Chapter XXIV: Introduction (12)

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:--