Mr. Ware did return to Sheafe Street in October, but not to remain. His health was not restored; he could not resume his pastoral duties, and he was not willing to remain in Boston and among his people unemployed. A friend's house in Brookline was kindly offered them, and early in November they took leave—as it proved, a final leave—of their parish, and of that house where they had passed but a single year, yet one of the happiest of their lives. In the mind and memory of both of them, that abode seems to have been invested with peculiar interest. They have been heard to speak of the "Eden of Sheafe Street." Their children always revert to it with a tender fondness; and, beside theirs, there are many eyes that fill with tears even now, as they look back upon the happy hours and blessed influences enjoyed there, in their pastor's home. And she who helped to make that home what it was to pastor and people, loved to the last to live over again that precious season, though to her crowded with peculiar cares and trembling responsibilities.
They remained in Brookline that winter. In the spring of 1829, Mr. Ware virtually resigned his pastoral charge, and a colleague pastor was chosen, while a new professorship was planned for him in the Divinity School at Cambridge. At the same time, he was urged by generous friends, who offered the means, to go first with his wife to Europe, for entire rest and the recovery of his health. This unexpected opportunity he felt it right to use. And his wife, who was herself not well, thus speaks of it to Mrs. Paine, in a letter of several dates:—
"Brookline, December 31, 1828.
"My dear, kind Friend:—
"I have been for a long time prohibited from using my eyes, or should ere this have despatched to you the epistle which for many a weary week has been prepared in my brain for you; and now being still under the same interdict, I can only venture to remind you that there is still in existence the same old friend, who has been wont upon this eve to pour forth to you a copious stream of egotism, who never longed for the time to come when she might do so, more than at this present; but who, for the trial of her patience, must lay aside her pen, and, wishing you every blessing, wait until she is at liberty to use her eyes to say more.
"January 23. Although still unable to use my eyes without suffering, I am strongly tempted, by an empty house and an unoccupied hour, to renew, in some small measure, the intercourse which has so long ceased between us, and cannot help seating myself, pen in hand, to give you a few moments. I have——
"March 30. I was interrupted by company at the above pauses; and since then, dear N——, what a revolution in the state of things around me! It seems like a dream that I am again on the eve of departure for Europe. It is indeed a dream from which I should like to awake; and yet I am so sure that it is right to do just what we are doing, that the spirit faints not, nor even falters. I do not, indeed, dare to think, but have busied myself in visiting my parish, and do not fear but that power will be given. Yet, dear N——, what a lot is mine! Surely I ought to be better for all this various blessing.
"Ever yours.
"M. L. W."
In closing the first and only year of Mary Ware's "parish life," we remember that it was also the first year of her married life, and an immediate entrance upon the office of a mother. To her views of this office we have already referred, but have feared to say all we know to be true of her discharge of its duties. There is a veil which we may not raise, a sanctuary which none can enter. Yet it is due to her and to her children,—it is due to the greatness of a trust whose difficulties all see, but few estimate kindly,—to speak of the glowing filial love, the reverent and grateful obligation, expressed by those who were permitted to call her "mother," and whose sense of indebtedness grows with their days. By the exercise of a sound discretion in exigencies unavoidable and seldom allowed for,—by freedom of intercourse through the day, and prayer and blessing at night,—by a tenderness that made counsel always kind and discipline never disheartening,—in a word, by a yearning affection which has caused a start and regret at any allusion to her not being "their own mother," she took possession of their hearts for life; and her death called forth, in the simple words of one, the unutterable sentiment of both,—"Surely God never gave a boy such a mother, or a man such a friend."
IX.
EUROPEAN TOUR.
On the 1st of April, 1829, Mrs. Ware sailed from Boston, with her husband, in the ship Dover, for Liverpool. One of the older children was left at board and in school, the other in Mr. William Ware's family, in New York; while the infant was confided to Mr. Ware's sister, Mrs. Lincoln,—an arrangement that relieved the mother of anxiety, as far as was possible with any separation. But no parent will need to be told what she must have suffered, at best, in leaving behind her her first babe, not a year old, to cross the ocean and go into distant lands for an indefinite time, with a sick husband on whose restoration or return no calculation could be made. Yet we see in her not a moment's hesitation, we hear from her no expression of doubt or the least despondence. Physicians and judicious friends advised the step, her husband's health and power of usefulness, if not his life, might depend upon it; and this was enough, even if her own judgment had differed, as we have no reason to think it did. It was a feature of her mind very prominent, as it must be of every well-balanced mind, that she never suffered herself to be tortured with doubts or fears for the future when the present duty was clear, and never lamented that she had done that which seemed right and best, whatever the issue. As she writes, on one occasion, of her own habits of mind and long experience:—"There is no one thing that has been more important to my comfort, under any result of my plans, than the consciousness that they were decided upon after a full and careful deliberation of all other possible plans, and a calm judgment concerning them all. Then I felt I had done all that poor human nature could do; the rest was in God's hands,—it was all in God's hands. I was satisfied that this decision was in the order of his providence, and, come what might, I could never regret it, or spend one vain, impious wish that I had taken another course. But, in order to make this decision satisfactory, I have always desired to know the whole truth, and be convinced that I had a perfect view of the whole case in hand; and have sought suggestions from others, not for my guidance, but that I might be sure I had deliberated upon all the varieties of plan which could be thought of."