"_December, 1842._ The going forth into the world for the first time _alone_ is, it seems to me, the most trying point in the existence of any one of any sensibility. But does not the very difficulty of the case indicate the value of the experience? Are not almost all the most valuable results of effort those which require the greatest efforts for their attainment? The higher the summit to which we would arrive, the more toilsome must be the ascent. When by a prayerful, self-surrendering spirit we have sought to learn the will of God concerning us, shall we not believe that, into whatsoever path we may be led, it must contain for us the discipline we need,--treasures of experience, hidden perhaps at first, which will amply repay any toil, any suffering, in the aid we shall derive from them in our Christian progress?... We admire, we reverence, the spirit which actuated Oberlin and Felix Neff, and many others of the class of missionary spirits who have left all to do their Master's work in the field he has appointed for them; but we do not easily realize how much of the same spirit of self-sacrifice is called for in what no one would think of calling missionary ground, and which yet requires as much surrender of earthly desire as their situations could, which none but the All-seeing can know." An event which all felt, at this time, was felt by none more than by Mrs. Ware. We mean the death of Dr. Channing. The reader will remember how much he had done for her in early life, not only as a public teacher, but as a private friend, with whom her intercourse had been frequent and perfectly free. For several years she had seen little of him. And now, in her seclusion and comparative solitude, the unexpected intelligence of his death moved her deeply. To a friend in Cambridge, she writes: "You cannot imagine how trying it is to me, to know nothing of Dr. Channing's sickness and death, except what the newspapers can tell me. You know not the peculiar relation in which I have stood towards him. Do in pity tell me what you know about the event. I cannot realize it, I can scarcely believe it. There is so much to be thought of in relation to such an event, that my mind is perfectly bewildered. I cannot arrange my thoughts enough to give them utterance. But my heart goes out toward those many dear friends who will feel his loss as I do. One is tempted to say, 'What a loss to the world is the death of such a man!' But such a man cannot die. How will his words have new power over the hearts of those who read them, from the consciousness that the spirit that uttered them already sees behind the veil, that his light can never be put out, but will penetrate still more and more the inmost recesses of men's souls! How will that last eloquent, touching appeal for the Slave gain access to the coldest hearts, when it is remembered