Chapter XXV: Introduction (13)

"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."

XIII.

LIFE IN MILTON.

"Life in Milton is a very different thing to me, if you are
here or elsewhere; but I warn you against letting me cling to
your sympathy, as I may if you give me so much of it. I have
such a sense of vacuum in life, that I am in danger of leaning
upon any one who will let me lean upon him; and my sense of
impaired powers is so constant and oppressive, that I need to
be driven to action, rather than spared it, to rouse my
energies. This is no false modesty; I am sure that I am not
myself; I have not yet come to act freely in my new position in
life; I am not 'at home,'--shall I ever be in this world?"

Thus did Mary Ware write to a friend and true sympathizer, whose residence in Milton was one of the great inducements that had drawn her to that place. She had been there but a short time, and had not yet risen from the complete exhaustion of body and mind--the effect of years of solicitude, exertion, and suffering--for which she made too little allowance. She had been more than mortal, if she had not felt the effect, especially in the inevitable reaction when the great anxiety and demand ceased. She would not allow that or any thing to plead for her; and her danger was, as we have seen, that of forgetting the designed and necessary sympathy between body and mind. She did not always forget it. Her balanced mind led her to suspect the true cause of the change that had come over her; and she confessed that what she had called "a stroke of mental paralysis" was only physical, though affecting for a time all the powers. Still she was inclined, through its own unconscious influence, to give it a different name. "I doubt not you will smile at my quick sensibility to every thing which is likely to injure myself; and I am deeply convinced that I am growing more and more selfish." Selfish in moral sensibility! May we not be instructed by this, as by the other aspects of her eventful life? There is good sense in the pleasantry of her words to Emma not long before, in regard to power. "I sometimes wonder whether you and I are doing ourselves or our constituents justice,--whether we do not attempt too much, to do any thing as it had best be done,--whether we secure sufficient repose of mind to keep our judgments clear, our thoughts bright, and the supply of mental food what it ought to be to enable us to have the best influence of which we are capable."

The first letter which we find dated at Milton discloses much both of the inward and the outward state.

"_Milton, June 11, 1844._

"DEAR N----:

"You have no doubt expected long ago to hear from me. You had a
right to do so, and must have wondered at my silence, as I
could not but know how much you must wish to hear of our new
life. But I have purposely forborne to write; I could not have
addressed myself to you, without uttering all that was passing
in my mind and heart; and so perfectly chaotic has been the
state of my feelings, that I was sure it was best to wait until
time and experience had arranged and quieted them, before I
trusted myself to the slightest expression. It was as if the
fountains of the great deep of my soul were broken up, and the
waters were overwhelming every power and faculty. I thought I
had anticipated the whole amount of suffering which my
isolation was to bring to me, and vainly imagined that I was
prepared to meet it with a firm mind; but nothing but
experience can picture the agonizing sense of desolation, which
entering upon a new life, unaided by the sympathy that has been
so long the light of life, brings to me. Nothing in life can
come near it, unless it be the homesickness of a little child,
when for the first time it finds itself in new scenes without
its mother's presence. At Framingham I was but living out the
plan of life which we had formed together; the sense of
association was not for a moment lost, and it was comparatively
easy to realize the continued presence of the spirit. But on
leaving that home, I seemed for the first time to be cast upon
the world alone, and every moment's experience in Boston and
elsewhere only increased this feeling, until it reached its
height in the necessity of forming here a new plan of
existence, under circumstances of great responsibility,--alone.
I used to think I felt all of loneliness that could be felt, in
that little chamber in Pearl Street, and that humble cottage in
Osmotherly; but that was nothing to this. I had then never
known what perfect sympathy was; I could not understand as I
now do its loss. I have been a puzzle to myself; but I still am
sure that I would not change, one iota, the decree of
Heaven....

"We came hither the last week in April, and find everything
pleasant, and every body kind. As far as I can yet see, I think
I anticipated very truly the pros and cons of the case, not
excepting my own incapacity for the employment. One would laugh
at the idea of a woman of forty-five doubting her capacity to
teach children their letters; but the intellectual is the least
part of the concern to my view, and I still think I have no
tact for the education of children. The little I can do for my
own is through the connection which nature has established, not
a power of my own acquisition. I have determined to try the
experiment for a year, and the result only can decide the
question of the expediency of pursuing it another year. I must
consider the good of my own children first, of course.... My
time is entirely filled, from early rising to very late
sitting. The only time I can take for writing is at night when
all are in bed, and I ought to be; for the constant bustle of
children wearies my head much.

"Yours, as ever, lovingly.

"M.L.W."

So far from mental infirmity or loss, the mind of Mrs. Ware was never, we should say, more active or energetic than at this time, as soon as she was wholly rested. It is obvious, indeed, that the growth of the mind had kept pace in her, as in many, with the growth of the affections and higher aspirations. In such a character and life, mental and spiritual are nearly synonymous. The spiritual had been always in exercise, sharply disciplined and expanded. And thus chiefly, thus only, we may almost say, had she advanced mentally. For she was not a student. No period of her life had permitted her to be an extensive or habitual reader. Persons, and not books, events and experiences, were her study. She lost no opportunity of direct instruction, but she made it subservient, or rather concomitant, with other engagements and positive duty. And no better mental discipline, perhaps, could she have had, in connection with the communion she enjoyed with the best minds, and the lessons of her lot. We see the effect, and the progress, continually. There is a striking difference between her earlier and later letters. We have felt, in fact, that injustice may have been done, in giving so many of not only the early, but the unstudied and hurried, productions of one so pressed and unpretending. But they all serve to show her as she was.

If we mistake not, vigor rather than feebleness will be seen in her remarks upon that vast and inexhaustible subject, which now engaged her most,--education. She had always thought herself incompetent to teach; and no burden or responsibility did she feel more painfully, than that of opening, furnishing, and guiding the minds of children. This can never seem a light or easy task, unless to the superficial in self-knowledge and conscientiousness. Where the religious principle and the moral aim are like hers, we can understand any confessions of humility or distrust, in view of such a work; and we do not doubt the entire sincerity of the fear she more than once expressed, that she had almost done _wrong_ in giving up the reluctance she at first felt to assume the office of a wife and mother, on account of her disqualification for so great a charge. And now that it had become an undivided charge, now that her children were left to her alone, and she had engaged to be their teacher and sole guardian, she felt that the duty, the solicitude, and the happiness of her life were centred there. "O my dear child!"--she exclaims, in addressing one of them, and referring to all,--"when I think of what you _may be_, my heart beats almost impatiently to stretch forward; for if life is ever again to have any zest to me, ever to seem like life, it must be through the successful struggles of my children. On them I now must rely for all I can enjoy of this world; their affection, their character, must be my sole dependence."

In a letter to Emma, a little later, she speaks of her suffering from the real or imagined loss of power, particularly in reference to the young. "I sometimes think that some strange change has taken place in my 'physical'; for I cannot otherwise account for the torpor which hangs over my mind. All the little animation I ever had seems to have departed; and, although my mind is crowded with thoughts, they are a dead letter when I attempt to use them for purposes of conversation. I feel this to be a great evil in my intercourse with children. To be sure, their own inexhaustible spirits are mostly sufficient to their happiness; yet they need sympathy, not formally expressed, but existing in the atmosphere about them. I think I have felt the want all my life of a more cheerful home in early childhood, a fuller participation in the pleasures and 'follies' of youth. I want to have my children remember their home as the happiest spot, because the most sympathetic as well as the most loving."

Of Mrs. Ware's seven children, all, excepting the oldest son, made part of the family circle, with occasional absences at school. To one of the daughters who was absent most, there are many letters containing well-defined thoughts on intellectual and moral discipline, and disclosing more fully the fact of her own trials of temper in early life, to which we have before alluded, but which many find it difficult to believe. From these letters we take the passages that follow, the first relating to a visit to Framingham.

"_Milton, October 1, 1844._ O, I did so enjoy being upon that
sacred spot, living over again, as we can scarcely do but by
the power of association, all the details of the holy time of
which that day was the anniversary! I felt that it strengthened
my faith and trust, that I could recall there something of the
gratitude which I felt when that weary spirit was just
emancipated. I had needed this; for as the cares and
responsibilities of life have pressed more and more upon me
every day I have since lived, their accumulated weight was
beginning to keep down and obscure that brighter vision which
faith then revealed. I had a delightful walk alone in the
woods, recalling the sweet words which I had had with dear
father when we strolled through those woods together. How
strong is the power of association! I found that particular
spots revived thoughts which he had uttered when there, which
perhaps I should never again have recalled, elsewhere."

* * * * *

"_October 18, 1844._ ... I have determined, as a fixed
principle, not to go beyond my income, for any thing short of
necessity, and it is a delicate question to settle what
necessity is. I choose to take it for granted that there never
can be a question in any of our minds, that taste is to be held
in subjection to principle, and I am not only willing, but
desirous, to indulge taste, _within that limitation_, to the
utmost bounds of my ability. I think a refined taste has an
indirect, but certain influence upon morals; and I never can
believe that one of my children will ever for an instant be
pained at any restraint put upon them by a necessity which God
has ordained.