Part 16

"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."