Part 20

"_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.