not fail to increase my own. I have always considered
that buoyancy of spirit of which you speak as a great and
valuable gift; perhaps I have exaggerated its power, as we are
apt to do every thing in which we are deficient. But its
effects in chasing away the vapors which will sometimes gather,
almost without cause, around the feelings of even the best and
happiest, are not to be questioned, and are in my view of great
worth. My happiest moments have always been my quietest, and
this does little for others' comfort. I have in a great measure
overcome the solemnity which oppressed me when I saw you; and
were you only here, I think I could join with you in one of
your merry laughs, as gayly as you could desire. I do indeed
wish you were here.
"You were right in thinking that one of my letters was from
cousin Jane; the other was from Aunty, quite a happy one, not
one complaint, and directed by the 'little Doctor,'--so I
conclude he is in the land of the living. Jane writes in good
spirits; all things there in a better state than usual.
"Yours truly,
"M. L. P."
* * * * *
"_Boston, March 20, 1827._
"MY DEAR N----:
"Were I near you, it would be an unspeakable relief to pour
forth to you, for every moment is so filled with constantly
increasing interest, that at times I am oppressed and
overpowered as I do not like to be; and there are moments when
doubt and distrust of myself so entirely possess me, that I
feel almost tempted to doubt my _right_ to undertake what I
have. My mind is slow in all its processes, you know, and in
this matter it seems to me more slow than is common, it may be
from the magnitude of the change; but certain it is, I have
suffered more, and labored more to bring myself into the right
state, than I ever did in my life in the same time. My cause
for happiness is increasing every day, and this tempts me to
dwell too exclusively upon concerns connected with self. I am
seeing daily more and more of the immense responsibility under
which I am placing myself, and feeling more and more my own
incapacity, and this tempts me to be anxious and doubtful. I am
understanding more of what _might_ be done in the station I am
to fill, and this makes me ambitious to satisfy all who will
look to me with hope. O, if I could feel as I should, that if I
do my utmost with my whole heart, from the right motive, I
shall gain that approbation which should be the first object of
my desire, be my efforts successful or not! But I am getting to
depend too much upon the approbation of those I love.
"In one respect, this new and strong and satisfying interest is
not having the influence I feared; instead of engrossing,
absorbing, and making me selfish, excluding all other
interests, it seems to enlarge the capacity of affection. I
feel warmed more than ever towards every living being whom I
ever loved. And it has done much towards exalting and
enlightening my mind upon the point which has been a greater
trial to me than any thing I ever met with. I mean, it has made
me more willing to leave the world, and enjoy the happiness of
heaven, than I ever thought I should be. Strange that the thing
from which, of all others, I should have expected the very
opposite effect, should have done this!
"I have been through all the forms and ceremonies of
'introduction,' very quietly. I have been to Cambridge, and the
family have been here; and, better than that, I have laid siege
to the venerable Doctor in his study, and had a most delightful
conversation of nearly two hours in length; which made me feel
that I was not a little privileged, to have any claim, however
small, upon his interest.... I wish you could have heard Mr.
Channing this morning on the 'Glory of Jesus Christ'; it was
one of his highest flights. We have great preaching now-a-days
from many quarters.
"Yours ever the same,
"MARY."
The marriage of the Rev. HENRY WARE, Jr. and MARY L. PICKARD took place
at the house of Miss Bent in Boston, on the 11th of June, 1827, Dr.
Gannett uniting and blessing them. They were absent a fortnight,
journeying to New York and Northampton; and then returned to Boston with
the two children, and entered upon their new home in Sheafe Street, at
the North End. And there began a new life,--to Mary wholly new, and
intensely busy. She gave herself up to all its duties, at once and
unreservedly. Of her standard of duty we know something already; and
they who also know the demands of a large parish upon a minister's wife,
who resolves not only to make her house free and pleasant to all who
will enter it, but also to share all of her husband's labors for which
she is competent, can form an idea of what Mary found to do. "Mrs. Ware,
at home and abroad, was the _busiest_ woman of my acquaintance," is the
reason given by one of her female friends for not seeking her society
as much as she desired. It will be remembered that she began with a
family, as well as parish, and that the duty of a "mother" was one which
she held very sacred, and would never slight for any other. But we will
let her tell the story of her first labors, as she does in a letter to
Mrs. Hall, at Northampton, who had had the care of the children, and
another to Mrs. Paine. We ought to say of these, and all the letters to
be offered, that they are not given as recording great events or rare
qualities, but simply for what they are,--expressions of the daily
thought and domestic life of a conscientious woman, in common relations
and quiet duty.
"_Boston, July 20, 1827._
"DEAR HARRIET:--
"You will be glad, I know, to hear from my own pen how we all
prosper, and I sincerely wish I had time enough to tell you all
I wish you to know of my various arrangements and avocations,
hopes and fears, wishes and successes. Of the latter I cannot
boast much; I am, however, much delighted to find that many
things which I expected would perplex me, and take more time
and thought than I should be willing to give them, do not
trouble me in the least degree,--such as household affairs,
eating, drinking, and keeping matters moving methodically. I
did not, to be sure, indulge anxiety about it, as from my utter
ignorance I had some reason to do; but I did not suppose it
possible that such a _young novice_ could be inducted into the
important station of housekeeper without suffering for a time a
degree of martyrdom. But thus far I get on easily, and hope to
learn by experience sufficient to meet future wants. My parish
matters have gone on so far just as I wished. I gave up all
last week to receiving visitors, and they came in just the
manner I wished, morning, noon, or evening, as might be most
convenient to themselves. It was the best way for me, for it
gave me a better opportunity of getting acquainted with their
looks, and they seemed to like it very much themselves. I am at
liberty now, but prefer staying at home, and still have enough
to do to say 'Welcome' to my friends.
"But this is all play-work in comparison with the other duties
that belong to my lot. They are just what I knew they would
be,--most delicate, most difficult, for one so utterly
ignorant; but I see the difficulties, and do not find them
greater than I have always known they would be; am neither
discouraged nor faint-hearted, but hope and trust that power
will yet be granted for all exigencies. I do not find myself as
much discomposed by the task as I expected, considering I have
had so little to do with children. But I do feel the importance
of the relation in which I stand to them more deeply, more
oppressively, than I could have conceived, and I am more than
ever certain that I have a great deal to learn, and a long work
before me. Do let me hear from you sometimes; we may not have
much communication at present, but, as the Quaker said, 'we can
meditate on each other.' I beg you to understand that I
consider myself one whose lot has more than a common share of
blessing, and daily and hourly do I thank God for guiding me to
this pleasant path. I find I shall realize all you promised me
of comfort, and much more too.
"Yours in sincerity.
"M. L. W."
* * * * *
"_Boston, July 22, 1827._
"DEAR NANCY:--
"Your letter was given me this morning in meeting, and has just
been read in one of the few quiet moments which fall to my
lot, and one of the most peaceful and refreshing; and I am
rejoiced to add to its pleasure, by turning to my little table
and writing to you. I have indeed longed to give you a peep
into my almost too delightful _home_; but it has been entirely
beyond possibility to find an opportunity to write. How much I
wish you could look in upon us, and see the whole detail of
affairs from Monday morning to Saturday night, and that still
more delightful season, the holy Sabbath, I need not tell you.
But I fear you will never fully understand it, unless you can
make yourself invisible and come among us....
"We came on in the same stage, next day, and found all in
readiness, perfect readiness, for us; and made so, too, by the
efforts of our friends, which added not a little to the
comfort. The ladies of the parish would not let Miss B---- hire
workwomen, but came and did things with their own hands. All
looked more comfortable and neat and appropriate than I
expected, as I had picked matters up with no small degree of
carelessness. Miss B---- and Mrs. B---- were on the spot to
receive us; and oh! Nancy, to enter _one's own home_, in which
was to be known all of experience which might be hid in the
future,--to come to it, too, as I did, after so long floating
on a changeful sea,--and to come to it under all the
interesting circumstances of grateful joy and fearful
responsibilities,--it was a moment not to be described or
forgotten.
"H---- told you of our Sunday. The transfer to a new place of
worship was trying and affecting; but I forgot the people, and
did not suffer because every eye in the house might be directed
towards me. I need not add, that the excitement in church is
much more than it ever was to me, though not what it will be
when I am more at home there. Sunday gave me truly the rest of
the soul. I arranged that it should be a quiet day. We prepared
dinner on Saturday, and locked up the house; Mr. Ware in his
study after breakfast, and the children with me, reading and
studying. They were easily interested, and, the excitement of
common days being removed, they were more as I wished, and gave
me much pleasure. So it was at noon; and at night they go to
their father, and I have my own hour of peaceful thought. And
then in the evening we are all together, talking or reading or
singing. It is realizing so exactly what I have always wished
to have the day, and what I never before knew, that I enjoy it
doubly. A friend, perhaps, drops in and joins our singing.
"... All classes have come to see me, even the poorest, and
seem quite disposed to be pleased. I have said distinctly that
I wish ours to be entirely a social intercourse, and they take
me at my word. I have not told you of my own private joys, nor
can I in this little space. That they are great, immensely
great, you can believe; and even with the ----. _August 16._
Here I was interrupted more than a fortnight ago, and do not
now remember what was to have been the close of the sentence. I
might add, that I feel it happy for me, that, with all these
blessings and pleasant circumstances, I have so much of
responsibility and anxiety as will effectually prevent my head
being turned by it. But I have not room for further detail.
Yours ever.
"MARY."
The sense of "responsibility" just referred to might be called one of
Mary's characteristics. And it had this peculiarity, if no other, that
she felt it to be a blessing rather than a burden. Indeed, in cases
where others would speak, as almost all do speak, of "the _burden_ of
responsibility," she used the other and brighter word. As, at this time,
she said, in a note to a friend,--"My fate is a singular one in this
respect,--that, whatever may be the variety of the scene, it is always
filled with the extremes of blessing and responsibility; and I know not
that I ever felt more fully the _blessing_ of responsibility than now.
Had I not great and almost overpowering duties and cares, my head would
almost of necessity be dizzy with the bright prospect before me. As it
is, I rejoice with a serious, but most grateful spirit,--a _sober_ bliss
certainly, but not the less valuable." There was one utterance of her
"sober bliss" of which we have not spoken as we might, for it was
habitual with her through life. We refer to her love of singing, and her
use of sacred hymns in the family, which began, as we have seen, with
the first Sabbath in her new home, and, as we are to see, ended only
with life. One who lived with her just before her marriage tells us how
much she indulged and enjoyed in this devotional, but cheerful melody,
for "it seemed in her to be truly singing hymns of _praise_." She would
sing after withdrawing for the night, at the close of the busiest and
most distracting days; and sometimes, "after having actually retired,
she would think of a charming tune, always selecting the most beautiful
words, and joined by Miss K----, they would enjoy an hour in this way."
Distinct are the echoes which linger in many hearts still, from her soft
and expressive voice,--the voice of the soul!
The biographer of Henry Ware says that the year of which we are
speaking, that which followed this second marriage, "was one of the most
active, and also, to all human appearance, one of the most successful,
of his ministry." It was marked by the efficiency of his labors,
increased attention to his preaching, a growing congregation, and many
proofs of favor with the community in general. He repeated, that winter,
and enlarged, his Lectures on the Geography of Palestine; and, beside
his Bible class and vestry service, his house was open to his parish
every Tuesday evening for social intercourse and religious conversation.
In this last, as in other parochial ways, Mrs. Ware was an efficient
helper. Nothing could be more to her taste, or in unison with her best
powers, nothing certainly could contribute more to her deepest joys,
than this whole manner of life. If we may not believe that she was
reserved for this very position, we may confidently say that she could
have filled no other with more ease, more energy, or happier results. We
attempt no enumeration of the relations and offices in which she
endeavored to serve her husband's society, or the larger community.
Boston is not more remarkable for its noble charities, than for the
noble women who find sphere and activity enough in devising or directing
so many of those charities. Mrs. Ware sought no publicity or distinction
in these movements, and was less prominent, perhaps less efficient, than
many others. Comparisons she seldom attempted, and never made them a
rule of conduct. Her rule seems to have been, to refuse no service asked
of her for which she was competent, if it interfered not with any duty
to her family or parish. From the opportunities she had enjoyed and
improved, when abroad, of visiting various charitable institutions, she
was frequently consulted in regard to them, and she sent to England for
plans and hints. She was a directress of a Charity Sewing School; and
always regretted that sewing was not taught in the public schools, and
made essential to a complete education with every class. In all her
views and efforts there was that practical good sense, which is better
than the best theories or brightest abstractions. Yet she did not
despise theory and abstraction, nor suppose that either she or her own
generation had learned all there was to be learned. Indeed, we use no
great boldness in saying, that, without the slightest tendency to
reckless innovation or foolish experiment, there never was man or woman
more interested in reform, or anxious for progress, or fearless for
truth, than Henry and Mary Ware.
Of Mary's ideas of the _reward_ which the benevolent and the good should
desire, an amusing illustration has been given us by one who heard the
remark at the time. A motion being made in a charitable Society for a
"vote of thanks for the minister's prayer," Mrs. Ware said to a lady
near her, "While I was secretary of the Society for the Employment of
Female Poor, I never recorded votes of thanks. I thought members should
do _all they could_, and when that was done, they might make their
courtesy to each other!"
In March, 1828, Mrs. Ware, after the labors and anxieties of the first
winter, made a visit to Mrs. Hall in Northampton, where she wrote her
first letter to her husband, containing expressions whose full import we
cannot know, but whose intimations of self-distrust and increasing sense
of responsibility many will understand.
"_Northampton, March 19, 1828._
"DEAR HENRY:--
"No letter from you yesterday; but I did not expect one,
knowing that Saturday and Sunday are busy days. I feel sure of
one to-day, however, and while waiting its arrival with all the
patience I can summon, I cannot please myself better than by
talking a little to you; and if I am willing to believe that in
this, as in many other matters, our tastes may correspond, pity
my delusion, but do not destroy it,--it is the brightest dream
of life to me.
"I find it is a very different thing to be lone Polly Pickard,
beating about the world, conscious that it could not interfere
with any one's comfort or convenience if she were out of it,
and to call myself Mary Ware, with all the appendages which
belong to her,--the cares and comforts, the duties and
privileges, from which she cannot disconnect herself. It is
almost incredible to me that a short year should have made one
who was before utterly reckless of danger so careful and
cautious,--I had almost said, anxious. And, oh! what a lesson
it has taught me! I thought I was deeply sensible of my danger;
I thought I realized fully the strength of the temptation which
assailed me to rest satisfied with my earthly blessings, and to
depend upon them entirely for my happiness. But this little
separation has shown me the state of my mind in a truer light
than I ever saw it before, and compelled me to confess, with
deep sorrow, that my trial was greater than I could bear. I had
borne sorrow and deprivation, loneliness and calumny, unmoved,
erect, fearless,--but had sunk before the greater trial of
satisfied affection. May this knowledge do me real good! And if
it should please our kind Father to restore us to each other,
let us strive with greater zeal to conquer this enemy. While we
rejoice, as we must, in the blessings of His providence in
calling us together, may we use our comforts without so
abusing them as shall make them instruments of evil instead of
good to our souls.
"Do not think I am nervous or inclined to croak. I am perfectly
well, and while I look at these things seriously, I feel a
cheerful courage to contend manfully, nothing doubting that
strength will be given in aid of all right effort, and that all
these trials, if rightly used, will be so many additional aids
in attaining that heavenly-mindedness which alone can satisfy.
"All blessings attend you, dearest Henry. All send love. Your
own
"MARY."
Expressions of self-distrust and extreme discouragement seem strangely
unintelligible to many minds, when they come from those who are thought
better than others, and are always striving and advancing. Yet these are
the very persons to feel discouraged, because of the high mark they set
for themselves. And the fact that they are thought better than others,
with their keen insight of their own failings, is more apt to mortify
and depress than to exalt the humble and earnest spirit. Never, perhaps,
was Henry Ware doing more for others or himself than in the winter and
spring of the year we are reviewing. Yet in a letter to his wife,
written a few weeks after that which we just gave from her, we find the
expression of a dissatisfaction with himself, even greater than hers. It
was written on his birthday, and shows also his sense of the great
blessing which the last year had brought him. "I never yet was satisfied
with my mode of life for one year,--perhaps I may except one. But since
that I have been growing worse and worse. I did think soberly, that,
when I was settled down with you, I should turn over a new leaf; and I
began; but, by foolish degrees, I have got back to all my accustomed
carelessness and waste of powers, and am doing nothing in proportion to
what I ought to do. Yet other people tell me I do a great deal, and I am
stupid enough to take their judgment instead of my own.... These, dear
Mary, are the morning reflections with which I open my thirty-fifth
year. "Will the year be any better for them? I hope so, but I fear not;
for I do not _feel_ the weight and solemnity of these considerations as
they ought to be felt."
Different, indeed, from the anticipations of either did the opening year
prove. The season which had been the first of Mary's cooperation with
Mr. Ware, was the last of his active service as a pastor. He had
overtasked his energies, and that change was impending which affected
the whole of their remaining work in life. On his return from
Northampton, where he had been preaching, in the month of May, 1828, he
was arrested at Ware by a violent fever, which was followed by extreme
prostration, and confined him there several weeks. His wife was in
Boston, and in a state of health that made travelling neither easy nor
wholly safe. But she wrote so persuasively to the physician for leave to
join her husband, that it could not be refused, and she was soon at his
side. Under date of June 16th, she writes from Ware: "How grateful and
happy I am, to be here! All the few feelings of doubt about the
expediency of the jaunt, which others' fears forced upon my notice,
have vanished, and my own strong convictions that it was best have
become perfect certainty. With the unspeakable satisfaction of being
with my husband, so unexpected to him, and scarcely hoped for by me,
what can there be to dread which can be a balance for such blessings?"
As soon as Mr. Ware was well enough, they went on to Worcester, where
they remained six weeks. And there, on the 13th of July, Mrs. Ware's
first child was born; a son, who lived but few years, yet long enough to
leave a deep impression of beauty and promise. Toward the last of
August, Mr. Ware set out alone on a horseback journey for his health,
riding through New Hampshire and Vermont to Montreal and Quebec, and
returning in October. During the first part of this interval, his wife
and infant child were at lodgings in Newton, where her next letter is
dated, referring in the opening to a poetical epistle which she had
received from her husband. That epistle, as published at length in the
Memoir of Mr. Ware,[3] many will remember; but its tenderness, and its
allusions to their common experience at this period, will furnish an
excuse, if we insert a part of it, as a preface to the letter which
follows.
"Dear Mary, 't is the fourteenth day
Since I was parted from your side;
And still upon my lengthening way
In solitude I ride;
But not a word has come to tell
If those I left at home are well.
"I am not of an anxious mind,
Nor prone to cherish useless fear;
Yet oft methinks the very wind
Is whispering in my ear,
That many an evil may take place
Within a fortnight's narrow space.
"But no,--a happier thought is mine;
The absent, like the present scene,
Is guided by a Friend Divine,
Who bids us wait, serene,
The issues of that gracious will,
Which mingles good with every ill.
"And who should feel this tranquil trust
In that Benignant One above--
Who ne'er forgets that we are dust,
And rules with pitying love--
Like us, who both have just been led
Back from the confines of the dead?
"Then, dearest, present or apart,
An equal calmness let us wear;
Let steadfast Faith control the heart,
And still its throbs of care.
We may not lean on things of dust,--
But Heaven is worthy all our trust."
[Footnote 3: Memoir of Henry Ware, p. 220.]
* * * * *
"_Newton, September 13, 1828._
"Thank you, dearest, for the pleasure your good long letters
have given me; and if I am the more pleased that you called
your Muse to aid you in my behalf, I hope it is one of the
pardonable weaknesses of womankind, and trust your vanity will
not take the alarm lest I should undervalue your own unassisted
powers of pleasing. It is indeed a great and unceasing source
of delight to me, that, although separated externally in our
way, our thoughts, our spirits, are pursuing the same course,
and we may meet in meditation and prayer, sure that the same
feelings of gratitude and trust are ever present to us both. I
thought much of this, last Sunday, when I made my first attempt
to attend public worship. I had felt a great desire to go to
meeting upon that day, being the eighth week from the birth of
my child; and, moreover, because the first Sunday in September
has been a memorable day to me every year since 1813. I did not
attempt it in the morning, but in the afternoon rode over to
hear Mr. Wallcut at the Upper Falls. I had felt well and strong
at home, but it was quite too much for me; my mind was too weak
to bear it quietly. The reflection upon all that had passed
since I last entered the house of God, which was forced upon me
at one view, was indeed overwhelming. I could scarcely control
myself sufficiently to join in the services. I longed to put
every one out of the house, that I might prostrate myself
bodily, and I did mentally, before that Being whose goodness
had brought me to that hour. I did indeed think much of _you_;
and there was a high and holy satisfaction in the idea that you
were at the same time employed in the same way; and although
all was uncertainty with regard to you, I doubted not, that,
whether on earth or in heaven, I might safely rely upon this.
How did I rejoice in that faith which could remove from me all
anxiety and fear concerning you, which could enable me so
calmly to suffer you to go from me for such a length of time,
notwithstanding the very many uncertainties which must belong
to your situation. I sometimes wonder at the peace which
pervades my mind, but I know I have a right to feel it; it has
its basis upon an immovable foundation. Mr. Wallcut gave us a
very useful, solemn discourse, and I was strengthened by the
service, and not injured by the excitement.
"Heaven bless you! Your own
"MARY."
In September, Mrs. Ware returned to their own house in Boston,--that
house in which she had been so happy, and to which she hoped soon to
welcome her husband back again, in restored health. She writes at once.
"_Sheafe Street, September 26, 1828._
"Here we are, dear Henry, as comfortable as you could wish, in
our own dear house, more grateful and happy than I could easily
describe, every thing looking just as if we had not been away.
Never did the place look more comfortable,--I had almost said,
beautiful;--I will say so, for there were so many delightful
associations with it that it possessed a moral beauty, if I may
say so, exceeding any other it _could_ have had. I feel finely,
and am sure I am as able to do all that is necessary as I ever
was. It is not necessary just now that I should make any
violent efforts; there is no call for it. Elizabeth is with me,
as happy as a child can be; and the 'young rogue' likes his
home so well that he has turned over a new leaf at once, and I
believe means to behave well. All we want now is your presence,
and that I trust we shall have in the right time. O, how
willing does all this experience make one to leave all things
in His hands, who has brought us through such troubled waters
so safely, so joyfully! I have gained since Sunday; at least, I
have none of the confused feeling I then had, which made me
fear my head was too light for Boston. It is getting _home_, I
believe; home and its peacefulness are the best restoratives. I
trust you will find it so. I shall walk a little every day, and
call first on those in affliction and the sick; there are but
few, astonishingly few, for the time; none that you have not
heard of, I believe. Peace be with you, dearest! Your
"MARY."
Mr. Ware did return to Sheafe Street in October, but not to remain. His
health was not restored; he could not resume his pastoral duties, and he
was not willing to remain in Boston and among his people unemployed. A
friend's house in Brookline was kindly offered them, and early in
November they took leave--as it proved, a final leave--of their parish,
and of that house where they had passed but a single year, yet one of
the happiest of their lives. In the mind and memory of both of them,
that abode seems to have been invested with peculiar interest. They have
been heard to speak of the "Eden of Sheafe Street." Their children
always revert to it with a tender fondness; and, beside theirs, there
are many eyes that fill with tears even now, as they look back upon the
happy hours and blessed influences enjoyed there, in their pastor's
home. And she who helped to make that home what it was to pastor and
people, loved to the last to live over again that precious season,
though to her crowded with peculiar cares and trembling
responsibilities.
They remained in Brookline that winter. In the spring of 1829, Mr. Ware
virtually resigned his pastoral charge, and a colleague pastor was
chosen, while a new professorship was planned for him in the Divinity
School at Cambridge. At the same time, he was urged by generous friends,
who offered the means, to go first with his wife to Europe, for entire
rest and the recovery of his health. This unexpected opportunity he felt
it right to use. And his wife, who was herself not well, thus speaks of
it to Mrs. Paine, in a letter of several dates:--
"_Brookline, December 31, 1828._
"MY DEAR, KIND FRIEND:--
"I have been for a long time prohibited from using my eyes, or
should ere this have despatched to you the epistle which for
many a weary week has been prepared in my brain for you; and
now being still under the same interdict, I can only venture to
remind you that there is still in existence the same old
friend, who has been wont upon this eve to pour forth to you a
copious stream of egotism, who never longed for the time to
come when she might do so, more than at this present; but who,
for the trial of her patience, must lay aside her pen, and,
wishing you every blessing, wait until she is at liberty to use
her eyes to say more.
"_January 23._ Although still unable to use my eyes without
suffering, I am strongly tempted, by an empty house and an
unoccupied hour, to renew, in some small measure, the
intercourse which has so long ceased between us, and cannot
help seating myself, pen in hand, to give you a few moments. I
have----
"_March 30._ I was interrupted by company at the above pauses;
and since then, dear N----, what a revolution in the state of
things around me! It seems like a dream that I am again on the
eve of departure for Europe. It is indeed a dream from which I
should like to awake; and yet I am so sure that it is right to
do just what we are doing, that the spirit faints not, nor even
falters. I do not, indeed, dare to think, but have busied
myself in visiting my parish, and do not fear but that power
will be given. Yet, dear N----, what a lot is mine! Surely I
ought to be better for all this various blessing.
"Ever yours.
"M. L. W."
In closing the first and only year of Mary Ware's "parish life," we
remember that it was also the first year of her married life, and an
immediate entrance upon the office of a mother. To her views of this
office we have already referred, but have feared to say all we know to
be true of her discharge of its duties. There is a veil which we may not
raise, a sanctuary which none can enter. Yet it is due to her and to her
children,--it is due to the greatness of a trust whose difficulties all
see, but few estimate kindly,--to speak of the glowing filial love, the
reverent and grateful obligation, expressed by those who were permitted
to call her "mother," and whose sense of indebtedness grows with their
days. By the exercise of a sound discretion in exigencies unavoidable
and seldom allowed for,--by freedom of intercourse through the day, and
prayer and blessing at night,--by a tenderness that made counsel always
kind and discipline never disheartening,--in a word, by a yearning
affection which has caused a start and regret at any allusion to her not
being "their own mother," she took possession of their hearts for life;
and her death called forth, in the simple words of one, the unutterable
sentiment of both,--"Surely God never gave a boy such a mother, or a man
such a friend."