As soon as Mr. Ware was well enough, they went on to Worcester, where they remained six weeks. And there, on the 13th of July, Mrs. Ware's first child was born; a son, who lived but few years, yet long enough to leave a deep impression of beauty and promise. Toward the last of August, Mr. Ware set out alone on a horseback journey for his health, riding through New Hampshire and Vermont to Montreal and Quebec, and returning in October. During the first part of this interval, his wife and infant child were at lodgings in Newton, where her next letter is dated, referring in the opening to a poetical epistle which she had received from her husband. That epistle, as published at length in the Memoir of Mr. Ware,[3] many will remember; but its tenderness, and its allusions to their common experience at this period, will furnish an excuse, if we insert a part of it, as a preface to the letter which follows.
"Dear Mary, 't is the fourteenth day Since I was parted from your side; And still upon my lengthening way In solitude I ride; But not a word has come to tell If those I left at home are well.
"I am not of an anxious mind, Nor prone to cherish useless fear; Yet oft methinks the very wind Is whispering in my ear, That many an evil may take place Within a fortnight's narrow space.
"But no,--a happier thought is mine; The absent, like the present scene, Is guided by a Friend Divine, Who bids us wait, serene, The issues of that gracious will, Which mingles good with every ill.
"And who should feel this tranquil trust In that Benignant One above-- Who ne'er forgets that we are dust, And rules with pitying love-- Like us, who both have just been led Back from the confines of the dead?
"Then, dearest, present or apart, An equal calmness let us wear; Let steadfast Faith control the heart, And still its throbs of care. We may not lean on things of dust,-- But Heaven is worthy all our trust."
[Footnote 3: Memoir of Henry Ware, p. 220.]
"Thank you, dearest, for the pleasure your good long letters have given me; and if I am the more pleased that you called your Muse to aid you in my behalf, I hope it is one of the pardonable weaknesses of womankind, and trust your vanity will not take the alarm lest I should undervalue your own unassisted powers of pleasing. It is indeed a great and unceasing source of delight to me, that, although separated externally in our way, our thoughts, our spirits, are pursuing the same course, and we may meet in meditation and prayer, sure that the same feelings of gratitude and trust are ever present to us both. I thought much of this, last Sunday, when I made my first attempt to attend public worship. I had felt a great desire to go to meeting upon that day, being the eighth week from the birth of my child; and, moreover, because the first Sunday in September has been a memorable day to me every year since 1813. I did not attempt it in the morning, but in the afternoon rode over to hear Mr. Wallcut at the Upper Falls. I had felt well and strong at home, but it was quite too much for me; my mind was too weak to bear it quietly. The reflection upon all that had passed since I last entered the house of God, which was forced upon me at one view, was indeed overwhelming. I could scarcely control myself sufficiently to join in the services. I longed to put every one out of the house, that I might prostrate myself bodily, and I did mentally, before that Being whose goodness had brought me to that hour. I did indeed think much of _you_; and there was a high and holy satisfaction in the idea that you were at the same time employed in the same way; and although all was uncertainty with regard to you, I doubted not, that, whether on earth or in heaven, I might safely rely upon this. How did I rejoice in that faith which could remove from me all anxiety and fear concerning you, which could enable me so calmly to suffer you to go from me for such a length of time, notwithstanding the very many uncertainties which must belong to your situation. I sometimes wonder at the peace which pervades my mind, but I know I have a right to feel it; it has its basis upon an immovable foundation. Mr. Wallcut gave us a very useful, solemn discourse, and I was strengthened by the service, and not injured by the excitement.