Mr. Ware's connection with his parish in Boston had been continued, at
the earnest request of the people, in the hope, that, if he removed to
Cambridge, he might still retain the pastoral office, and perform such
of the duties as should be perfectly easy. A connection which had
existed thirteen years, in perfect harmony and mutual attachment, could
not be sundered without mutual pain. To no man living did permanence in
the pastoral office seem more desirable or more important than to Henry
Ware; and the time had not then quite come when pastor and people could
separate in a day, with or without cause. Nor could Mrs. Ware be
indifferent to such a change. It was the extinguishment of many hopes
which she had fondly cherished, in becoming the wife of one whose
earliest choice and highest ambition had been for the ministry and a
parish life,--a life which had attractions hardly less strong for
herself. But now they had no choice. Whatever the sacrifice required,
neither of them was willing to remain in an office, whose duties they
could not perform with vigor and entire devotion. A dissolution of the
connection was therefore asked, immediately after their return from
Europe. And the society, in yielding to the obvious duty of granting the
request, expressed earnestly their sense of obligation and gratitude,
not only to their pastor, but also to her who had been his co-laborer in
their service. In their final letter, they say: "We should do injustice
to our feelings if we failed, on this occasion, to make mention of her
also, who has laid us under such obligations by her devotedness to you
when we looked upon you as belonging to ourselves, and who, though not
long with us, had already taught us how highly to value and how deeply
to regret her."
In October, 1830, Mr. and Mrs. Ware took up their abode in Cambridge;
where he entered at once, in improved, but still feeble health, upon the
duties of the new Professorship of "Pulpit Eloquence and Pastoral Care."
And except the place which they had been compelled to resign, for which
they both retained, we think, as long as they lived, a strong preference
and lingering desire, no situation could have been found more acceptable
than this at Cambridge. A post of great responsibility, calling for all
the strength and labor that any could bestow, it was yet a position of
peculiar privilege and opportunity, in the midst of family connections,
near to all their friends, and having close relations to the ministry
which they so loved. In many ways, too, would these relations afford to
Mrs. Ware herself facilities for action, and the exercise of her
peculiar powers and affections.
Yet there were two great anxieties which Mrs. Ware brought to this new
situation; one, relating to the health of her husband; the other, to
their straitened pecuniary means. The first of these was known, and
could be understood by all. The last will never be understood, except by
those similarly situated, and as high-minded, generous, and desirous of
usefulness. We speak of this as a general truth. There is more mental
suffering, more physical feebleness, and greater loss to the community
in regard to the energy and activity of those who would serve it,
resulting from this one cause, than perhaps from any other. We say it in
no temper of complaint, much less of censure; for we know not where the
fault lies, if there be any. But we do know the fact, and there can be
few who have not seen it in some of every calling,--that the necessity
of incessant thoughtfulness and extreme carefulness for the things of
this world, with the dread of debt or dependence of any kind, in the
midst, too, of sickness and the utmost uncertainty, is a weight upon the
heart, and an obstacle to the energies, such as no faith, or fortitude,
or philosophy can wholly overcome; no, nor even the experience, as in
this instance, of ceaseless kindness, and a liberality ready to do all
that delicacy would permit. The fact remains,--better known than
explained, and inseparable, it may be, from the constitution of society,
possibly from the nature of man,--aggravated, as the trial often is, by
the infirmity and helplessness which God himself appoints.
The beginning of their life in Cambridge was made memorable by one of
the longest and most serious sicknesses that Mrs. Ware had ever known.
We have already referred to it, as probably caused by the uncommon
demands of their journey abroad and the voyage home. We did not refer,
in its place, to a severe illness which she had in Geneva, of which she
gives an account in a note some years later, and speaks of it as very
serious. Many causes thus conspired to predispose her to this attack,
which, for the first time in her life, so far as we know, was of a
pulmonary character, and shut her up for the whole winter,--a severe
trial, where so much was waiting to be done, and after so long a period
of absence from home and active duty. There was greater prostration, and
more imminent peril, than all were aware of, and more, we suppose, than
ever before. Her sickness must have begun almost immediately after they
went to Cambridge; for in the same month Mr. Ware writes to Rev. Mr.
Allen of Northborough, as if he had for some time been very anxious, and
was then only beginning to hope. "I am happy to be able to say, that
Mary does seem to be doing better,--the first day that I have thought
so. Her disorder has had transient intermissions, but never before
seemed to yield. I think now she has fairly begun to mend. But she is
wretchedly weak, and a little talking makes her hoarse. We have kept her
as quiet as possible, and forbidden all visitors; yet she has not been
as quiet as most persons, because she does not know how to take thought
for herself, and continues her interest for all about her. She has
suffered a great deal of severe pain, and her cough has been kept from
distressing her only by opiates. You rightly guess how great a
disappointment of our hopes this has been. I have not been without very
serious apprehensions as to the result; and you may judge what must be
felt, when we are apprehensive for one so perfectly invaluable as she.
You know her in part, but one must know her intimately as I do, to
understand half her worth." And, again, as late as November, Mr. Ware
writes to Miss Forbes that Mary is not yet able to bear any visitor, not
even one as intimate as she, whose society and sympathy they so much
desired. And he adds, in concluding his letter to that excellent friend,
"Emma," whom they had not seen since their return from Europe: "Since we
met, we have all seen changes and trials, and are at least more
experienced in the discipline of Providence. I esteem myself quite well;
and if my cup were not dashed with the bitterness of Mary's ill health,
I should have more sources of happiness than I could perhaps bear
rightly."
In a few weeks, Miss F---- went to Mrs. Ware, and devoted herself
entirely to the care of her for two months or more. The communion of
these congenial minds was very beautiful, and will help at various
points to illustrate the character of Mary. Their intimacy began early,
and was never interrupted. How true they were to each other, how
socially and spiritually confiding, how much they mutually imparted and
received, through life and in death, can be known only to those who know
all; for both their natures, even in their present exaltation, might
shrink from the disclosure of some of the evidences of their tender and
generous love. Their intercourse at this time, softened by the sickness
from which Mary was very slowly rising, and which, we have seen,
awakened many apprehensions, must have been peculiarly grateful. It was
a season of precious experience to Mrs. Ware, as will be seen in the
first letter she wrote,--her faithful annual to the friend in Worcester.
"_Cambridge, December 31, 1830._
"Another year has passed away, dearest Nancy, since I last
spread before me a fair white page, on which to tell you that I
was still in existence; and instead of 'St. Agatha' and the
disagreeables belonging to it, behold me in my own blessed
home, scribbling at the same old desk. A change, indeed, and
what a change, for one short year! You know it all, and I need
not, if I could, recount the various causes for deep, fervent
gratitude which rise to my memory in the retrospect. You can
understand, without explanation, why it is that the thought of
them so entirely overwhelms me that I cannot touch upon them
with sufficient calmness even to write about them. I shall be
less tired to-morrow morning, and will resume; but I could not
let this eve, so long sacred to _you_, pass without marking it.
Farewell, then, for this time.
* * * * *
"_January 16._ I have suffered a longer period to pass away
without continuing this than I intended. I know not how it is,
but I find that year after year passes off, and still the same
errors are to be mourned over; and for one I begin to fear that
the habit of procrastination will adhere to me through life. I
was weak, and my nerves so excitable, when I began this, that I
could not even recur in thought to the events of the past year,
and retain decent composure. But the impression of their review
has not passed away, and I trust never will; and I feel that it
would do my heart good to go over the ground with you (were
you only by my side), not of their external character, that you
know already, but of the effect of such discipline upon the
mind. Constant exposure to the weather hardens the skin, and
the habit of living under circumstances of trial deadens one's
sensibilities; and I could not now, if I would, be as strongly
affected by them as I used to be during my novitiate. Still, I
have not quite ceased to feel, and consequently to suffer and
to enjoy; and I trust that the joys and sorrows of the past
year have not been experienced without some beneficial result.
"I have long thought one of the greatest blessings of my life
to be that singular preparation which each event has given me
for that which was to succeed it; and I never realized this so
fully as during my late wanderings. Habit had given me the
power of sustaining easily and cheerfully circumstances which,
to one less experienced, would have brought labor and sorrow;
thus enabling me to pursue the one great object for which we
were striving, unclogged (if I may so say) by any
considerations for self, and thus lessening my trials, not only
to myself, but to those around me. Now that all is over, I am
conscious that the mental as well as the physical effort has
been great; and I consider this 'lying by' as advantageous to
my mind as to my body. I was beginning wrong, had for some time
felt that trifles were a burden to me; and although by the
application of strong stimulants, such as the joy of getting
home, I could keep alive my courage to act, I am persuaded that
it was something of the excitement which frequently precedes
entire failure, rather than any substantial good. In the
delightful quiet of my own snug chamber, I have had time to
look a little more into myself than I have been able to do for
a long, long time. The outward exigencies of the moment had so
long occupied every faculty, that it was not singular that I
had become almost a stranger to that void within, which is to
be known only in the 'secret silence' of tranquil thought. I
have felt grateful for this repose; and, so far from pitying me
for having been arrested in the pursuit of my domestic duties,
just as I was so happily restored to them, my friends would
rejoice for me, if they knew how much I needed, and how much I
have enjoyed, this rest. Don't think me quite insensible to the
trouble it has caused my friends, or the loss it has been to my
husband's comfort. I am not; but neither am I sure that in the
end both will not be gainers by it. I have not been very
sick,--not so sick as to require a suspension of any of the
daily operations of the household in my behalf. I could always
have my children about me, and except now and then could do
very well without any aid out of my family. I needed rest and
quiet more than any thing; and that did not interfere with
others' pursuits. Emma has been with me six weeks; and enacted
Mrs. Gerry, Queen's jester, Cerberus, and a 'thorn in the
flesh,' as she styles herself, with the perfection that belongs
to such an actress. She has been a real comfort and delight to
us both; for she has the faculty of _fitting in_ so exactly to
the circumstances of the case, that she does more good than she
intends to do, good as her intentions are.
But Emma says, 'Hold! enough!' I forget which of her characters
she appears under now; but I'll punish her by making her fill
this page with the bulletin of health of every man, woman, and
child belonging to the establishment, which I was just going to
give you myself.
"MARY."
In February, we find Mrs. Ware still a prisoner in that chamber of
sickness; though not exactly a prisoner, for we have heard her speak of
the reluctance with which she left that long confinement, to return to
the glare and tumult of the world. And from the manner in which she
wrote to Emma, soon after she had left her, it would seem that she had
not expected to return at all. Indeed, some of her language indicates a
serious apprehension on her part, of which few were aware. In refusing
to let Emma come again merely to read to her, as she had proposed, Mary
says: "I allow that it would be an especial comfort to be read to sleep
sometimes, when my opium-fed imagination is conjuring up fancies that
mar my rest for that night; and it would be a great pleasure to have my
thoughts a little more diverted from self than I can divert them
unaided. If my disease were rapidly gaining ground, the case would be
altered. I know too well the luxury of having done 'the last' for a
friend, to debar any one from it. But although I am aware that there are
many _probabilities_ in favor of the idea that the disease never will be
overcome, I see no reason to nourish the feeling which a state of
uncertainty cannot but create. It may be that my days are to be few. And
if the 'wearin' awa of snow-wreaths in the thaw' is to be the signal of
like decay in myself, I shall surely need you more than now. At all
events, the spring must be a season of lassitude and bodily trial to me;
and if you will give me the promised visit then, you will have no reason
to be dissatisfied with the degree of good you will do me." Two months
later than this, Mrs. Ware wrote to the same friend, more at length.
"_Cambridge, April 20, 1831._
"DEAR EMMA:--
"I have watched you from my working-chair 'out of sight,' as
some of my Dublin friends would say; and now I have taken my
desk into my lap for sundry purposes, but the first that
suggests itself is, to commence an _omnium gatherum_ for you. I
shall want to say five hundred things at least every day for a
month to come; and I don't know why I should not indulge you
with one of the five hundred daily. What time so good to
commence, as that in which my heart is full of twice that
number of feelings of gratitude and love towards you? But no,
this is not a good time either, for they come rushing forward
with such a spirit of rivalry, each wishing to be represented
first, that they blind my eyes and make my pen tremble; so I
will teach them what a good disciplinarian I am, and make them
all keep silence until they have learned better manners.
"To-day I am as weak as possible, but free from pain. The truth
is, that I am feeling, just as I told you I should, the trial
of weakness much more, now that I can move about, than when I
was shut up. When I knew it was my part to give up trying to do
any thing, and turn my mind to the improvement which belonged
to such a state of things, I had not a wish to step over my
threshold, or an anxious thought about any thing beyond it. It
would be time enough when I could go among people and things, I
thought, and I would enjoy the luxury of idleness to the full.
I did; but now the case is changing. I am able to use my bodily
powers, and feel that I ought to exert my mental energies also;
but my strength fails me, mental and bodily, and this brings to
me a feeling of discouragement and dissatisfaction with myself,
that I find it hard to struggle against as I ought. In fact, it
carries me back to old Mary Pickard's spring feelings of
nothingness, which I fight with in vain. I fear that I have
been so long indulged in idleness, that I have lost my energy
of mind, or become selfish, and a thousand other wrong things
which do sometimes creep upon one without leave. You will tell
me this is merely the effect, the inevitable effect, of
weakness, as my husband does. I hope it is, and that I shall
rise in time to my wished-for energy.
"I was glad to find you had made so good a beginning of your
summer life. It is delightful to me to be able to think of you
enjoying so much, and doing so much, as I am sure you will. I
think it was very well to strike into the plan at once. May I
ask you, too, to take one half-hour daily, with your door
locked, for some little sentence and the thoughts which will
grow out of it, for the cultivation of that internal treasure
which you value so much, and in which you wish to feel more
vital, exciting interest? I know by my own experience that we
lose much of what we long to keep, by an unacknowledged but
constantly operating contempt for small means, hourly
attentions to the details of spiritual discipline. Having
calmly, thoroughly, may I add, prayerfully, viewed one
Christian virtue in the day, are we not almost secure of acting
in conformity to that one, for at least twenty-four hours? And
if every day we thus gain one victory, shall we not have reason
to hope we may in time be wholly conquerors? But more of this
in _our_ pretty book, which will contain preaching enough for
my share of your ear upon such matters.
"All send love, with that of your
"M. L. WARE."
In the spring, Mrs. Ware recovered, as to all apparent disease; but she
continued feeble through the summer, and suffered much from her sense
of inefficiency, in body and mind,--"literally unable," as she says,
"to write a letter." Nor do we find any letters before October, when she
wrote in full her own impressions of this important portion of her
experience, with an account of its termination in the alarming illness
of her husband, to whom she was summoned at a distance. His health had
been constantly improving through the winter, and he had performed all
the duties of his office, except preaching, which he had ventured upon
but once for nearly three years, and then only on account of the death
of Mrs. Emerson, the wife of his colleague and successor in Boston. In
the summer vacation of the present year, 1831, Mr. Ware made a
pedestrian tour, with a friend, to the White Hills; and, feeling strong
enough, engaged to preach on his return at Concord, N. H. But before he
could reach that place, he was prostrated with fever, and became
severely, and he himself believed fatally ill. Under this full
conviction, he made a great effort to write a few last words to his
wife; and did write a note, which we wish we were at liberty to use, so
moving as it is in itself and its circumstances, so characteristic of
him who wrote it, and so touching and beautiful a tribute to her whom he
loved, and whom he thought to see no more on earth.
It need not be told that Mrs. Ware went to her husband as soon as she
knew of his sickness, though she had not entirely regained her own
strength. He had been removed to Concord, where she joined him, and
stayed till they could come home together. She seems not to have been
surprised by this summons; it being one of her principles, and a fixed
habit, to anticipate all probable, even possible events, as far as she
could, and make them familiar to her thoughts; not to sadden or weaken,
but to strengthen and prepare her mind for the duties and emergencies to
which she might be called. If the events did not occur, nothing was
lost. If they came, the shock was less, and there was greater
preparation and fortitude to encounter it. This is not the common
course, and will not commend itself to all. Not all would be capable of
it; and it may not be necessary or desirable for all. The common habit
is the very opposite, and the counsel usually given, from the pulpit and
in private, is to anticipate nothing,--least of all, to anticipate evil;
or, as the phrase is, never to "borrow trouble." This is not the place
to discuss the subject. We wish only to record our vivid impression of
the delight and instruction with which we have listened to that
unpretending woman, as she argued the matter with those who differed
with her; not asking them to do as she did, or assuming the smallest
merit for the habit, but only showing them how completely the uniform
experience of a life of trial had satisfied her that this course was
best for _her_. And all who have seen her in trial and sickness will
testify to the reality and power of this persuasion.
The account, to which we have already adverted, of their experiences
during this first year at Cambridge, through her own illness and that of
her husband, is contained in a letter written on the evening of the
first Sabbath that Mr. Ware was able to preach in the College Chapel,
when she also was able to hear him.
"_Cambridge, October 2, 1831._
"MY DEAR NANCY:--
"Were you ever so weak as to omit doing a thing which you
strongly desired to do, entirely because you knew you could not
do it thoroughly to your own satisfaction? If you have been,
you can better understand than I can describe the many foolish
feelings which have, from time to time, and a hundred times,
made me throw down my pen and say to myself, 'I cannot write to
her now; I have not time to say half I wish to say, or she to
hear.' It is just so now; I knew all the time it was wrong to
do so, and now I am determined to turn over a new leaf with
myself, at the commencement of this new year of my life; and as
your spirit has haunted my conscience more than any other, I
begin by laying it with the spell of my fairy pen. But where
shall I begin? I cannot remember where I left off, or rather do
not know what you have heard from others since I left you a
year ago.
"Of my winter's sickness I cannot write; it contained a long
life of enjoyment, and what I hoped would prove profitable
thought and reflection. I came out of my nest almost
reluctantly, for I had a dread of the absorbing power of
worldly cares and interests; and for a long time my head
remained so weak that I suffered from the necessity of giving
my whole mind to the trifling occupations of daily life in
order to perform them with tolerable decency. This has been a
bane to my comfort throughout the summer; and although I have
had Harriet Hall and Mary Ware, and many of those I rejoiced to
see, again around me, I have not profited much by the
privilege, my mind having all its capacity more than employed
by the care of our bodies. This was very humiliating for one to
whom all the outward cares of life have been mere play-work;
but I could contrive to keep externally quiet, and not appear
fidgety; so I try to think this was conquest enough for me in
my then state of weakness. The heat prostrated me very much. I
began to fear I should never be able to do any two things at
once again. But since my family has returned to its usual size,
and the cool days of autumn have sent their invigorating
influences to my bodily powers, my mind improves 'a little, not
much' (as my Rob says fifty times a day). Literally, I could
not write a letter through the whole summer; and now the task
is so novel a one, that I cannot expect to be coherent, this
being my first.
"In this state of things, my husband left me for a walk to the
White Hills. I felt sure that, if pursued with due discretion,
it would do him good. He was pretty well, but wanted something
to give him a spring before beginning to preach. I had not the
least objection to his going, but having watched him so long,
so incessantly, I felt very much as a mother does the first
night she weans her infant from her. In pursuance of my
long-established habit, I set myself the task of preparing for
any accident which might befall him, and I believe looked at
all the possibilities of the case; so that when the summons
actually came for me to attend him at Concord, where he was ill
of a fever, it did not take me by surprise. I was, as it were,
prepared for it, and could receive it calmly and act coolly. In
two hours I was on my way to him, confident in my own strength,
for no care of him present could be the weight on my mind which
the thought of him absent had been; and the bodily exertion was
not as great as I had been for some time making, having been
nearly all summer without my _quantum_ of help. I found him
very sick, but surrounded by kindness. He soon began to mend,
and we jogged homewards. Harriet had been with me, so that I
could leave my children without any anxiety; and the journey,
and the happiness which accompanied it, did me good. I have
been gaining ever since, and Mr. Ware too. I am now so well,
that I can walk an hour before breakfast, and into Boston with
ease; and to-day I have had the unspeakable joy of hearing my
husband perform all the services of the pulpit. This is a point
that I have so often thought of as the one blessing which I
dared not hope for, and have believed that, if it could be
granted, I should have nothing more to ask for, that I hardly
know how I feel, now that it is actually granted. One thing
more, however, I must ask,--that I may be truly grateful for
it.
"Yours as ever.
"M. L. W."
Happy was it for Mrs. Ware if she _could_ be always prepared for change
and trial. For while her life was a favored one, and so regarded by her,
few enjoying more in any condition, she was equally alive to all
suffering, and seldom knew a long exemption. So far, however, she had
been spared all trial in regard to her children. Not that they had been
free from sickness, or had caused no solicitude, for there had been much
of both; but their lives had been continued, and at this time she was
rejoicing in their health. Three of them she had just taken to Milton,
to enjoy a week with them at Brush Hill, where she had spent so much of
her early life, but where she had not been at all since her children
were born. Pleasantly does she contrast her present with her former
enjoyment there. Writing to her husband from this place, she says:--"I
am enjoying myself much, but find I was quite mistaken in thinking I
could turn into Mary Pickard again by the power of association. I do
very well under that character through the day, but with nightfall the
remembrance of _home_ comes over me; the idea of the husband and child I
have left there, and the three chickens who are asleep up stairs, rises
before my mind's eye, as so many more blessings than poor Polly could
boast, that I resign my pretensions with a very grateful heart. I am
sorry, dear Henry, that you could not be a little longer with me here,
(among other very disinterested reasons,) that I might read you sundry
chapters in the life of that interesting personage just named,--chapters
which are written about upon these trees and stone walls, and which no
other place could recall. It is very delightful for me to live over
those days again, and I am sure my mind will be refreshed by this visit,
if my body is not. As to this latter concern, it does as well as I could
expect."
This visit was made just before her summons to Mr. Ware's bedside at
Concord. After their return to Cambridge, they took possession of a new
house just built for them; and one of the first events that occurred in
that house was the _death_ of Mrs. Ware's first-born, Robert, then three
and a half years of age. It was a sore trial, and well do we remember
the spirit in which it was met; for it was our privilege to be staying
with them at the time, and to be present at the parting. The little
sufferer had endeared himself to us all by his patience and sweetness of
disposition. Separated from his parents in early infancy, and remaining
apart until he was two years old, they had taken him back, when they
returned, as a fresh gift from God; and though another had been granted
them, there was a peculiar feeling connected with _him_, which every
parent will understand. Movingly now does the scene return to us, of the
mother sitting silently and reverently at the side of her expiring boy;
and when the gentle breathing wholly ceased, asking--still silently--the
husband and father, who knelt by her, to _pray_. Faintly, tremulously,
more and more distinctly, and then most fervently, did that voice of
submission and supplication fall upon our ears, and fill our eyes, and
lift the heart into a region which death never enters! As the voice
ceased, the mother fainted; but soon she rose, stronger rather than
weaker, and ready for every duty. In referring to this bereavement
afterward, she says, in the thought of her husband's constant danger:
"Having had so long the greatest possible trial hanging over my head,
every thing else seems comparatively easy to bear; and I sometimes
doubt, whether any thing but that _one_ will ever wean me from the
world, as I think a Christian should be." How much she felt, and how
much she trusted, may be seen in her first letter after this trial.
"_Cambridge, December 31, 1831._
"MY DEAR FRIEND:--
"Again does this anniversary find us inhabitants of this world,
and again, as usual, does it present in my lot something of
solemn and interesting import, upon which we may dwell with
profit for a time. It is a privileged hour, and I shall use it
as I have been wont to do, in the full indulgence of selfish
egotism, trusting that some good may result to us both from
it. What does the retrospect of the year present to me? My
husband and myself have been again raised from the bed of
sickness and threatened death, and I have been called upon to
restore to Him who gave one of the dearest treasures which His
providence had bestowed upon me. These are great events for one
short year, designed to produce great effects, involving great
responsibility, bestowing great privileges. My own sickness
brought with it many pleasures, many pure and elevating views
and feelings; and although it did not bring me to that cheerful
willingness to resign my life after which I strove and hoped to
attain, it thereby threw light upon the weakness of my
religious character, calculated to subdue presumptuous
self-dependence, and teach a lesson of humility which may
perhaps be of more importance and advantage to my growth in
holiness. My husband's danger renewed the so oft repeated
testimony that strength is ever at hand for those who need it,
gave me another exercise of trust in that mighty arm which can
save to the uttermost, and in its result is a new cause for
gratitude to Him who has so abundantly blessed me all the days
of my life.
"And now has come this new trial of my faith, this new test of
its reality, that there may be no hiding-place left for me, no
light wanting by which to search into the hidden recesses of
the spirit to 'see if there be any wicked way in it.' And
whatever may be the result of this strict scrutiny, am I not to
be thankful for it? Am I not to feel that it is indeed the
kindest love that subjects me to it? We feel it a privilege
that a child should have earthly parents to guide, counsel, and
correct it; and shall we not be grateful to that Heavenly
Parent who does the same in a far better manner? I would thank
God that he has by his past dispensations taught me the duty
and happiness of submission, so that I can bow to the rod, and
desire only to see how its chastisement is to be used and
improved. I have always looked upon the death of children
rather as a subject for joy than sorrow, and have been
perplexed at seeing so many, who would bear what seemed to me
much harder trials with firmness, so completely overwhelmed by
this, as is frequently the case. But I know that upon any point
in which we have had no personal experience we cannot form a
correct judgment, and therefore I have never had any definite
anticipations of its effect upon myself. I am thankful to find
that the general views upon which my former opinions have been
founded are not obscured by the flood of new emotions which
actual experience brings. I can resign my child into the hands
of its Maker, with as strong a belief as I ever had, that it is
a blessing to itself to be removed, 'untasked, untried,' from a
world in which the result of labor and trial is so doubtful. It
is a blessing to be taken from the care of ignorant, powerless
human teachers, to the guidance of higher and holier and
perfect instructors; so that its pure spirit will not now be
sullied by the pollutions of this degraded world, but go on
from glory to glory until it has attained the full measure of
the stature of a child of God.
"You know too well what are the hopes and enjoyments belonging
to the relation of parent and child, to require to be told how
hard it is to lay them all aside; and there was something in
the peculiar circumstances of the birth and life of this child,
which could not but give a peculiar character to our connection
with him. And so he has passed from us; but what a comfort to
know that we have not lost him! We had a visit from Dr.
Channing yesterday, in which he spoke so gloriously of the
honor of having given a child to heaven, as to elevate me far
above common considerations. But enough; think of us still as
happy.
"M. L. WARE."
One of the traits of Mrs. Ware's character--not named for its
singularity or distinction, but simply as a fact, noticed by all who
knew her--was the amount of time and strength which she devoted to her
children. With all the sicknesses, which from this period came almost
constantly either to her or her husband, and which are apt to make such
sad inroads upon our quiet and faithful intercourse with our
children,--amid all her domestic cares, of which she took as large a
share, in every department, as perhaps any woman ever did in a similar
position, feeling and seeing, all the time, the painful need of a rigid
economy, in the midst of never-ceasing and never-limited
hospitality,--her thoughtfulness and care for each child, in regard to
the body, the mind, and the soul, seemed literally uninterrupted. And
this care of her children reached them in their absence as well as their
presence. In the summer after Robert's death, the oldest son, John, was
placed at school in Framingham, where he remained several years; and
seldom did he fail to receive, not only faithful letters, but a journal
of daily doings, from his mother's pen, though she long remained feeble,
and was now the mother of another infant, which she was compelled to put
out to nurse. Another term of severe illness ensued, causing a lameness
of long duration. But as soon as possible, indeed all along, she was
doing something for the absent son.
"When you left home, my dear John," she writes in July, 1832, "I thought
I should soon be well enough to write you, and intended to keep a
journal for you of what went on amongst us, to be sent to you every
fortnight; but now you have been gone two months, and I have not been
able to write to you once, so little can we calculate upon the future. I
have been obliged to keep my bed a great part of the time, and am not
yet able to walk across the room without much pain. I have not been down
stairs, excepting twice, when I was carried in arms to the front door,
and rode about ten minutes, which hurt me so much that I shall not try
it again very soon. I tell you all this, that you may understand how
impossible it has been for me to fulfil my promise to you. I have
thought much of you, and rejoiced to hear so often from you that you
were happy and improving. When I have felt that I should never get well,
and perhaps never see you again in this world, I have been very anxious
about you, and have prayed most fervently that God would guide you in
the right path, and hoped that you would live to be a comfort to your
father when I was gone....
"This is a busy week with us; yesterday being Exhibition, to-day
Valedictory, to-morrow the Theological Exhibition in the morning and a
public meeting of the Philanthropic Society in the afternoon. We shall
have an open house, and hope to have as many friends with us as we had
last year." An open house, filled with friends, all welcomed and in some
way entertained by the lady of the house, who is not able to walk across
the room without pain! We doubt not there are hundreds of such cases,
some it may be, more trying and more remarkable; but it does not alter
the fact, nor make it less worthy of notice in a woman who did all that
Mrs. Ware did.
It was a feature of Mrs. Ware's domestic character, that the throng of
cares and conflict of duties seldom _worried_ her. Many are they who are
as diligent and faithful, but yet live in a perpetual hurry and fret.
She knew the danger, and brought all her power and principle to
withstand it, even in the smallest matters. Often have we heard her
lamenting the necessity of spending so much of life in mere drudgery,
ministering to the perishing but never-satisfied _body_; a necessity and
service that devolve upon many women, and take from them the opportunity
of high mental and spiritual culture, unless they carry into these daily
duties and petty cares a calm spirit and a cheerful tone, with an
elevated and steadfast purpose. Such was Mary's habitual endeavor. The
difficulty, and the frequent failure, none were more ready to own. She
never satisfied herself, but she never flagged. She never worried.
Sudden interruptions, culinary disappointments, "shoals of visitors"
with little of preparation, were not allowed to chill her welcome or
cloud their enjoyment. There were no apologies at that table. If
unexpected guests were not always filled, they were never annoyed, nor
suffered to think much about it. A clergyman, who visited the house
often as a student, says of Mrs. Ware: "I remember the wonder I felt at
her humility and dignity in welcoming to her table on some occasion a
troop of accidental guests, when she had almost nothing to offer but
her hospitality. The absence of all apologies and of all mortification,
the ease and cheerfulness of the conversation, which became the only
feast, gave me a lesson never forgotten, although never learned."
Are these little things? They fill a large place in life, and have much
to do with its solid comfort. They affect the temper, they enter into
the character, and may help or hinder our best power and improvement. We
introduce them here _because_ they are little. There was not much in the
life we are penning that was not little in some comparisons. It is the
life of a plain, retiring, domestic woman. It is an example not beyond
the reach of any who desire to reach it. We wish to show it just as it
was; and to show, that of nothing was it more clearly the result, in
nothing does its value more clearly consist, than in the power of
Christian faith and simple goodness.
We have sometimes thought it would be well if all parishioners, those
especially who are quick to discern the failings and slow to understand
the labors of their pastor, could spend a few weeks in his house, and
get some idea of the variety, complexity, arduousness, and endlessness
of his duties. But from the picture which Mrs. Ware gives of the life at
Cambridge, we should infer that the engagements and interruptions of
most parishes were light in the comparison. "I used to think Boston life
a very busy and irregular one; but our life here is far more so. There,
there were some hours in the day in which, from conventional custom, one
was secure of being quiet. But here, neither early hours nor late,
neither rain nor tempest, are any security against interruption; and
often, very often, does a whole day pass without either my husband or
myself having one moment for our own occupations, or even a chance to
exchange a single sentence of recognition. I do not complain of this,
for it is inevitable. I must believe it is our appointed duty. But it
seems sometimes a most unprofitable mode of passing away life; at least
it is very difficult to make progress in the things one most desires,
when our time and our thoughts are so little at our own disposal."
Still, amid all these calls and cares, the "journal" continues, and full
sheets of companion-like narration or maternal counsel go to the
schoolboy at Framingham, who is having some of the trials of
school-life, petty, but serious.
"Dear John, it is time you had another letter, and I am very glad to be
able to write you one; it is the next best thing to sitting down by you
and having a good chat. I should very much like to look in upon you, and
know exactly how you get along. I hope you will continue to bear any
provocation you may receive with perfect quietness and forbearance. Such
conduct as you describe is not worthy of notice; and if you persevere in
doing right, and show no arrogance or pride about it, you will gain
their respect in time, that is, of all who are worth gaining. I am very
glad you have Mr. Abbot's book (The Young Christian). I thought of you
when I was reading it, and felt as if it would be very useful to you.
You will find much in it which you never thought of, and much of which
you will see a counterpart within yourself, if you examine yourself
faithfully. It seemed to me, while reading it, that I was looking into a
glass which reflected myself; for I have lived long enough to know more
about myself than I used to at your age, and I often wish that I had had
such looking-glasses then; I should, I think, have been saved many a
feeling of self-reproach, and many a foolish and sinful action. You can
hardly imagine now how great a blessing you possess in the watchful care
which is extended over you by your dear father; may it never be
withdrawn from you until you have learned to guide yourself by the high
and holy principles of Christian virtue!"
It shows Mr. Ware's apprehensions in regard to his wife's health as well
as his own, that, in a letter to the same son, he writes: "I find that
your two parents are in very frail health, and probably destined to a
short life. You will perhaps, therefore, be left at an early age to take
care of yourself."
We learn still more of their mental and social life at this period from
two letters which Mrs. Ware wrote at the end of the years 1832 and 1833;
there having been little variety between, except a journey south as far
as Alexandria, which they took together, for recreation and health,
early in 1833, with a few later incidents referred to in the letters.
"_Cambridge, December 31, 1832._
"DEAR N----:
"F---- prophesied, ten years ago, that friendship between
married women could not be of long continuance. He did not know
that there is in woman's nature something which woman only can
fully understand; or his knowledge of human nature in general
would have shown him that the love of sympathy will triumph
over many an obstacle, which would be a perfect barrier to a
less powerful motive. Who but a woman, and one too who knows
the exact mould in which one's soul is fashioned, would
understand what it has been to me to stand on the verge of the
grave, in full possession of the whole intellectual being, and
prepare myself to leave such an assemblage of blessings as have
fallen to my lot,--husband, children, friends, and the
delightful duties which accompany these relations,--and then to
be restored to them all, with an added gift! And all without
one drawback, but my own want of sensibility, to make the
blessing as great as it would be with a more sensitive heart.
Perhaps no one can fully comprehend it who has not been placed
in exactly the same situation. But you can come nearer to it
than any one else, and you will not wonder that the past should
seem to me one of the most valuable years of my life. I have
often wished for just this experience, when I have felt how
ineffectual were the monitors of Providence in awakening that
deep sense of God's goodness, and that clear conviction of the
reality of a future state, which are so important to the
Christian life. I have almost envied those who were permitted
to approach so nearly to the gates of death as to give up all
expectation of a prolonged life. It has seemed as if this
appeal must be irresistible; as if there could be no more
deadness, or apathy, or indifference, after this. One _could_
not come back to the world and be absorbed as before in its
short-lived pursuits. But vain is the hope, I begin to fear, of
our being raised by any thing so much above the world, as not
to be subject to the power of the tempter while we live in it.
The physical weakness which enables us to realize the uncertain
tenure by which we are connected with this world is gradually
changed into strength, and the power to act brings with it the
desire;--and who shall easily set bounds to this desire? It is
the all-consuming monster that cries, 'Give! give!' until we do
give it every day, every hour, every thought,--until the
present alone occupies us, and, alas! satisfies us too. Is this
exaggeration, merely a dark picture drawn from my own sad
experience? I hope it is.
"But I am going too far, filling all my paper with croaking,
when I have so pleasant a picture of my 'outer man' to present
to you. We are all well; that is, well enough to be free from
anxiety on the subject;--neither Henry nor I good for much
beyond a very narrow sphere, but free from disease. I keep very
quietly at home. Indeed, I cannot do otherwise; a ride into
Boston tires me so much, that I am not fit for any thing for a
day after; a walk does the same. So I am fain to content myself
with my home comforts; and to this end I have converted my
chamber into a study, where Henry writes, I work, and Nanny
plays all the livelong day. It is more like Sheafe Street
comfort than any thing we have had since. My husband's social
habits, and the fact of our having lived so much together for
the last three years, make it particularly pleasant to him to
be saved the trouble of going in search of me whenever he wants
to read a sentence or say a word; and for the same reasons, it
is very pleasant to me to have so much of his presence without
feeling that he is taken off from his rightful pursuits by it.
January 1, 1833! A happy new year to you all!
"Yours truly.
"M. L. W."
* * * * *
"_Cambridge, December 31, 1833._
"MY DEAR N----:
"I am inclined to think that it is our inordinate estimate of
the happiness of this life, and our vague, half-sceptical
notions of a future state, that make us grieve so much when
such spirits as Elizabeth B---- are withdrawn from us. I don't
know, but I sometimes greatly fear that we do not bring home
the _reality_ of the future as we should do; we are so occupied
with our theories of right principles of action and correct
ideas of moral conduct in this life (all very good in their
place), and so afraid of falling into the extravagant exercise
of the imagination, which has betrayed so many of our opponents
in doctrine into enthusiasm and folly, that we lose sight of
the good influences which such contemplations might have upon
our hearts. This year has been to me one of less variety than
any of the last six. My husband's long sickness in the spring,
and the efforts consequent upon it, were the source of much
anxiety, and in some points a new experience. But I have had
for so long a time only to bear and submit, that my mind has
settled itself into that attitude, and it is no longer an
effort. It is quite another thing, when it becomes my duty to
exercise my energies in positive acts,--when others are looking
to me for guidance, when my habitual influence is to form the
character of this child and check the waywardness of that, with
all the train of active duties which devolve upon a married
woman,--then I am overpowered and powerless.
"I wished you had been by my side on Sunday, while I sat in my
old corner in Federal Street meeting-house, listening to that
voice which is to us both associated with some of our best
religious impressions. I went to hear Dr. Channing, for the
second time only since I returned home, as much for the sake of
recalling old associations as from any expectation of new
influences; for it does me good now and then to go back to what
I was, the better to understand what I am. If he had known just
what I was suffering, he could not have adapted himself more
entirely to my case. He was upon some of the obstacles which
may prevent our use of the present moment for improvement; and
he enlarged upon the tendency to rest satisfied with past
attainments. Because we had at one period of our lives been
deeply moved and strongly influenced by religious motives,--had
performed some great acts of benevolence, or sustained
ourselves under great trial with fortitude and submission,--we
deluded ourselves with the idea, that we had attained a height
from which we could not fall. But no mistake could be more
ruinous. The past was _nothing_, except as it influenced the
present. We trust too much to future improvement, to a vague
notion of gradual progress,--we know not exactly how, or by
what means. But as we are not conscious of becoming worse, we
think we must be growing better, and shall by and by be all
that we ought to be. Or we hope for more favorable
circumstances to influence us, and expect to be, we know not
why, in a more fit state at some other time for our religious
duties.
"Had I room, I could give you a long story about this, for my
mind is full of it. But I have another word to say upon the
fact of our giving so much time to the mere outside of life, to
the employment of our fingers, the mere mechanical employments
pertaining to the body. It is a question with me, whether it is
not a duty to be satisfied with a less elegant, and even a less
comfortable style of life, rather than take so much from the
cultivation of the intellectual and spiritual, when, as is so
often the case now-a-days, we must either do the drudgery
ourselves or leave it undone. I don't know,--I am puzzled. I
know that if we are doing our _duty_, however mean may be our
employment, we are fulfilling our destiny, and doing God the
best service. But the question is, What is our duty? And are we
not in danger of mistaking the real nature of duty, from too
great a love of this world and the things of it? This is one of
the difficult questions, which my husband and I try to settle.
I wish you would tell me what you think. And here comes my
Willie, with an imploring look to be taken up,--a reproving
one, too, that in all this long letter neither he nor his
family are so much as noticed. All are well.
"Yours ever.
"M. L. WARE."
Unusual freedom from sickness and apprehension was for a time enjoyed.
Mrs. Ware was full of happiness and thankfulness. "It seems to me that
never had people so much reason for gratitude as we; and I think I never
felt this more than at this time, for I too am beginning to have the
first feelings of health which I have known for a year and a half." But
a change came. And with the letter which explains it we close this
portion of the Cambridge life.
"_Cambridge, May 4, 1834._
"MY DEAR N----:
"... We have had our usual variety of sickness and health since
I wrote to you in January. Soon after that, I had a visit from
my old, and I thought conquered, enemy, the cramp; not a very
severe attack, but sufficient to make me very good for nothing
for a week, in the course of which Nanny had a very severe
fall, which for twenty-four hours made us apprehensive that we
should have to part with her. But this trial was spared us, in
much mercy; for two days after this, Elizabeth was very sick,
though not dangerously. All this had its effect upon Mr. Ware
and myself, and we have been the greater part of the time in
the most disagreeable state of betwixity, neither sick enough
to be excused from labor, nor well enough to do any thing
profitable,--just good for nothing. In the vacation in April,
Mr. Ware went to Portsmouth to collect materials for his Memoir
of Dr. Parker, intending by the way to go to Exeter.
"The day after he went, my Willie, who had been the very
perfection of health and happiness all winter, began to droop,
and, notwithstanding pretty efficient measures, in a few days
became the subject of decided lung fever; not very sick, but
requiring constant watching and careful attention. A week from
the day he was taken, he had a severe spasmodic attack, from
which we thought he would never revive; and when, after various
measures, he began to breathe again, we sat for four hours
expecting that every moment would be his last. It was a season
of severe trial, not a little increased by his father's
absence, and the impossibility of his reaching home until this
sweet child must be for ever removed from his sight. Yet it was
not for me to learn then, for the first time, that He who sends
trial always gives strength to bear it. I knew it would be so,
and in that faith I rested in peace and tranquillity. But this
blow, too, was averted. After a long struggle he revived, and I
realized, what I had never known before, that this second
birth, as it were, of a child is a far more affecting cause for
gratitude and joy than the first gift ever can be. It was a
great experience in many ways. It helped me to understand the
feeling of those who were witnesses of miracles more than any
thing I ever met with. For all human means were at an end;
nothing could be done but to pray that the Almighty Power, to
whom all things were possible, might yet interpose to save. And
the fact of having been carried through such a trial with
entire submission and calmness,--what confidence does it not
give in the all-sufficient power of that religion which can
alone succor one in such an hour of need! The kindness, too,
which such an occasion calls forth from those around us, is not
the least of its blessings. It makes us view human kind more
justly than we are sometimes inclined to do, and sinks for ever
some of those petty and contemptuous feelings which will
sometimes rise towards those with whom we have but little
sympathy.
"My husband returned after all this was over, quite sick; but
he did return without the necessity of my going to him, and
returned to be the better for being _at home_, gaining every
moment after he entered his house. All this was during that
bright, warm interval in April, when nature seemed buoyant with
joy. We had just completed our summer arrangements, and
altogether it seemed to me as if I had begun existence anew.
Although somewhat exhausted by the struggle, I really am better
than for months past.
"Yours ever.
"M. L. WARE."