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."