LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM.

It is no cause of regret that the narrative of a married woman's life

cannot be separated from that of her husband. The biographer may regret

the necessity of referring to familiar facts, and sometimes using

materials already in possession of the public. But more sorry should we

be if the history of the _wife_ could be drawn out by itself; especially

that history of every-day life, and idea of the inner being, which we

are attempting to give. Few women, in our community, and with "troops of

friends," have been more thrown upon themselves at an early age, or have

led a more truly single life until life's meridian, than did Mary

Pickard. But the moment she became Mary Ware she lived for another,--as

unreservedly and devotedly as woman ever did. Principle and affection

alone would have prompted this, as a pleasure; the circumstances in

which she was placed, from first to last, made it a duty, and still a

delight. And more and more, as years passed, did the duty and the

delight grow, tinged only by the sad thought of _his_ premature failure

and sore disappointment.

It, is a small trial to be summoned from one sphere of duty to another;

even if it cost the disruption of many ties, still if it be a call of

duty, with continued power of activity and usefulness, it is not to be

called a hardship. It surely is no evil, but rather a privilege, for the

faithful laborer to die at his post, with his harness on. But to die and

yet to live, to have one's chosen work broken off for ever, and the

strong, disinterested love of labor forbidden all exercise, with the

prospect of years of helplessness at the best, perhaps protracted

suffering and a dependent family,--this is trial, calling for as much of

fortitude and faith as humanity often requires. It may be partiality

which leads us to doubt whether there was ever _more_ of fortitude and

faith, in similar condition, than in the hearts of Henry and Mary Ware,

as they turned their back upon the fond scenes of their labor, and, with

the unavoidable consciousness of high qualification as well as

affection, withdrew from all public service and peculiar trust. Nor is

it too much to assume, that, while on him pressed most heavily the

burden of responsibility and the grief of incapacity, it was to the wife

and the mother that there came most loudly the call for exertion, for

cheerful courage, a wise diligence, and unfaltering trust.

The village to which they retired was chosen partly for its seclusion

combined with convenience, and partly for economy. In relation to the

last, their anxieties were now relieved by a generous contribution from

friends, whom it would have been wrong to refuse; though similar offers

had been made and declined before, as we ought to have said in referring

to their embarrassments. So long as there was the power of exertion, or

a reasonable hope of it, Mr. Ware could not bring himself to accept any

mere favors of this kind,--seldom so grateful as a fair requital for

willing service and acknowledged ability. But now that the power of

exertion was suspended, duty to those nearest, as well as gratitude to

persevering benefactors, made him more than willing. "I have got rid,

through the kindness of excellent friends, of all distressful anxiety

for the living of my family; I can leave them in comparative peace; in

that sense, my house is set in order." Thus did Mr. Ware write to his

brother John, in that earnest letter in which he begs him, as a

physician, to deal frankly with him, and tell him the whole truth as to

the probability of his recovery or decline. And this was the state of

mind in which the life at Framingham began, and continued to the end,--a

state of suspense, entire uncertainty, unwillingness to be idle, but

inability to enter confidently upon any plan, or engage vigorously in

any employment. There is little, therefore, to be told of this period,

in regard to occupation or incident. We can only show in what spirit

Mrs. Ware met this new trial,--to many minds the hardest of all,--living

without an object, yet striving to live cheerfully, busily, and

profitably.

This may be shown best by giving brief extracts from her letters,

written during the first season of their residence there.

"_July 30, 1842._ My dear Mrs. F----: You will be glad to know

that we find ourselves very comfortable here. The house is

exceedingly well adapted to our purpose; and though the

externals of life are comparatively small matters with respect

to happiness, in health, there are cases of sickness in which

they must be of importance. It is a great comfort to me, in the

present case, that our outward appliances are such as will aid

the chief object for which we have made this change. I feel

deeply that it is an experiment, and, like all human plans, has

some disadvantages; but I will 'hope on, hope ever,' believing

as I do that it was _right_ to try it. Yet you know (none

better) how much one has to feel in the detail of life, when so

much is at stake. O, why can we not, with full faith and

perfect peace, cast all our care upon Him, who indeed careth

for us more than we can care for any being? I can for the most

part feel this, but it is not easy to keep always on the

mount.... Although I realize the change, and fully appreciate

all I have left behind, I am perfectly amazed to find how

obtuse my feelings are. I could almost fancy I did not love my

friends as well as I thought I did, so entirely do I find

myself absorbed by my new duties and occupations, with scarcely

a thought for any thing but the best accomplishment of my

immediate business,--my husband's comfort and improvement. What

a blessed power of adaptation is given us, to enable us to meet

the varieties of life! The fact is, in our case, never could so

great a movement have been made under more favorable

circumstances; and, with so many blessings about our path, it

would be strange indeed if we could find place for regret."

* * * * *

"_August 21, 1842._ My dear N----: I begin to think I shall

not gain much in the way of _leisure_ by this change. For

although there is not the same necessity for attending to

extraneous matters that there was in Cambridge, so much more of

the detail of affairs necessarily passes through my hands, that

I find the days all too short to accomplish half I should like

to do. I cannot give up the hope, and indeed expectation, that

the mode of life we have adopted will prove good for Mr. Ware;

and as I view it nearer, so many of what I had anticipated as

hindrances vanish into thin air, that I am more than ever

satisfied with the form of the experiment. Of course, I expect

to put my shoulder to the daily wheel in a new line of labor,

and have fully calculated the cost. I only hope my health and

strength will continue as good as they now are, and I shall do

very well. I never shrink from labor of any kind.... Our

children are much pleased with the place and its occupations;

and I hope to give them by the change the opportunity of

acquiring the knowledge of many things, and exercising some of

the virtues for which they had no chance in their former mode

of life.... I have a treasure of a woman, who has been with me

nearly two years, bound to me and mine by the strongest

affection, kind, capable, and refined; particularly pleased

with being 'monarch of all she surveys' in the kitchen, and so

well informed and respectful, that it is a pleasure to me to

associate with her as I am obliged to in work, and a comfort in

the perfect security I feel in her intercourse with my

children. It is not the least of my blessings, that just such

an one should have been with me at this crisis."

This mention of the faithful domestic, "our Margaret," as she was always

called, who lived with Mrs. Ware seven years, discloses another trait of

character, more rare than it should be. The complaints that we

constantly hear of the selfishness and "plague of servants," demand more

consideration than they usually receive. The whole matter of domestic

service is becoming a serious one. Even where it is wholly free, it

affects materially the comfort of life, and exerts an influence on the

character of both the employers and the employed. Are the employers or

the employed most in fault? This is the one question which should be

deliberately weighed, instead of being dismissed with a burst of passion

or a smile of self-complacency. There are women who have little or no

trouble with their servants,--who retain them long, secure their

confidence for life, obtain from them better service than many who pay

more and exact more, and repose in them the most important trusts. To

this class we believe Mrs. Ware to have belonged. And the secret of her

success we suppose to have been simply this: she looked upon servants as

of the same species with herself; creatures of like passions and like

sensibilities; as liable to be selfish, unreasonable, and easily

offended, as those whom they serve, but not more; having equal claim

upon kind consideration, and a perfect _right_ to feel wounded and

wronged, if dealt with unjustly. On this subject Mrs. Ware seems to have

asked herself these two questions: Why do so many people, who are never

harsh or ill-natured toward any one else, think nothing of being harsh

and ill-natured toward their domestics? And why do many sound and

zealous religionists forget to carry any of their religion into their

intercourse and dealings with servants? It would not have been easy, we

think, to discern any difference in _her_ treatment of the highest and

the lowest, the affluent and the dependent. Nor did she think it her

duty to visit iniquity even upon the vicious, by withdrawing from them

all confidence, and turning them into the streets to sin and suffer

more. Not in words alone, or of one sex only, has she said, as we find

her saying in an aggravated case: "I see not why a man's sins should for

ever cut him off from the charities of his kind, if he is truly

penitent. What are we that we should condemn, if God forgives?"

In continuing our extracts from Mrs. Ware's letters at this period, we

shall draw freely from those which she wrote to the son who had been

left in Cambridge, and was now entering upon the work of the ministry,

feeling painfully the separation from his father, and the loss in part

of his guidance and counsel.

"_Framingham, August, 1842._ At last, dear John, the great

crisis has passed, the great movement is made. We have changed

our home, and are no longer to live together under the same

circumstances. The change is indeed great to us all, but I feel

that for you it is greater than to any one else, and therefore

it is that I am impelled to use my first quiet moment in

expressing my deep sense of the trial of your present position,

and most heartily sympathize with the soul-stirring emotion

which belongs to it. To you it is indeed a very important

turning-point in existence, and when one looks only upon the

momentous responsibilities which it involves, it is not strange

that the heart should sink, and the question should

involuntarily arise to one's lips, 'How can this change be

borne, how can such duties be met?' I have felt sometimes, in

looking at the singular combination of events, by which you

should be separated from your father, just when you were

commencing the most trying and important period of life, as if

it were almost too hard; and as if it would have been not only

easier, but safer, to have been able to feel your way a little

before you absolutely floated off under your own sole guidance.

But a second thought has always satisfied me that the

arrangement of Providence was the best, although for the time

the most painful. Standing forth in your lot, as an ambassador

for Christ to the world, you cannot be too soon led to rely

solely on his teaching for direction, and it cannot but be best

that you should be compelled, by the removal of earthly succor,

to go only to Him who is 'the way, the truth, and the life,'

for strength in the hour of need."

* * * * *

"My dear John: You are now passing through that ordeal which I

have long looked forward to as inevitable at some period,

sometimes with an almost irresistible desire to avert it by

opening to you pages of my own painful experience in

self-education; sometimes with an uncontrollable impatience to

hasten it, that, being past, you and I and all might be

enjoying the happiness it might produce. It is one of the most

difficult questions to decide how far, and when, to make

opportunities, or wait for them to come in the natural order of

things; we should very decidedly wait, if we were sure they

would come at some time,--but there is the rub....

"It is a common and very natural idea with young people, that

older ones cannot understand or sympathize in their feelings;

forgetting that we have all been young, and that the struggles

by which the soul is exercised in youth are never to be

forgotten. The experience of different natural characters of

course varies, but the fact of struggle is common to all. And

upon no spot in the review of the past does one's memory dwell

with so much intense emotion, as upon that thorny and tangled

labyrinth through which the spirit wandered, 'bewildered, but

not lost,' at the period when the necessity and duty of proving

its own character first roused it to a sense of its

responsibilities. You say most truly, that it is good to look

at things at a distance, from new and various points of view. I

have always advocated this, for my own changeful life forced

the conviction upon me; and for the same reason, I would

advocate free, confidential discussion of inward and spiritual

experience. The mere clothing our thoughts and feelings in

words sometimes places them in a different position. We take

them out of the atmosphere of our own perhaps morbid fears and

anxieties, and can therefore see them more clearly. Then, too,

we have the advantage of another's observation, and, may-be,

experience of the selfsame difficulties, to aid us in our

judgment of their true character. At any rate, we have the

certainty of that warm kindling of the affections which to a

loving heart is always a help in bearing the burden of life.

Believe me, dear John, there is ample reward for all the effort

it may cost in unclothing ourselves, in the consciousness that

however the outer world may think of us, at _home_, in that

sanctuary which God and nature have alike appointed as the best

resting-place for the spirit upon earth, we are understood and

appreciated and loved. Let us not suffer any factitious

thoughts or circumstances to cheat us of this privilege, but

with trusting, confiding hearts take the good which Heaven

designed for us when the family-community was established in

the world.... I could write more than I should care to give you

the trouble to read, if I attempted to write half that I have

in my heart to say."

* * * * *

"_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

that it was the last effort of the departing saint for the rights and

sufferings of the oppressed! The impulse which such a mind gives must be

felt for ever. Who can measure its power?" A fact is here suggested

which there seems no reason for withholding, showing the estimate which

Dr. Channing himself put upon the character and power of Mrs. Ware. A

lady intimate with both of them when they were most together, says: "Dr.

Channing talked with her on religious experience, to learn as well as to

teach. I have known him to request her to make visits of instruction to

a disconsolate person, whom _he_ could not awaken to religious

hope,--trusting that her gentle sympathy and clear views might shed a

ray of light that would point her to the day."

The first season at Framingham was a busy one, though tranquil. Mrs.

Ware's bodily as well as mental labor must have been unusually great.

"It is true, I do not see how we are to set all the stitches which will

be necessary to prepare eight people for a winter campaign in a cold

house; but I have faith that we shall find a way." They were much more

free from interruptions than ever before. Their new neighbors and

friends were not only kind, but considerate,--one of the best forms of

kindness. Gratefully does Mrs. Ware acknowledge this. "How much there is

in human life to interest our hearts! One cannot go anywhere without

finding some cases of peculiar interest. We are here cut off from

general knowledge of those around us, by having come expressly for

retirement. Our neighbors, understanding this, do not call. And yet we

have already happened upon some most interesting people, from whom we

cannot in conscience hold back."

Thus the year closed; a year of as great outward change as any that had

preceded it, and leaving them in as great uncertainty as to the future.

Yet Mrs. Ware could say: "The prevailing emotion in the retrospect is

one of gratitude at having been enabled to escape from the burden which

before oppressed and weighed me down. The consciousness that we were

spending all our strength, mental and physical, upon a vain attempt for

an unattainable result, was worse to me than any degree of labor for an

attainable end, or even any uncertainty about the future means of

support. I rejoice that my husband is free from that incubus upon his

spirits; and still more do I rejoice, that it is given to us both to

feel, in the uncertainty that lies before us, such a tranquil trust that

all will be well, that we have no fear, no wish. Still there is room for

much mental and spiritual discipline; and I must acknowledge that there

are times when the weakness of the flesh overcomes the willingness of

the spirit, and I feel for the time entirely depressed by a sense of

inadequacy to meet the demands of duty. I have not the power to do all

that ought to be done, and I feel as if the effects of my incapacity

would be grievous. I know that one has no _right_ to suffer from this,

because we ought to have faith to believe that the trials even of our

own insufficiency are designed to accomplish some end. But the

consciousness that others are suffering from our deficiencies is just

the very hardest thing to bear in life. It is my cross, and always has

been; and I fear I do not learn as I ought, to bear it in meekness and

humility,--I need not say 'fear,' I _know_ I do not."

To those familiar with the life of Henry Ware, and with its close, it is

unnecessary to recount the events of the year 1843; the year that

brought into stern requisition all the trust and endurance of a devoted

wife. She had long seen that this trial was approaching, and had

fortified herself to meet it, not by putting the thought of it aside,

but by keeping it before her, and making it familiar, that it might

never take her by surprise. And long had she thus disciplined her mind

and her affections. For during the sixteen years that she had lived with

Mr. Ware, she could never, for any long time, have failed to see the

great precariousness of his hold on life. At this very period, she says:

"In such alternation of hope and fear do I live, and indeed have lived

for the greater part of my married life." Yet how much had she enjoyed

life! and what an amount of happiness, labor, and usefulness had she

_extorted_--if we may use the word in a grateful sense, as she

would--from every year and every position!

In the spring of 1843 she accompanied her husband to Boston, for a short

visit at his brother's; and there occurred that severe and alarming

illness, which confined Mr. Ware for ten weeks, and from the effects of

which he never recovered. Of this attack, and of all that intervened

until his death, we will not give the particulars, but would only trace

Mrs. Ware's own thoughts and feelings, as she expressed them from time

to time in letters and fragments of letters to those most concerned.

"_Boston, Thursday, May 11._ Since writing to you, dear N----,

I have had a season of intense anxiety. Sunday, Monday, and

Tuesday, Mr. Ware suffered extremely, and it was not clear what

was the nature of the difficulty that produced this suffering;

one thing only was certain,--that he was very sick, and too

weak to bear such distress long. It must be a long time before

he is free from the effects of it, even if he have strength to

hold out. So end my hopes for the present, and I must give up

all thought about any thing but the care of my husband, for I

know not how long. God's will be done! HE must know what is

best,--but it is not easy to understand how it is so in this

case. And if it were easy, where would be room for Faith?...

These are trying, but blessed days, for the cultivation of the

spirit of faith and trust; and I know I need much to make me

feel that this is _not_ my home. God grant that I may

effectually learn it, so as to be not only willing, but glad,

to give up all that belongs to me here, confident in the

prospect of a reunion in a better state! I shall write again if

I can, but I have few minutes unoccupied."

* * * * *

"_Boston, May, 1843._ My dear child: Father continued very much

as you left him, yesterday. He does not suffer as much as he

did, but his disease is a very tedious one, and it may be many

weeks before he is able to get home, if it pleases God still to

restore him to health. Let us pray to Him to look in mercy upon

us, and spare him to us yet longer. The circumstances of our

lot in life are just now very trying, and no doubt are arranged

for us in order to our improvement. It is a great trial to

father and me to be separated from our children so long; and to

you all, this separation brings the greater responsibility to

watch over yourselves, that you do in all things right,--not

what is most pleasant, not what we wish, but what is _right_ to

do, without regard to self. Next to my anxiety about father,

now, is my anxiety about you; because I feel that you are at an

age when the habits are formed, and the principles of action

settled for life; that your whole future, for time and for

eternity, may depend upon these years. And I cannot feel happy

unless I see you gaining from day to day more and more of that

self-discipline and self-control, which can alone, by the grace

of God, make you what you ought to be."

Mr. Ware was able to return to Framingham in June, and afterward took

several short journeys among friends, one as far as Plymouth, and thence

to Fall River (where his son was then settled in the ministry), and home

by Providence,--his last visit to those places. In August, another and

still more violent attack upon the brain prostrated him completely; and

the remaining five or six weeks of his life seemed only a vacillation

between earth and heaven,--yielding transporting glimpses of the latter,

but constantly drawing him back to the former,--and creating altogether

as hard a trial for the sufferer, and those around him, as can easily be

conceived.

"_August 17._ We feel, in father's case, 'how vain is the help

of man.' His system is so delicate, that he cannot bear the

administration of any potent means. Our reliance must be upon

our Heavenly Parent, in whose hand are the issues of life and

death. Let us pray to Him, that, if it be consistent with his

wisdom, this cup may pass from us; but let us be ready to say,

and feel in our inmost hearts, 'Not my will, but thine, O Lord,

be done'!... We do not feel it to be impossible that dear

father should recover from this illness; but we know that his

repeated sicknesses must have weakened his power of reaction,

and we strive, therefore, to be prepared for any result. The

very uncertainty is appointed for our good; let us use it, my

dear child, for our spiritual advancement.... God bless you! be

submissive, be patient, be _grateful_, if it so please God that

dear father should be released from the burden of his earthly

house, to be transported to his heavenly home, where there is

no more pain."

* * * * *

"_August 21._ It is all in the hands of Infinite Love and

Wisdom. God will order all well; let us be willing and be

thankful to place our trust in Him. What a mercy it is to us,

that He has not given us the power of foreknowledge! But

whatever may be the event, let us not lose the benefit of this

discipline to our souls; let us strive to increase our faith in

God's goodness, our trust in his love.... I cannot write much,

for I cannot leave father many minutes at a time,--and all the

time I can get, I am bound to devote to sleep."

* * * * *

"_August 23._ ... Thus you see we are vibrating between hope and

fear. But it is a question whether we have a right to allow

either; for we know not what is best for him or for ourselves."

* * * * *

"_August 29._ My dear Emma: I must say a few words to you, to

thank you for your most welcome letter received yesterday. How

much I have longed for some intercourse with you, during the

last two months, you can judge better by your own experience

now, than by any words of mine. I have wished, as you do now,

to know all that was passing within the deep fountains of your

spiritual life, and nothing but the absolute necessity of the

case has kept me away from you. Now, I say, come, whenever you

can; you will be most welcome to us all, and to me your

presence will be a real benediction. I feel at times as if I

should be overpowered by the tumult of feelings to which I dare

not give utterance here, where the composure of all around me

depends so much upon my calmness. This last fortnight has

shaken to its very foundation the whole fabric of my spiritual

being,--thank God! not to displace a single fibre of the

fabric. But there has been such a heaving up of all that was

hidden in the depths of past experience, as has wellnigh

conquered at times my self-control, and I have felt that I must

utter myself, or be lost; yet to no one have I dared to speak.

John's sickness here has made composure with him peculiarly

important.... Happily, we cannot lift the veil of the future;

we can only be ready for whatever may be in store for us, and

this I trust we are.... I have been prevented from writing in

the daytime, and now, at eleven o'clock, I am compelled by

weariness to shut my eyes, and rest."

* * * * *

"_August 30._ My dear Lucy: I should indeed rejoice if you were

able to be here, for I long for some communion with one who

could so enter into all my views and feelings at this time as I

know you would. But I bow in submission to all the discipline

which God appoints for me.... In some respects the bitterness

of the stroke has passed. I felt that the real separation came

with the conviction, that that mind with which my spirit had so

long communed in the truest sympathy was clouded for the

remainder of its sojourn in the body. The sense of solitude, of

isolation, I had almost said _desolation_, was for a time

nearly overpowering; and there are moments when life looks so

like a blank, that it is not easy to restrain the wish to go

too. But the necessity of calmness for the children's sake,

feeling that their state of mind would inevitably be influenced

by the tone I should give it, has aided me in preserving a

quiet exterior; and so we have had the great comfort of peace

and entire freedom from agitation and excitement. God give us

strength to preserve it! But this weary waiting from day to

day, alternately hoping and feeling that there is no reason to

hope, wears upon the nerves,--the days seem interminable, and

the nights ages.... Long as I have looked forward to this

change, it seems like a dream from which I must awake,--as if

it could not be! No wonder;--for fifteen years, his health,

_he_ indeed, has been the first, almost the sole, object of my

life. It will be long before I can turn even to my children,

with the consciousness that they can now be attended to without

neglecting him."

The struggle was over. Henry Ware died, at Framingham, on Friday

morning, September 22. A Sunday intervened before the body was removed

for burial, and that day Mrs. Ware went, with her children, morning and

afternoon, to their accustomed place of worship; desiring it for their

own sacred communion, and believing it most in accordance with _his_

feelings. To her faith, with her habitual view of duty and death, this

was probably no effort. To many it would be impossible, even with the

same faith; for, unhappily, association and custom are allowed to check

our highest aspirations in the holiest seasons, so that many would

consider such an effort unnatural and strange. Is it not more strange,

that it should ever seem unnatural for a Christian mourner to go to the

house of God, in the most solemn hours of life,--especially when that

house is completely identified with the life and image of the departed?

Mrs. Ware was grateful also for the power of associating the idea of

Death, in the minds of her children, not with restraint and gloom, but

with the place of prayer and praise, and the cheerful presence of devout

worshippers. It was a beautiful exemplification of her high trust, in

harmony with her whole character. We honor the principle, and thank her

for the act.

True, it was an altered and saddened house to which they returned, yet

saddened by no gloomy aspect, disturbed by no busy preparation. There

was less than usual of care and hurry, instead of more. "It was a holy

season," says one of the daughters, "those days after dear father left

us; no bustle, no preparation of dress, no work done but what was

absolutely necessary; it was like a continued Sabbath." Then, on Sabbath

evening, after a simple religious service, the "precious remains" of the

husband and father were taken in their own carriage, by the wife and

eldest son, to Cambridge; where, the next day, the more public ceremony

of interment took place.

But of this whole experience it is right to let Mrs. Ware speak in her

own letters, several of which we add. The first was written the day

after the funeral, to an absent child, and the others to different

friends after her return to Framingham. We take them from among many

written at that time, either in answer to offers of sympathy, or as a

relief to a burdened heart. Of necessity, they contain some repetitions

of the same thought, in similar language; but it is best to give them as

they are, that we may see in them how great was the bereavement and how

deep the anguish of one whose countenance was always cheerful.

"_Cambridge, September 26, 1843._

"MY DEAR CHILD:--

"I use my first moment of repose to write to you, for I know

you will long to hear what we have been doing, and as far as

possible to enter into all our thoughts and feelings. I want to

have you know all that has taken place since you left us, and

shall therefore send you a minute detail of every day, when I

shall have time to write it; but now so much is pressing upon

me which demands attention, so many duties which must not be

neglected, and which belong to this time, and must be performed

at once, that I confine myself to the last two days.

"After dear father's death, I told Uncle John that I wished all

arrangements with regard to his funeral should be made in

accordance with grandfather's feelings; and I gave it wholly

into his hands to arrange. He came up again on Saturday, and it

was decided that we should come to grandfather's on Monday

morning, and have a service at his house. On Sunday we all went

to meeting; we felt it was good to go to the house of God, and

find peace to our troubled souls in the act of worship. About

six in the evening Mr. and Mrs. Barry came to us, for I felt

that I could not have father's body leave that house without

'the voice of prayer at the sable bier,

A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer.'

He read to us some passages of Scripture, and offered for us

and with us a prayer to Him who alone could give us strength,

that he would aid us in that trying hour. We had no one with us

except Mr. and Mrs. W----, whose kindness was most valuable to

us during the last days of father's life.

"Then John and I brought dear father's body to Cambridge in our

own carriage; we could not feel willing to let strangers do any

thing in connection with him which we could do ourselves. We

reached here about half past ten, having had a season of

precious intercourse upon our way. We found that, in accordance

with the wishes of the College Faculty, it had been decided

that we should go to the College Chapel, for the service, at

half past three on Monday.

"On Monday morning the rest of the family came down, and all

the aunts and uncles, so that grandfather had all his children

with him. At three o'clock we went to the Chapel. The students

attended in their places, and the pews in the gallery were

devoted to us. The service commenced by a voluntary, and the

anthem, 'The Lord is my shepherd.' Dr. Francis prayed; Dr.

Noyes read some passages from Scripture; then was sung the 463d

hymn. Dr. Parkman then prayed for us, in his most touching,

heartfelt manner,--so elevating, so soothing, so full of faith,

gratitude, and hope, that it subdued all earthly emotion and

took away all earthly desire. Although very minute and

personal, it seemed as if one might have listened for ever

without a thought of self. He loved father most sincerely, and

all he said came from the depths of his heart. I had shrunk

from the thought of publicity at such a time, in such a

connection, but I found that the circumstances about me were

wholly lost sight of; it made no difference to me where I was,

or who was near me. I felt raised above all minor

considerations. The services closed with 'Unveil thy bosom,

faithful tomb!' We all went to Mount Auburn; that is, all the

family, even grandfather and dear little Charlie. The weather

was misty, but the light which it threw around was in keeping

with the occasion, and I thought I never had seen the place

look more beautiful. One only thing I wanted which I could not

have,--the sound of the holy hymn at the consecrated spot.

"Father was laid in Mr. Farrar's tomb,--the first inhabitant;

and I felt, as I looked once more upon him as he rested there,

that it was indeed but his body from which we were to be

separated; his spirit is still, and will ever be, with us. He

seems to me nearer to-day than he has for many weeks, and the

thought of his freedom from the burden of the weary flesh is

sweet indeed."

* * * * *

"_Framingham, September 29, 1843._

"MY DEAR EMMA:--

"I cannot write you more than a few words, I am so much pressed

on all sides by matters which cannot be put off; but I must say

these few, to assure you of the peace and repose which are with

us, and have been, I may say, ever since you were here. O that

you had been with us longer,--that you could have been with me

at that still hour when the spirit was freed from its

prison-house, the weary body left to its rest! And it was rest.

Could you have seen the very 'rapture of repose' depicted upon

that face, which had so long been disturbed by the pressure of

disease that its very expression had been changed to a

character foreign to the whole man! All continued of the same

peaceful character which pervaded our atmosphere when you were

here, with the exception of a few days of a little temporary

uneasiness about the time C---- R---- was here. And the last

fatal attack, coming as it did at a moment of rather unusual

brightness, was so sudden and so soon over, that there was no

time for change. Dear little Charlie, who had just returned,

was at the moment bounding, in the height of his joyous

spirits, from one side of the bed to the other, exclaiming,

'Sall I buss the flies off you, father?' He was taken at once

to bed; and when he came down in the morning he found his dear

father lying just as he had left him the night before, looking

only more peaceful, more beautiful, and he took up the same

thought,--'Sall I buss the flies off father, now he has gone to

heaven?' I felt it a peculiar blessing, that all the

circumstances of the event were such as to make any movement or

change in any external respect unnecessary, so that the

children might have their first associations with the fact of

death without any horror, and their recollection of their

father uninterrupted by any repulsive details. He lay in his

bed just as he had when talking with them, until he was

removed from the house, and that process the little ones did

not witness. I doubt not it will give a tone to their view of

the subject through life. But why should I dwell upon these

externals? Simply that you may dismiss from your mind any

thoughts of distress connected with us at that moment; and you

know all that I can tell you of the spirit _within_.

"You know how I have suffered in anticipation of this

separation, but all the worst agony connected with it is yet to

come. It is comparatively easy now to be calm and firm and

thankful; the first thought cannot but be of him and his

present happiness; and the sense of relief that the sufferings

of that blessed being are over, that he has gone to his

Father's home, 'to the house of his rest,' is so great, that no

other thought dare intrude. I long to see you, and hope to do

so soon. I go to Cambridge to-morrow, to be in Boston on

Sunday. I could not deny myself the luxury of going once more

to that house of his religious affections, in connection with

him. That spot has most sacred, most tender associations to me,

so full that it would be enough to sit there in silent

meditation; and if I feared any thing, I should fear that it

would be too overwhelming to be borne, to go there in public.

But I have found by my experience on Monday, that the

surroundings of such a moment are of no consequence. I have a

quiet faith that the strength will come. O, may improvement,

elevation, come also!... John leaves us soon. He and I had a

holy season, as we went, in the stillness of the night, to

carry those precious remains to Cambridge.

"I find it is as I anticipated,--I feel a greater nearness to

my husband than I did when he lay on his couch in the next

room. I am separated from that _form_; I look back to it only

as the associate of the spirit in health; I do not cling to it

now. Yours in all love.

"M. L. W."

* * * * *

"_Framingham, October 6, 1843._

"MY DEAR MARY:--

"The first moment I can call my own since my return from

Cambridge, I turn to you. I know no one to whom I can so freely

pour out all that is in my heart, as for the first time I pause

a little from the pressure of necessary action, and realize the

change that has taken place in every thing about me.... I

wanted you at my side, when I stood once more at that sacred

spot where we had laid our dear sister's image. You and I can

never forget that moment. And, though not near, you were in

close communion with the spirit in that holy hour.

"As I glance back at the period which has elapsed since you

were here, one single thought takes precedence of all the rest.

It is astonishment at the power of the soul to sustain the

pressure of circumstances, the tension and excitement of

feeling, the necessity of positive, energetic action, when the

very heart-strings seem riven asunder,--and the capacity of

sustaining a tranquil, and even cheerful aspect, when 'the

dull, heart-sinking weight' of a vital grief is bearing us

down, down, down,--one can scarcely believe there are any

soundings to that _deep_ gulf. Yet so it is; and does it not

open our vision to the glorious truth of the alliance of the

soul with its divine origin? What but that inexhaustible,

fountain of strength could sustain us, when the waves of

trouble thus threaten to overwhelm us? Rich, blessed, indeed,

is the experience which brings this conviction to our minds;

holy is that season in which we can live as it were in the

light of such a faith! And holy indeed has it been to me.

"I feel that my danger now is, that I reluctantly do any thing

that shall remove me from the influence of the atmosphere which

it seems as if death had created around me. Death? transition I

would rather call it. And yet let us strive to disabuse that

word of some of the horrors in which education has wrapt it. O,

could you have seen how mercifully it was stripped of all its

terrors to us, how calmly that spirit left its earthly

tabernacle, how sweet was the impress of peace and rest it left

upon that face which had so long almost lost its own expression

in the veil that sickness had thrown over it! Its last

expression would have rebuked the slightest wish to recall the

spirit, had we been so selfish as to have indulged one. We

could scarcely be willing to be separated from that image of

him we loved, so powerfully even in death did it express his

character. Even the little children preferred being there,

rather than anywhere beside; and will, I think, all, including

even little Charlie, remember this first knowledge of a

death-bed as a beautiful experience.

"The first part of Henry's sickness he seemed quite unconscious

of what was around him; torpid, and at times wandering in his

expressions. But the last three weeks, although still unable to

exert himself to talk,--for it tired him, he said, 'even to

think,'--his mind was perfectly clear; indeed, I had reason to

suppose his mind was never as much clouded to himself, as it

appeared to be to us. The pressure upon his brain was so great,

as to produce great difficulty of action of any kind; his ideas

were often clear, but the power of finding words to convey them

was paralyzed. He said little at any time, and yet I find, in

surveying the whole period, that I have many satisfactory views

of the whole state of his mind in relation to the change that

he was making. He never had but one view of his own situation;

he felt decidedly that the time for going home was come,--'the

fitting time,' 'the best time'; and he was grateful that the

toil of sickness and inability was at an end. And so convinced

was I, that, if he should revive from that attack, it could

only be to continue to suffer still more than he had done,

from inability to do what he had hoped to, this autumn, for the

good of his fellow-men, that I too felt that it was indeed the

fitting time. And so intense was my suffering from the

apprehension of his continuing, for years perhaps, in the

half-paralyzed, half-torpid state in which he lay for so many

weeks, that it was not only with resignation, it was with a

sense of relief, that I saw the doubt was at an end, the

prisoner was released. So strange is it, that that event to

which I had ever looked forward as the one thing that could not

be borne in life, came at last under circumstances which made

it welcome! Do I live to say it, to feel it? But O the chasm

left in my lot, in my heart! Who can estimate it! No one. No,

'the heart knoweth its own bitterness'; no human being can

enter into it.... But I must stop. I hope to see you, or at

least hear from you.

"Yours with much love.

"M. L. W."

* * * * *

"_Framingham, November 5, 1843._

"MY DEAR EMMA:--

"This has been a day of peculiar trial to me. At no period,

since the commencement of Henry's last sickness, have I found

it so difficult to adhere to my determination not to trouble

those around me by the want of self-control. This first

communion service since that sacred occasion, when we together

witnessed that celebration of the rite by him who can now be

present only in spirit! I feel as if I needed the relief of

utterance; and to whom can I go for this relief so naturally as

to you, who are strongly associated with the remembrance which

so deeply agitates my spirit? It frightens me, when, upon such

an occasion as this, I am led to probe the nature of my

feelings, to find how much the reference to him in his

spiritual state is becoming to me a substitute for all other

thoughts of heaven. Great as was my absorption in him while he

was with me here, I find it is so far from being lessened by

the removal of his visible presence, that it has only changed

its character into an idolatry of a more alarming nature. It is

so much easier for me to conceive of his presence than of that

of any other spirits, that it is the thought of his inspection

of my inmost soul that dwells perpetually on my mind, whatever

I do, or say, or think, to the exclusion, except by an effort,

of the idea of even a higher presence. What shall I do, if this

grows upon me? How shall I root out this enemy to Christian

improvement? It may be only the first effect of the blow. Time

may modify or rectify this infidelity,--I trust it will; but at

present it is overwhelming. O, how deeply do such seasons of

strong emotion make me realize my loneliness, now that I have

no longer that ever-ready sympathy, that composing,

strengthening counsel to turn to, with the certainty of comfort

and peace in the turning! I do indeed feel his presence with

me, but my heart calls and he 'answers not again'; there can be

no response to my application. How deeply, how tenderly, is he

associated with all the holiest hours of existence! It seemed

to me to-day I could hear his voice in the hymn which had so

often been read by him on the same occasion; I could anticipate

the words which would fall upon my ear as we should leave that

service together, rejoicing, as he was wont to do, that such a

service had been ordained for weak, sensual mortals, to take

their souls sometimes away from flesh and sense to the

unfettered contemplation of heavenly love. Fully do I realize,

that the sense of loss is to grow with every added day of my

existence; nothing can come near enough to supply it in the

least degree; nothing else can become so a part of one's own

self. This consciousness of desolation must press perpetually

like a weight upon my heart, as long as life lasts. And yet

how strange! I go on, and every thing goes on outwardly as

before. I eat, drink, sleep, talk, and laugh with others,

whenever it is important for their comfort to do so, as if

nothing had changed. In the midst of all, I stop and ask

myself, 'Am I dreaming?' Or is it really true that I am

alone,--that that point has been actually passed, which in

anticipation had always seemed impossible in the possession of

any power of action? I have thought that the trial could not be

borne and sense left!

"But why indulge myself in this strain? I find I cannot write,

or even think, connectedly; so I will stop.

"Your own MARY."

Language so strong as this, from a nature so calm as Mary Ware's, means

a great deal. Nor can we marvel. For what a change is that through which

a true woman passes,--from wife to widow! Is it not greater than even

the first change? Often has Mary referred to the difference, which few

could feel as she had, between her former isolation as to natural ties,

and her adoption into a large and united family circle. But _now_ she

felt the change through which she was passing still more,--inasmuch as

she had a more profound and pervading sense of all that is comprised in

conjugal affections and parental responsibilities. And while none can

have a higher standard of duty and obligation, very few have a meeker

estimate of their own powers; particularly as regards the care and the

training of Children. This was to be now her great work,--the chief

object and anxiety of her remaining days. And unfeignedly did she

shrink, not from the task, but from the vastness of the trust and the

burden to be sustained _alone_. "When I think of this large family of

little children to be left to my care, instead of _his_, it requires a

process of thought to feel so assured that God can bring good out of

seeming evil, and work out his purposes by the weakest instruments, as

to be able to calm the throbs of anxiety, and say, 'Peace, be still!' to

the troubled spirit." True, her ideal was high, and she could never be

satisfied with that which would more than satisfy many parents. Years

before had she said of one of her children: "For her intellectual

progress I have no anxiety, that is, so far as the acquisition of

knowledge goes; but how to cultivate the moral, so that it shall govern

and guide this intellectual progress into the right channels, and

establish the supremacy of the _spiritual_ in the character, I know

not." Again, she exclaims: "And these are Mary Pickard's children! When

I go back in recollection to Pearl Street days, to its long hours of

lone watching, when my mind dwelt upon the deficiencies of my condition

until it had exaggerated to a more than earthly possibility the

happiness of having something to love which would satisfy the desires of

my mind and heart,--and then compare that longing with the present

reality,--is it strange that I can scarcely realize my identity with

that same lone one?" The time had now come when she was again a "lone

one." And this is what we would say,--that the loneliness which

_follows_, is far greater than that which precedes, the knowledge and

enjoyment of such communion and cooperation as she had known. Nor is

there any thing inexplicable in the fact, that the most conscientious,

even the strongest in character and highest in aim, suffer most from a

sense of their own deficiencies, and use language which seems to many

exaggerated and hardly sincere. "I am so perpetually oppressed," writes

Mary at this time, "with the sense of nothingness, it is so very

difficult for me to realize that I am to be regarded even by my children

as the leader in any matter, that it all but frightens me to have any

one look to me as one who is expected to have some influence. This is no

mock humility; I think as well of myself as I deserve. I am aware that

it grows in some measure out of the newness of my position, and know

that time and habit may bring somewhat different feelings; but it is

only these which _can_ do it, and I must suffer for a long time yet from

this as well as from the other effects of isolation."

We are the more willing to disclose such feelings, in connection with

such character, from the fact that the world is severe in its judgment

of those, whose affliction is not worn as a garment or an altered

visage, but whose whole aspect and demeanor, even their occupations and

apparent enjoyment of life, are nearly the same as at other times. At

the time of her writing the words which we last quoted, Mrs. Ware had

just exerted herself to collect in her own desolate home a little circle

of children and youth for their social enjoyment, in which she freely

mingled, and doubtless seemed cheerful and happy. And yet she said of it

soon after, that at no moment since her trial had she felt so intensely

or suffered more poignantly. "Every word was an Herculean labor; and I

was conscious that all were disturbed by it. For once, I must say, _I

could not help it_. And shall I tell you all my wickedness? I have in

vain tried to look at life with sufficient interest to care about

living. It has seemed to me that my children would be as well without

me, as they could be under my imperfect guidance. I could not excite in

myself any of that zest in the pursuit of an object which alone could

satisfy the heart. I felt _homesick_ when I waked up in the morning, and

would fain shut my eyes and forget that there was any thing for me to

do."

How much she _did_, particularly in regard to that which we see was most

upon her heart, the care and culture of her children's minds, will

appear in larger extracts which we make from letters of this and the

previous year, brought together as referring to the same great subject

of education and domestic discipline,--the first having been written to

her husband, the others to her children.

"My dear Henry: ... When I am left to the sole care of my

family, there is nothing that exercises my mind more than the

right performance of family worship. It seems to me that it

ought to be more peculiarly adapted to the capacities of

children than we are apt to make it. For the older and

well-educated part of a family, other means of instruction and

communion with God are open and acceptable every day; but the

children and domestics must of necessity depend upon this

exercise for nearly all the religious influences of the day.

The simplicity of diction which would fix the attention of

even little children, would not be too plain for the generality

of domestics; and we all feel that the most simple is often the

most sublime and affecting expression in relation to the soul's

connection with its Creator. I think, therefore, that the main

object should be to excite in the minds of those present some

clear ideas, which will be likely to stay in their minds

through the day, and work there to some definite result; and

that the choice of subjects should grow as far as possible out

of the peculiar circumstances of the family,--not merely the

general, but particular circumstances. For instance, if they

are about separating, to dwell upon the use to be made of such

an event, reminding us of _final_ separation and the tenderness

which should grow out of that thought towards all that are

left. Is one child peculiarly out of humor? It will do no harm

to any to be reminded of the importance of governing our

passions; and, if done in the right way, subdue the rebellious

spirit more than any arguments. So, too, with regard to reading

the Scriptures; it seems to me the time is all but lost if a

familiarity of the words only is gained, and that the book

should never be closed without having the attention fixed upon

some one at least of the useful passages read, either in the

way of explanation or application to duty.... I have not time

now to put into shape half that is in my mind, but I really

feel that we do not do justice to our children in not acting

more directly upon their religious characters every day. In

many instances, I believe a wayward spirit might be checked by

having a useful current of thought opened for it, which would

take off the mind from the subject of irritation."

* * * * *

"Dear E----: ... Looking at affairs at home from a distance, I

see many points in which we need improvement, and I want to

talk and read more with you upon the subject of education.

"When we look back, and see and feel how much the circumstances

by which we were surrounded, and the treatment of those about

us, affected our views, we must bring it home to ourselves that

what _we_ are now doing is having the same influence upon them.

God has set us apart in families to mark out for us a specific

line of duty; and however we may wish that our path had been

different, or our duties less arduous, as they are of His

appointment, we have reason to believe they are the best for

us. The longer I live, the more I realize the value of love,

affectionate interest; and I think that many things, which we

are apt to consider of moment at the time, ought to give way

whenever they interfere with the cultivation of the affections

in children. Disagreeable manners, childish though annoying

ways, may be remedied in after-life, and are, after all,

matters of very secondary importance in comparison with the

growth of love, which is often sacrificed to them. To children

the perpetual irritation of a check in trifles keeps the temper

in a turmoil, and, by their standard, makes small things as

important as great ones. Fault-finding is blame to them, be the

subject what it may, and they will have an association of

jarring and displeasure with those who keep it up, let the

cause be ever so small, as lasting as if it were larger. We

need change in this thing; we want a more cheerful atmosphere,

a more affectionate, interested one, in which the affections

may grow, and have room to expand. I do believe in Mrs. ----'s

doctrine to a great extent, that _virtue_ thrives best in an

atmosphere of love. We should gain our object better, if,

instead of finding fault with an action, we set ourselves to

produce a better state of feeling, without noticing the action.

Children imitate the manners of their elders, more especially

of their elder brothers and sisters; for of course they feel

that they are similarly situated, not always making the

distinction of age which is expected of them. And I have always

observed that the younger members of a household take their

tone from the character and ways of the first in their rank,

more than from their parents. I could name many instances of

this which have come under your notice, as well as mine, and it

does, as you say, make the responsibility of an older sister

great. But do not feel that it is too great; be contented with

doing all that you can, and not discouraged because you cannot

satisfy your own conceptions. It is best for us, it is said, to

aim at perfection; even if it is not to be attained, it keeps

up our efforts for something higher and higher."

* * * * *

"My dear E----: ... The old saying, that 'children will be

children,' might be improved by the substitution of 'should'

for 'will.' I mean in the sense, that their natural characters,

which are as different as their faces, _ought_ to be educated

gradually; not requiring of one child any thing because

another child does it, to whom the thing may be perfectly

easy, or more than we can in justice require of them at their

age, in consideration of their peculiar circumstances. We are

to judge and discipline a child simply in reference to its own

individual character and circumstances, and deal with it with

the single view to the improvement of its individual character,

rather than to our own comfort or even its external

improvement. Now, of course, the application of this principle,

in detail, involves a great deal of thought, observation, and

self-denial; but if we really desire to do good, and this

opportunity of doing it is in our path, can we engage in a work

of more extensive good, when we consider how these children's

characters are to influence a still larger circle, and how

great is our responsibility to future generations as well as

the present, that we do all we can to prepare the way for their

best instruction?... But to come down to our own case. We all

take too much notice of mere _disagreeables_. The evil of doing

this is obvious; if the child is dealt with in the same way for

making a noise, or for carelessness, that it is for a moral

delinquency, it soon learns to confound moral distinctions; and

if it is fretted by being perpetually talked to about small

things, it is easily worked up to a state of irritation which

leads almost insensibly, and certainly without any design, to

the commission of some moral misdemeanor. I think we may often

see this with all children, and it is very clear, in such a

case, that their sin is as much our fault as theirs. We should

watch our own state very carefully, and see how far our desire

to cheek them grows out of our own peculiar state at the time,

and how far that influences our view of the offence. We all

know that what at some times we feel to be a great annoyance,

is of no consequence to us at others; and for the same reason,

in a different physical state, it is sometimes easier for them

to control themselves than at others."

* * * * *

"Dear E----: ... I think it is good for young people to have

some variety in life. I suffered much from the want of it; and

I trust that you have too much good sense and right feeling to

be unreasonable in your wishes, or in any measure unfitted for

the duties and enjoyments of home by the indulgence. I know it

has formerly been a great trial of your patience to pass from

the irresponsible position of a visitor, to the occupations and

responsibilities of home. But I trust, as you grow older and

look at life more and more with a clear appreciation of its use

and end, you will take more and more delight in the

consciousness of living for some useful object; and, despite

unpleasant accompaniments, find, in using all your powers for

the good of others, a pleasure beyond any to be derived from a

mere indulgence of taste. We cannot, and we had certainly

better not, if we could, choose our own lot in life; we know

not in that matter what is best for us. It is happily under the

guidance of a more perfect wisdom than we can attain, and we

may rest in faith that our position in life is unquestionably

the best one for us, or it would not have been appointed.

Therefore, dear E., remember that He who appointed all 'knows

what is in man,' and in wisdom and love adapts our trials to

our wants; and the very fact that such and such things are

particularly hard to bear, is a proof that we need to cultivate

just those virtues which would make it easy to us to bear

them."

* * * * *

"Most people think it as well that the young should 'fight

their own battles,' as they term it, and find their own way out

of their childish troubles. But I believe many a character is

seriously injured by the want of _aid_ in its petty

difficulties, at that period when the right principles of

action are most easily taught; they are as necessary to the

right adjustment of small matters as of great.... I do not

think as much as I once did of the loss of constant intercourse

in the daily routine of life, in cultivating family affection.

I believe family attachments are sometimes increased by

occasional separation. But I do think a great deal of the loss,

to a girl, of all domestic education, for the whole of that

period when domestic occupations can best be learned. Of all

objects in life there is none more distasteful to me than a

_merely_ literary woman; no amount of learning is a fair

balance, in my mind, for the feminine graces of a true woman's

character. It is not merely that she looks better, clean and

tidy, or that a careful use of the needle is a preventive of

waste in the use of means,--although these are considerations

worth weighing. But there are internal graces connected with

these external habits; and there is no higher object for a

woman's life than the cultivation of those powers which make

the comfort of a well-ordered household."[5]

[Footnote 5: A strong assertion; but it is evident that Mrs. Ware's idea

of a "well-ordered household" comprised all that the Scriptures mean by

the direction, "Set thine house in order."]

* * * * *

"_December 31, 1843._ The last day of this most eventful year!

Dear Annie, how many precious, solemn thoughts does the very

writing its date suggest! In all the future years of our lives,

be they many or few, no one, it now seems, can bring to us so

great, so affecting a change in outward things, as this year

which is just passing away. It is not only that the outward

circumstances of our lives are to take a new course, because he

has left us who was to us the leading and controlling spirit in

all that pertained to our life in this world, but that we shall

no longer feel the perpetual action of his character in the

daily detail of the education of our souls....

"Your expressions of discouragement and anxiety about yourself

touch me very much. I can enter fully into all your feelings,

for at your age I was not only separated from the loved circle

and influences of home, for a time, but I lost for ever my

chief earthly dependence for aid and happiness in my mother's

death. Thus, being left to myself, I was led to a

self-inspection and care of my own character, which do not

usually come for many years after. I know all the trials that

beset one's path at your age, for I have had deep experience of

them; and I can say with confidence to you, that they may all

be overcome by a resolute will, united to a true spirit of

_humility_. Not, perhaps, in one year or two; but I do know

that, by the persevering use of the means which God has placed

within our reach, in reliance upon and earnest seeking of the

aid which he will give, we shall make progress in the

Christian life, the only life which can give us any

satisfaction.... Seek the _truth_ in your own character, and

see it in others. Fix for yourself a high standard of

excellence, and never 'tire nor stop to rest,' until you have

put yourself in the way to attain it. Stop not then; there is

no stopping in this world (or in another, I believe).... Look

your great difficulties full in the face; seek not to gloss

them over, or find excuses for them. You have them as the means

of excellence, by giving you something to do, a mode of

applying Christian principle. Use them as such, and faint

not....

"One thing I would suggest. You have been in the habit from

earliest childhood, and I trust are still, of praying before

you close your eyes to sleep. I am not sure that you have

always done the same when you first awake in the morning. I

know that much good may be derived from thus commencing the day

with some private devotional exercise. The time given to it

must of course depend upon circumstances; yet there cannot but

be, under any arrangement, opportunity for at least the

offering of a petition for light and strength, to meet the

duties and temptations of the day on which you are entering,

and a thought and resolution in regard to some particular fault

to which you know you may be prone. I cannot but believe, that,

when the day is so commenced, there is less danger of yielding

to temptation than if no such act were performed."

One is perplexed to understand how Mrs. Ware, who neglected no duty,

found time to write so much; for the letters here published are a small

part of all she wrote, and scarcely any do we publish entire. The

explanation is, that they were written after every thing else was done,

at night, and very late in the night. It shows the strength of her

frame, that she could follow this habit through life, till near the end.

We suppose it to have been very rare that she was not up and at work

beyond midnight. So was it particularly during the winter after Mr.

Ware's death; when her great solace and chief occupation were found in

reading and arranging the immense mass of his manuscripts and unfinished

works. She says in December: "The sense of the uncertainty of life,

which is always awakened by the circumstance of death, made me anxious

to do a great deal with respect to Mr. Ware's papers, which no one could

do as well as I; the day was too full of movement to allow an

opportunity of doing this before evening, and I found myself night after

night poring over manuscripts until twelve, one, and two o'clock, for

weeks together." This is not mentioned as an example to be followed; nor

is there reason to think that it is ever done with entire impunity. But

the work to which she thus gave herself, through that lone winter, was

one of pure and high gratification. "It was a touching employment, not

melancholy. This living life over again, when all its sands have been

'diamond-sparks,' not dazzling, but reflecting the bright hues of

heaven, cannot be melancholy; it is but a type of future blessedness."

But not for her own pleasure alone was this done. She had yielded to the

earnest desire of all the friends of her husband, that a Memoir should

be written, and many of his letters and private papers given to the

public. Not, however, without long deliberation and great reluctance did

she give her consent; for, as we have said in the beginning of this

work, it cost a hard struggle, and even "agony," to open to the public

eye that "sacred inner life" which seemed her own, and only hers. But

here, as everywhere, she soon conquered all selfish feeling, and, taking

the largest view of usefulness and duty, afforded every facility for a

faithful exhibition of such a character. To her son she says: "I know

that, if the picture of what he was is to be a true one, it must have

all those beautiful lights and shadows thrown into it which come from

the light of the soul; and I hope to be able so to lay aside all

personal consideration, as to do what ought to be done in this regard to

make the work as _useful_ as it can be. I trust you will feel so too. In

our horror of gossip, do not let us go to the other extreme, and be too

external and cold." In all such relations, it was a great part of her

principle and power of action, that she had entire faith in her

husband's knowledge of her motives; with the added conviction, that,

whatever had been his thoughts and wishes under the burden of the flesh

and of disease, he was now looking only at the highest and broadest

aspect, the spiritual and eternal issues of every act. Her communion

with his mind seems to have been as habitual and actual as it is

possible to conceive. Again and again does she refer to it, and

expresses regret and pain when a doubt is raised, or a check given to

the full, cordial assurance of the "fellowship of the spirit." And her

enjoyment of this thought was never troubled, but rather enhanced, by

the thought of _another_, with whom the sharer of her affections and her

existence was now reunited in heaven. Distinctly does she refer to it,

in writing to one of the children of those parents who were now restored

to each other. "I never experienced the sense of continued union as

fully as now. It may be visionary, but I know it is beneficial. Your

mother and your father are as much really present with me, to my

consciousness, as if Scripture had told me so, it seems to me. In his

case, it is but a continuation of perfect oneness; in hers, it has

always been the sense of accountableness, which has aided it."

We attempt no concealment of our wish to exhibit fully this rare and

beautiful feature of a Christian's faith and love,--less rare, we would

fain believe, in the reality of its existence, than in the courage that

avows it. We value it, not only for its own sake, in a connection where

it is needed and may be the source of peculiar happiness, but also for

the evidence it affords of the power and glory of our religion. We find

a letter written on the first anniversary, after Henry Ware's death, of

_her_ decease who had been the object of his earliest attachment, and

whom every later change, in life and death, endeared the more. The

letter was written to a child of that departed mother.

"_Framingham, February 5, 1844._

"MY DEAR JOHN:--

"I always feel, when I get your letters, as if I wanted to sit

down and write to you at once, so much have I in my mind that I

wish to communicate to you, and so much do I enjoy free

communication with you. You may thank your stars that I do not

give way to my inclination, for you would have more prosing

than you would care to read. I am tempted now to depart from my

usual custom of writing only once a fortnight, because I feel

so much the want of some one with whom to commune upon the

subject which cannot but occupy my mind upon this day. It is

the first time for seventeen years that I have not had a

delightful conversation with your dear father upon the event of

which it is the anniversary. I loved to hear him tell me of

your mother, for it helped to strengthen the feeling which I

have loved to cherish, the sense of responsibility to her in my

connection with her children. And her character was so fine a

one, and her early experiences so much like my own, that I

always felt that I gained wisdom as well as pleasure in

contemplating it....

"I have often wished I could convey to your mind, without the

intervention of words, what I felt to be the tenderness of the

relation in which I stood to you; for my views and feelings

have always been so different from what I find to be general,

that it was not to be expected that you should understand them

without such communication. From the very commencement of my

connection with your father, I have realized the truth of my

long-cherished theory, that the strength of one affection does

not interfere in the least with the strength of another; we

love not one brother or sister or child the less _because_ we

have another to love; if there is any difference in the degree,

it arises from other causes than number; and I know not why it

should not be the same in all relations, where the soul is

large enough to take so wide a range. I would thank God for

this special blessing in addition, I might almost say above

all others, for without it all others would have had a bitter

ingredient. It has been one of the purest sources of happiness,

that we could dwell together upon the memory of her who had

gone, and feel an equal anxiety and interest in fulfilling her

wishes towards _her_ and _our_ children.

"With the love of your Mother."

One other letter we give from Framingham, addressed to the same son, in

relation to the first experiences and discouragements of the ministry.

Its plain good sense may be of use to some other beginners,--confirmed

as it is by the fact disclosed in it, that some of the strongest minds

and most successful ministers have suffered in the same way.

"_Framingham, March 15, 1844._

"MY DEAR JOHN:--

"... I turn now to that for which I most wished to write,--your

present anxieties in your professional duties. I cannot indeed,

as you say, help you, as _he_ could have done, but O how fully

can I sympathize with you! It is to my mind only the

reiteration of what I have so often heard from him; even after

the ten years' experience which he had had when I first was

partaker of his joys and sorrows, he suffered at times as you

do now; and the details he has given me of his trials when he

was first settled would equal, if not exceed, yours. You may

depend upon it, dear John, yours is a common experience of all

young ministers who have feeling and sensibility enough to be

really good ministers; and you must not be discouraged by

thinking your difficulties grow out of peculiar disabilities. I

remember hearing a parishioner of Mr. Buckminster say, that he

felt so much his incapacity to administer comfort to the sick

and afflicted, that it was distressing to see him in a

sick-room. I wish you could talk freely with some ministers

about it. I have no doubt you would find it more or less so

with all, according to their natural temperament. As I have

said again and again, it is well to keep one's conscience and

sensibilities tender; it is well to realize one's deficiencies

to the extent of making us humble and energetic to improve, but

not to make us despond or be discouraged; for; 'faint heart

never won' the prize of goodness, any more than of the less

spiritual objects. I know what it is to feel that more is

expected of one than _can_ be accomplished; and it is, I grant,

of all things the most distressing. But we must shut our eyes

to all such considerations, and go on, looking only to the

standard we have in our own minds, striving with all diligence

to reach that, and be satisfied with striving, if it be but

real, hearty endeavor.... I remember there were some passages

in Taylor's 'Holy Living,' which used to be a great help to me

in your state of mind. I have not the book by me, and cannot

quote the words. Fenelon, too, has much comfort for one thus

tried.... We forget, in our familiarity with what seem

'commonplaces,' that they really contain the great, fundamental

principles from which all strength, all consolation, is to be

derived; and of course, when the vision is quickened by present

need, they all seem to be worth more than at any other time.

And as to the other point, it is not you that speak,--you are

only the medium by which the truths which _God_ spake are

conveyed to the outward ear; you are only His instrument, and,

while you are to seek to supply yourself with a full portion

from the fountain of all truth, you are to be satisfied to

present it as His, not your own; sympathizing as a

fellow-Christian, not dictating as a leader and guide. I see no

other way in which a young, inexperienced minister can have any

comfort in that department of his duties. Many reasons come to

me which may account for the greater difficulty in cases of

sickness, than in bereavement.

"Truly your Mother."

While looking for a place of permanent residence for herself and family,

with an opportunity of doing something for their support, Mrs. Ware

received an earnest invitation from a gentleman in Milton, to go there

and take the instruction of three little children, in connection with

her own, for two or three hours a day. On many accounts, she was

inclined to accept this offer at once. But she looked well at all sides

of it, and especially at its moral aspect and probable influence upon

character. One is struck with her plain and practical, yet comprehensive

and exalted view of the question, where so many would have looked only

at the immediate and tangible advantage. "There are many things to be

weighed before so great a step is taken. Expense is of course a great

item, but not the greatest. The influences upon my children must be the

first, usefulness the second, and the possibility of living without debt

a _sine qua non_ anywhere. Now I am not a very romantic person, and am

not disposed to live under any less refining influences than I can help.

But my children are destined to work for their living, and I wish to

have them as happy in doing so as right principles and a healthy tone of

mind can make them." The result of full reflection was favorable to the

plan; and the wisdom of her decision, while it affected all her

remaining days, became more and more manifest to the end. From that

moment she had a new object, demanding and creating new energies. "I

already see how I shall be a great gainer by this plan, in the strength

of the stimulus it will offer to mental effort. In fact, I begin to

realize that I am more exhausted mentally than I am physically, by the

anxieties of the past, and absolutely need the application of salutary

mental medicines, as my body would of physical, if it had suffered in

proportion."

Thus another change was to be made,--and the last, in a life of change.

It cost an effort. "This first going forth alone, to bear new

responsibilities, to make a new experiment, unaided by _his_ strength,

unassisted by his wisdom,--this is indeed to realize the loss of his

companionship as I have not done before. But that blessed faith! that

faith in Him who is 'the strength of the lonely,'--I have a trust that

it will be sufficient for me, although I cannot now see how."

A few lines to one of her children, as the last record on that sacred

spot, closes the life at Framingham.

"_March 26, 1844._ I think you will like to have a few words

written from this room, consecrated as it is to us, by having

been the last earthly home of dear father's spirit. This is the

last time I shall sit in this spot; and I feel as if all the

memories of the past were concentrated in this moment of time.

How much do they tell of the peaceful and holy life which was

here closed; how much recall of that triumphant struggle with

the weakness of humanity! Dear child, may we never lose the

influence of those last days passed in this place; may it

strengthen, encourage, quicken us to all diligence in our

Christian warfare; knowing that, if we strive as he did, we too

may enter into that rest which we doubt not he has attained.

_This is a holy hour_,--this leaving the things that are

behind, and stepping forward into a new, untried scene of

life's discipline,--alone,--and yet not alone, for the Father

is with me."