{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_36928/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_36928","id":"gutenberg_36928","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36928","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: History - American","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Unitarians -- United States -- Biography","Ware, Mary L. (Mary Lovell), 1798-1849"],"text":"\n\n\n\nProduced by Julia Miller, Mary Meehan and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n MEMOIR OF MARY L. WARE,\n\n WIFE OF HENRY WARE, JR.\n\n BY EDWARD B. HALL.\n\n\n Seventh Thousand.\n\n BOSTON:\n CROSBY, NICHOLS, AND COMPANY.\n NEW YORK:\n CHARLES S. FRANCIS AND COMPANY\n 1854.\n\n Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by\n CROSBY, NICHOLS, AND COMPANY,\n in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of\n Massachusetts.\n\n CAMBRIDGE:\n STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY\n METCALF AND COMPANY,\n PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nI. INTRODUCTION\n\nII. CHILDHOOD\n\n Parentage.--Character of the Mother.--First Training of Mary\n Pickard.--Early Visit to England.--Friends there.--Voyage\n Home.--Extracts from Letters.--Residence in Boston.--Pearl\n Street.--First Friendships.--Nature and Education.--A Friend's\n Description of Mary.\n\nIII. MENTAL AND MORAL CULTURE\n\n School at Hingham.--A Teacher's Reminiscence.--Sickness and\n Death of Mrs. Pickard.--Mary's Position.--Her Father's\n Circumstances.--Dr. Park's School.--Earliest Letters.--Thoughts\n and Themes.--Chosen Friend.--Peculiar Confidence.--Return to\n Hingham.--Teacher's Account.--Moral Decision and\n Declaration.--Letters.--Joining the Church.--Henry Ware.\n\nIV. DISCIPLINE AND CHARACTER\n\n Mr. Pickard's Embarrassments.--His Correspondence with\n Mary.--Her Sympathy and Faith.--Her Teacher's Testimony to her\n Piety.--She leaves Hingham.--Her Grandfather's Death.--Devotion\n to her Grandmother.--Visit to Northampton.--Her\n Self-distrust.--Interest in Dr. Churning.--Letters on his\n Preaching, and Interview with him.--Correspondence with Miss\n Cushing.--Death of her Grandmother.\n\nV. CHANGES AT HOME\n\n Leaving Pearl Street.--Fears for the Future.--Pecuniary\n Means.--Business and Travel.--New York and Baltimore.--Mr.\n Pickard's Displeasure.--Return to Boston.--Letters on\n Providence and Bereavement.--Death of J. E. Abbot.--Living in\n Dorchester.--Morbid Feelings.--Marriage of her Friend.--Her own\n Trials.--Influence upon others.--Interesting Case.--Dr.\n Channing's Absence and Return.--Death of her Father.\n\nVI. VISIT ABROAD\n\n Loneliness.--Invitation to go Abroad.--Letters relating to\n it.--A Friend's Admiration.--Arrival in England.--Mrs.\n Freme.--Letters from London and Broadwater.--Isle of\n Wight.--Paris.--Her Friends' Return to America.--She remains\n with Relatives in England.--Chatham.--Burcombe House.--Many\n Letters.--Arrival of E. P. F. from America.--Letters from\n Sydenham.--Tour to Scotland.--Description of the Country.\n\nVII. SCENES OF SUFFERING\n\n The Poor Aunt.--Osmotherly.--Sickness and Sorrow among\n Kindred.--Mary the Chief Nurse and Devoted Laborer.--Details in\n Successive Letters.--She goes to Penrith.--Recalled to\n Osmotherly.--Further Changes.--Her own Sickness.--Anxiety of\n Friends in England and America.--Joy at her Escape.\n\nVIII. NEW RELATIONS\n\n Return from England.--Welcome Home.--Labors of Love.--Henry\n Ware's Preaching.--Interest and Engagement.--Their Letters to\n Friends.--Views of the Relation of Stepmother.--Parish\n Relations and Duties.--Sense of Responsibility.--Desire of\n Usefulness.--Visit to Northampton.--Disappointments.--Husband's\n Illness at Ware.--She goes to him.--Thence to Worcester.--Birth\n of her First Child.--Husband's Journey for Health.--Poetical\n Epistle to his Wife.--Newton.--Return to Sheafe\n Street.--Attachment and Removal.--Brookline.--Plan for\n Cambridge.--Thoughts of Europe.--End of Parish Life.\n\nIX. EUROPEAN TOUR\n\n Sailing for England with her Husband.--Her Feelings at leaving\n the Children.--Difference between this and her former\n Visit.--Her Husband's Sickness and Depression.--The Great\n Trial.--Their Route.--England and Scotland.--The\n Continent.--Geneva and Letters.--The Treatise on Christian\n Character.--Italy.--Naples and Rome.--Annual to Mrs.\n Paine.--Birth of a Daughter.--Mr. Ware's Discouragement.--Mrs.\n Ware's Anxiety.--Her Account of Sufferings and\n Exertions.--Their Return to France and England.--His Excursion\n alone.--Her Provision for her Aunt.--Letter to her\n Children.--Passage Home.--Husband's Illness.--Arduous\n Offices.--Her View of her own Constitution.\n\nX. LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE\n\n Final Leave of the Parish in Boston.--Removal to Cambridge--New\n Position.--Chief Anxieties.--Pecuniary Straits.--Mrs. Ware's\n Sickness, long and serious.--Husband's Feelings.--Emma's\n Visit.--Letters to Mrs. Paine and Emma.--Mrs. Ware's Recovery\n and Summons to Concord.--Mr. Ware's Illness there, and\n Apprehensions.--Her Use of the Warning, and Habit of\n Preparation.--Death of her Son Robert.--Her Account.--Devotion\n to her Children.--Letters to John.--Cases of\n Hospitality.--Crowded, but never worried.--Journal to\n John.--Letters at the End of 1832 and 1833.--Dangerous Illness\n of a Child.\n\nXI. LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. (CONTINUED.)\n\n Prudence in Sickness.--Mrs. Ware's View of it, and\n Experience.--Her Principle and Practice in Regard to\n Dress.--Exemption from Sickness.--Social and Private Efforts\n for Others.--Moral Cases.--General Intercourse.--Sympathy with\n Children.--Hatred of Gossip.--Husband's Severe Illness in\n 1836.--The Aid she rendered him.--Her Interest in the\n Theological Students.--Their Testimony to her Kindness and\n Influence.--Pecuniary Embarrassment--Death of a Sister.--View\n of Events and Circumstances.--Continued Mercies.--Pleasant\n Letters.--A Change approaching.--Various Records.--Her Husband\n goes to New York.--His Sickness there, and her Joining\n him.--Return, and Resignation of Office.--Dark\n Prospects.--Strong Faith and Hope.--Leaving Cambridge.\n\nXII. LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM\n\n Pain of Removal.--New Residence.--Generosity of\n Friends.--Extracts from Letters.--Faithful Domestic.--Views of\n Service.--Larger Extracts.--Death of Dr Channing.--Kindness of\n Neighbors.--Mr. Ware's Illness in Boston.--Her\n Feelings.--Return to Framingham.--His Jaunts and final\n Sickness.--His Death.--First Sabbath.--Burial at\n Cambridge.--Letters to Children and Friends.--Isolation and\n Suffering.--Labor, Mental and Manual.--Preparation of a\n Memoir.--Communion with her Husband and the Departed\n Ones.--Letters to her Son.--Looking for a new\n Residence.--Decision for Milton.--Last Record of Framingham.\n\nXIII. LIFE IN MILTON\n\n Mrs. Ware's Fears of Loss of Power.--First Letter from Milton,\n describing her Condition.--Progress of Mind seen in her\n Letters.--Views of Education.--Reliance upon her\n Children.--Various Records.--The New Cottage.--Love of\n Nature.--Beginning of Disease.--Continued Work.--School.--Views\n of separating Children.--Trust for Things Temporal and\n Spiritual.--Annuals for 1845 and 1846.--Letters of\n Sympathy.--Letters to her Children.--Son at Exeter.--Her Visit\n there.--Views of Preaching and Preachers.--Tribute of a\n Pastor.--Family Religion.--Important Letters.--Equanimity in\n Sickness.--Death of Emma.--Visit to Cambridge.--End of the\n Year.--The Time yet remaining.\n\nXIV. THE END\n\n Last Days natural, not wonderful.--Quietness and\n Enjoyment.--Relative Duties.--Decline of Strength.--Disclosure\n of her Disease.--Private Paper.--Visit to her Son.--Once more a\n Nurse and Helper.--Sinking and Rallying.--Accounts of her by\n Friends.--Her own Account.--Influence upon Others.--Her Pain at\n being praised.--Letter from England.--Her last\n Letter.--Conversation on the Future.--Her Pastor's\n Visit.--Closing Expressions.--Her Husband's Words.--Death and\n Burial.--Conclusion.\n\n\n\n\nMEMOIR.\n\n\n\n\nI.\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nThe life of an unpretending Christian woman is never lost. Written or\nunwritten, it is and ever will be an active power among the elements\nthat form and advance society. Yet the written life will speak to the\nlarger number, will be wholly new to many, and to all may carry a\nhealthy impulse. There are none who are not strengthened and blessed by\nthe knowledge of a meek, firm, consistent character, formed by religious\ninfluences, and devoted to the highest ends. And where this character\nhas belonged to a daughter, wife, and mother, who has been seen only in\nthe retired domestic sphere, there may be the more reason that it be\ntransferred to the printed page and an enduring form, because of the\nvery modesty which adorned it, and which would never proclaim itself.\n\nSuch are our feelings in regard to the subject of the following Memoir,\nand such our reasons for offering it to the public. It has not been\nwithout scruple, and after an interval of years, that the family and\nnearest friends of Mrs. Ware have consented to the publication of facts\nand thoughts so private and sacred as many which must appear in a\nfaithful transcript of her life. Perhaps this reluctance always exists,\nparticularly in regard to a woman and a mother. In this instance it has\nbeen very strong, and it is but just that it be made known. Never was\nthere a woman, we may believe, more retiring or peculiarly domestic than\nshe of whom we are to speak. Never, we are sure, were the materials of a\nlife more entirely private, and in one sense confidential, than those\nwhich we are to use; for letters are all the materials we have, and\nletters written in the unrestrained freedom of personal friendship, in\nthe midst of pressing cares, and with a rapidity and unstudied\nnaturalness, which will appear in all the extracts, but are still more\nmanifest in the entire originals. Her correspondence was voluminous, to\nan extent unsurpassed perhaps in a life so quiet, with no pretence to\nliterary character, and nothing ever written except for the eye of the\nreceiver. How would the writer have felt, had she supposed these letters\nwere ever to be opened to the public eye? It is a question which many\nask,--some with pain, some with decided disapproval. It is a question\nwhich we have asked ourselves, and we prefer to answer it before we\nenter upon the work.\n\nTo answer it unfavorably, to yield to this natural reluctance to publish\nany thing designed to be private, and in its nature personal, would\ndeprive us of the best biographies that are written. It would restrict\nto single families, and to a brief period, the knowledge of facts and\nfeatures, of all most reliable, most valuable. Indeed, it is this very\nfact of humility and reserve, of freedom and naturalness, indulged in\nconfidential communion and the quiet of home, that reveals most the\nreality of virtue, force of character, disinterested nobleness, and the\npower of religion. Who is willing that the knowledge of such examples\nshould be withheld from the many who crave it, and whom it would\nstimulate and bless? Shall we make no sacrifice of our own feelings,\nsupposing it to require one, shall we hoard exclusively for our own use\nthe richest of God's gifts, when those by whom the gifts have come to us\nspent their lives in service and sacrifice for us? To these obvious\nconsiderations, we will add our firm faith in the knowledge which\ndeparted friends have of the motives from which we are acting, and of\nthe influence which their own modest virtues and lowly efforts on earth\nmay exert upon those remaining here; thus continuing, in a higher and\nsurer way, the very work for which the loved and the pure always live,\nand are willing to die.\n\nIt is in point, not only for our immediate purpose, but for the\nexhibition in part of the character we would delineate, to say that\nthese were the feelings of Mrs. Ware herself, in regard to a memoir of\nher husband. Public as a large portion of his life was, she shrunk from\nthe exposure of that which was private, and which seemed to be sacredly\ncommitted to her own keeping. She remembered, too, his peculiar\nsensitiveness in this connection, and the injunctions he gave when under\nthe influence of disease and depression. But another voice came to her\nfrom his present higher abode and larger vision; and thus she wrote to a\nfriend, of the conflict and the decision, in language applicable now to\nher own case:--\"I cannot tell you the agony it has given me at times, to\nrealize that that sacred inner life, which I had felt was my own\npeculiar trust, was no longer mine, but was to be shared by the whole\nworld. But this was sinful, selfish, earthly; and I have gradually left\nit all far behind, and can now only be glad that such a life is shown\nfor the aid and encouragement of others.\"\n\nIt is our desire to give to this Memoir as much as possible of the\ncharacter of an autobiography. We have few facts except those found in\nthe letters, with the advantage of an intimate intercourse for more than\ntwenty years. In the several hundred letters and notes that have been\nput into our hands, there is nothing that might not appear, so far as\nany one else is concerned. This fact is well worthy of note, as\nbelonging to the character, and revealing a remarkable elevation and\npurity of thought,--that in such a mass of free epistolary writing, from\ndifferent countries and to persons of every age, not a single severe\nstricture, not one unkind allusion or offensive personality, much less\nany approach to petty gossip, can be found. We feel the greater freedom\nin making copious extracts; and shall attempt little more than so to\narrange and connect them as to give a fair view of the whole life, or\nrather of the mind and character that appear in every part of the life.\nThat a life so private contained such a variety of incident, and a\nmeasure of unavoidable publicity, was the ordering of Providence; and\nmay serve to show that the sphere of woman, even the most domestic and\nsilent, is broad enough for the most active intellect and the largest\nbenevolence.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nCHILDHOOD.\n\n\nMary Lovell Pickard was an only child, her parents having but one other,\nwho died an infant before the birth of Mary. She was born in Atkinson\nStreet, Boston, on the 2d of October, 1798. Mark Pickard, her father,\nwas an English merchant, who came to this country on business, and\nremained here. Her mother was Mary Lovell, daughter of James Lovell, and\ngranddaughter of \"Master Lovell,\" so long known as a classical teacher\nin Boston. James Lovell, the grandfather of the subject of this Memoir,\nwas a man of mind and influence. He had been active in the Revolutionary\nwar, and was once made prisoner at Halifax, sharing there, it is said,\nthe prison of Ethan Allen. Subsequently he was a prominent member of the\nContinental Congress, and at the adoption of the Constitution received\nthe appointment of Naval Officer in the Boston custom-house, a place\nwhich he retained until his death. A man of free and bold thought,\nassociating much at one time with French officers, Mr. Lovell adopted\nsome infidel principles, became familiar and fond of Paine's arguments,\nand, as we are led to infer, treated religion with little respect in his\nfamily; the family in which Mary Pickard, as well as her mother, passed\nher childhood and youth. James Lovell had nine children, but only one\ndaughter, Mary, who grew up the idol of the family. At the age of\ntwenty-five she married Mark Pickard, who was seventeen years her\nsenior, but not her equal in intellect or energy, we infer, yet always\nkind and most tenderly attached to her. She was a woman of rare\nexcellence, in whose character, as drawn by those still living who knew\nher well, we can see, as usual, much that accounts for the character of\nthe daughter.\n\nMrs. Pickard had been educated in Boston, and well educated, having a\nnaturally vigorous mind and strong common sense. She was a woman of\nself-culture, loving books and choosing the best, conversing with marked\npropriety as well as ease, and exhibiting decided energy and generosity\nof character. In person, she is described as remarkable; of so\ncommanding figure, benignant countenance, and dignified demeanor, as to\ndraw general observation in public, and suggest the thought once\nexpressed by a gentleman of intelligence,--\"She seems to me as if she\nwere born for an empress.\" Yet her empire was only the home, and her\nlife peculiarly domestic; with enough of discipline and change to prove\nher fortitude, but never to damp her cheerfulness. She was a Christian.\nIn early life, perhaps from causes already referred to, her mind had\nbeen disturbed, and apparently doubts raised, though never fixed, by\nsceptical writers and so-called philosophical reasoners,--more common in\ngood society then than now, and more bold and insidious, notwithstanding\nour complaints of present degeneracy. A gentleman to whom Mrs. Pickard\nhad once communicated her difficulties, and who was less a believer than\nshe, spoke of her the day after her death, in reference to that\nconflict, as \"one of strong mind, who took nothing upon trust\" even at\nthat early age when she approached him with \"obstinate questionings.\"\nWhatever the effect upon his faith, her own was strengthened by all\ninquiry and experience. She was a member of the Episcopal Church, though\napparently less a devotee to its ritual than Mr. Pickard. Not sect, but\npiety, was the source of her power and peace. \"In religion,\" says one\nmost intimate, \"she was unostentatious and charitable, but decided and\nsincere; and her whole life was an exhibition of the ascendancy of\nprinciple over mere taste and feeling.\"\n\nSuch was the mother, who was the constant companion and instructor of an\nonly daughter, through the whole of childhood; for Mary never attended\nschool, that we can find, until she was nearly thirteen years old. But\nin that best of schools for the very young, an intelligent and quiet\nhome, she was well instructed in the common branches, in habits of\norder, refinement, and frugality, in principles of undeviating truth and\nintegrity, and in that most essential of all accomplishments for a girl,\nwhether in ordinary or exalted station, the use of the needle. Her\nmother also taught her to sing, being herself passionately fond of\nmusic, with one of the sweetest voices, and, though not a great\nperformer, enough so to impart a love of it to her child which always\ncontinued, associated with holy recollections. \"Often,\" says one, \"at\nearly evening, just before going to rest, have I seen the little girl\nupon her mother's lap, and have heard her singing her evening hymn:--\n\n 'Teach me to live, that I may dread\n The grave as little as my bed'; &c.\"\n\nIn January, 1802, Mr. Pickard was called to England on business, and\ntook with him his wife and the little Mary, then but three years old.\nThey remained there a year and a half, visiting both his and her\nrelatives, in different parts of the kingdom; Mrs. Pickard being\nconnected, on her mother's side, with Alexander Middleton, a Scotch\nfarmer, in whose family Ferguson, the astronomer, lived as a shepherd\nboy, and of whom, with his wife and three children, there are still\nexisting likenesses drawn in pencil by that lad, so celebrated as a man.\nAmong such friends, and in such new scenes, we can believe a deep\nimpression would be taken by an observing, thoughtful child, though at\nan age when it is considered of little consequence what a child sees or\nhears. Mary never forgot the enjoyment or the instruction of that visit.\nWhen she was again in England, twenty years later, she wrote her friends\nhere that she was surprised to find herself recognizing her old home in\nGuildford Street, London, and other objects with which she was then\nfamiliar. And years afterwards, when her own children came round her\nwith the never-satisfied request, \"Mother, do tell us about when you\nwere a little girl,\" the standing favorites were incidents which\noccurred either in England or on the voyage home, and particularly the\nfollowing. During the voyage, her fifth birthday came round, and the\ncaptain promised her baked potatoes for her dinner, but, as the cook\nburnt them, threatened to give him the \"cat-o'nine-tails\"; when poor\nlittle Mary, not taking the joke, burst into tears, and begged him \"not\nto hurt the kind, good sailor, who didn't mean to burn the potatoes.\"\n\nA lady who came as passenger in the same vessel, has told us of the\npeculiar sweetness of little Mary, and the universal interest and love\ninspired by her in the ship's company. And this from no outward\nattractions, or efforts to commend herself, but by the simple power of\ngoodness, and her ever-prompt obedience. If inclined to go anywhere, or\ndo any thing, not approved by her mother, it was always enough to\nsay,--\"It will make me unhappy, my child, if you do that.\"\n\nA few extracts which we are permitted to make from letters that passed,\nduring this absence abroad, between Mrs. Pickard and her parents, will\nhelp to show the respect and affection which the daughter inspired, as\nwell as the interest felt in the little granddaughter.\n\nUnder date of January 10, 1802, James Lovell writes from Boston to his\ndaughter in England:--\n\n \"I constantly recur to the joyful consideration, that you,\n though absent, are still left to me, an amiable object, within\n the reach of hope, and a source of expected comfort for my last\n days. I think of you, at this moment, as safely arrived with\n your most worthy husband, and my _None-such_, in health, and\n happy among your friends. My engagements in office, especially\n since General Lincoln has been confined by sickness at\n Hingham, have occupied me very much. Though it is evening,\n little Dickey is bristling up and attempting to sing, that I\n may not forget to tell my dear little _Molly Pitty_ how\n constantly he looks for her in the morning, at the rattling of\n the tongs and fender. Kiss the dear child for me.\n\n \"JAMES LOVELL,--need I add,\n your affectionate father?\"\n\nIn February, 1803, Mrs. Pickard writes home to her mother:--\n\n \"Your pickles and berries came in good order, and were very\n acceptable, particularly to my darling Mary. She often thanks\n you for them, and is now writing to you, and interrupts me\n every minute to hear her read her letter. My father must not\n laugh, and say I call my goose a swan; every one allows she is\n a charming child. You will not be able to deny her a large\n portion of your love, though you have so many lovely ones with\n you. She has been an inexhaustible source of comfort to me\n since I left you; and, as if she knew it would please us all,\n most of her conversation is of home and the friends she left\n there. She has a sad cold, but she says she is always happy.\n Farewell, dear mother. God bless you all.\"\n\nMarch, 1803. From the same:--\n\n \"We are still in Guildford Street, but think of going into the\n country, where Mary may have more field for exercise. She is\n pretty well, but wants a little country air. I wish you knew\n all her little chat about you, so pleasing to hear, but so\n foolish to write. She is very tall and lively.... Mr. P. is\n even more anxious than I to go home. Mary is the only contented\n one. She is happy all the time. She has a very sweet\n disposition, and I hope will one day be as great a comfort to\n you as she is to me. She is telling me a thousand little\n affectionate things to say to you.\"\n\nIn the fall of this year the family returned to Boston, and lived with\nMrs. Lovell in Pearl Street; and there, with parents and grandparents,\nMary found a home, whose blessing filled her heart, and never left her\nto the day of her death. The home of her childhood,--how reverently and\ntenderly did she revert to it, through all the scenes of a changing and\neventful life! Often has she said, that she was continually carried\nback, not only in her waking, but her sleeping hours, \"to the old Pearl\nStreet house and garden; assembling the various friends of all the\ndifferent periods of her life, in dream-like incongruity, in the little\nparlor, with its black-oak wainscoting.\" There also were formed some of\nthose first friendships, which do not cease with childhood, but affect\nthe happiness of a lifetime. The other half of the block in which they\nlived was occupied by Colonel T. H. Perkins, and with his children, of\nwhom some were near her own age, she grew up in terms of daily intimacy.\nIn the partition between the two houses there were doors which were\nentirely closed, except their keyholes; and through these, Mary and her\nfavorite companion used to sing to each other \"all the songs we could\nmuster,\" and exchange notes and experiences, the pleasure enhanced, no\ndoubt, by the excitement of the little mystery occasioned by so peculiar\na mode of communication.\n\nSo far as our scanty materials of this period enable us to judge, we\ninfer that in the training of this favorite child there was a singularly\nwise union of control and indulgence. Mrs. Pickard seems not to have\nbeen one of the parents who think control and indulgence incompatible;\nnor does it appear that Mary was inclined to refuse the one, or abuse\nthe other. The true training, we suppose,--if there be any rule for\nall,--is that which allows to children all the freedom and enjoyment\nconsistent with deference to authority, refined manners, and fixed\nprinciples of truth, gentleness, and unselfishness. That these\nprinciples may be inculcated without sternness or perpetual restraint,\nindeed with a large allowance for the necessary activity and often\nirrepressible exuberance of childhood's spirit, few can doubt, though so\nmany deny or forget it in practice. From the views which Mrs. Ware\nherself always expressed on this subject, and the reverence and\ngratitude with which she adverted to her own childhood, we are confirmed\nin the impression, that such was her uniform experience at home, and\nwith the happiest effect. \"It has been said,\" writes a friend of her\nmother, \"that she was much indulged; and I believe it may be said so\nwith truth. But she was not indulged in idleness, selfishness, and\nrudeness; she was indulged in healthful sports, in abundance of\nplaythings, in pleasant excursions, and in companionship with other\nchildren, as much as might be convenient. I never knew her to be teasing\nand importunate, obstinate or contradictory.\" Nor is this to be\nascribed, as many will be ready to ascribe it, to natural temperament\nand a peculiar exemption from ordinary temptations and trials. Of few\npersons, perhaps, would this be more generally inferred or confidently\nasserted, from a knowledge merely of her subsequent character. It is on\nthis account that we refer to it particularly, and for this not least\nthat we value the example. For we know it was _not_ a case of peculiar\nexemption and easy control, but rather a remarkable instance of early\nconflict, the power of principle, and perpetual self-discipline. This we\ngather from occasional hints in conversation, and from letters to her\nown children, some of which will appear in their proper place. At\npresent, we only adduce, for the right understanding both of this and\nlater periods of her life, one or two short passages, like the\nfollowing, from a letter to a daughter. \"The tendency to self-indulgence\nwas also one of my trials, in early life, when I grew rapidly and had\npoor health.\" \"My trials of temper were different from yours, but they\nwere very great.\" \"What a comfort it is, that, although those who see\nonly the outside can never compute _what is resisted_, all our struggles\nare known and appreciated by Him who looketh on the heart as it is; and\nthat He who alone can give us strength is thus enabled to know when and\nhow it is needed.\"\n\nTo this brief sketch of her childhood we venture to add an extract from\na letter just written us, by a gentleman than whom no one living,\nprobably, was more intimate with Mary and her home, at that early\nperiod. After a warm tribute to the character of the mother, confirming\nall we have said of her, he speaks thus of the daughter:--\n\n \"When I first remember her, it is as a gentle, loving, active\n child, always doing some little useful thing, and the darling\n of her parents' hearts. When her character first shone on me\n in its higher attributes, I do not know. But I seem to myself\n to remember, that there never was a time when I could have\n supposed it possible that she would do any thing that was not\n exactly right; when I had not perfect confidence in her tact\n and judgment to discern duty, and the prompt and unhesitating\n determination to do it, as _the only thing to be done_.\"\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nMENTAL AND MORAL CULTURE.\n\n\nRemaining in Boston, with little change, until she was thirteen years of\nage, Mary Pickard was then taken by her parents to Hingham,\nMassachusetts, to be under the care of the Misses Cushing, whose school\nfor girls enjoyed at that time, and as long as it continued, a very high\nreputation. Her instructors there, who still live, seem to have regarded\nher as a friend and companion, rather than a child and pupil; and the\nfresh recollections and tender love with which they always speak of her,\nand delight to dwell upon her early and mature character, give us an\nimpression of more than common excellence. This will best be shown by an\nextract from a letter written since her death to one of her children.\n\n \"Your dear mother came to us first in June, 1811; a sweet,\n interesting girl, thirteen years old, tall for that age, and\n with the same sweet expression of countenance she ever\n retained; remarkable even then for her disinterestedness and\n forgetfulness of self, and her power of gaining the love of all\n around her. She went home in November of the same year, and\n returned to us again in 1814.... She was with us but little\n more than one year in the whole, and in that short period\n endeared herself to us in a remarkable manner. For with the\n love which we could not but feel for her was mingled a respect\n and admiration for her high principles, and the piety which\n shone through all her conduct, in a degree very uncommon for a\n girl of her age. As a scholar she was exceedingly bright, and\n quick to comprehend, and would, I always thought, have made an\n excellent mathematical scholar, had she pursued the study of\n that branch. Her capacity for accomplishing a great deal in a\n short time was always remarkable, and I believe she never\n undertook any thing that she thought worth her attention, that\n she did not go through to the satisfaction of others, if not of\n herself. Her chief object, even when a young girl, seemed to be\n to do good, in some way or other, to her fellow-beings, and she\n considered nothing too difficult for her to undertake, if it\n could benefit another person either in a temporal or moral\n view. You have had sufficient evidence of this, since you have\n been old enough to judge for yourself, and I can only tell you\n that it seemed to be, at an early period of her life, a living\n principle with her. Yet, with all this devotedness to the\n highest objects and purposes of our existence, she was one of\n the most lively and playful girls among her companions, and a\n very great favorite with them all.\"\n\nMary had been but five or six months in the school at Hingham, when she\nwas called back to Boston by the threatening illness of her mother, who\ncontinued feeble through the winter, and died in the month of May\nfollowing. That winter must have been one of peculiar experience to\nMary. It was her first great trial. She loved her mother, not only as\nevery true child must, but with a reverence and affection heightened by\nthe unusual circumstance of having been always the pupil of that mother\nalone, regarded as a companion also, and called now to the tender\noffices of a nurse, at an age when most children can ill bear\nconfinement and devotion to the sick. Mary was never happier than when\nthus occupied, as her whole life has shown. To her it was no task, but a\ngrateful privilege, to spend all her time at the side of a revered and\ndeparting mother. For six months was she allowed to give herself to this\nblessed ministry; and when it closed, she was left, a girl of thirteen,\nthe sole comfort and chief companion of her father, now past the prime\nof life, broken in spirits and in fortune, clinging to this only child\nwith doating and dependent affection. She now became an important member\nof the family in Pearl Street, with her desolate father, and her\nvenerable grandparents, who were still living, depending themselves more\nupon her for their comfort than upon the only son that remained with\nthem, a young man whose fine talents and affectionate disposition were\nperverted and ruined by sad habits. These were circumstances to call out\nall her energy, and make full proof of her judgment and gentleness. Mr.\nPickard had for some time been embarrassed in business, and, from a\nstate of easy competence, was then and afterwards reduced to the\nnecessity of the strictest economy. Of his daughter's essential service\nto him in this respect, we have frequent intimations in his own letters;\nand not only by her prudent management, but also by her generous and\nactive aid, as will be seen still more a few years later. For her father\nsurvived her mother eleven years, and during the whole of that period,\nthough not always together, Mary was his efficient helper, and his\ndevoted nurse in sickness, of which he had a large share.\n\nFor two years after her mother's death, she remained wholly in Boston,\nenjoying part of the time a new privilege, which she greatly\nprized,--admission to the best school for young ladies then in New\nEngland, or the country,--Dr. Park's. That she would improve such an\nopportunity to the best of her ability, we need not say. Of her\nproficiency as a scholar, there are no particular proofs. She was never\na prodigy, but she never slighted opportunity or duty. She appeared\nalways well, distinguished at least for faithful preparation and uniform\naccuracy. And especially was she distinguished for moral excellence. She\nwas the friend and favorite of all. If petty difficulties occurred, Mary\nPickard was the peacemaker. Her impartiality, amiableness, kindness to\nall, and perfect truthfulness, endeared her to the teacher and all the\npupils; from several of whom we have had the testimony, that no one ever\nexerted a better influence upon any school.\n\nThe earliest letters we have from Mary were written in 1813, the year\nafter her mother's death, and about the time of her first going to\nschool in Boston. They are the letters of a school-girl, but not of a\nchild. While there is in them no indication of remarkable powers, to\nwhich she did not pretend, nor her friends for her, they show a habit of\nreflection and power of discrimination, with a choice of topics not\nusual at that age. A few passages may be given, very simple and\njuvenile, but indicative of character.\n\n \"_Boston, February 27, 1813._\n\n \"MY DEAR N----:\n\n \"I am determined another day shall not pass before I answer\n your letter. I think it is the best way, when we receive a\n letter, to sit down immediately and answer it; at least I find\n it so, though I do not always practise it.... We talk so much\n when we meet, that there is little left to write, and I am now\n at a loss what to say. The folly of the fashionable world is an\n old story, and if not, is too _vast_ a subject for our limited\n views of it. Of our school plan we have said much, but we can\n say more. I had no idea that such insignificant beings as we\n are, in comparison, could ever afford matter for so much\n conversation as there has been on this subject. Although\n opinions could not alter the case, yet it is certainly very\n satisfactory to know that our doings are approved by those\n whose good opinion we value. I look forward with much pleasure\n to the day on which we shall commence our studies. We shall\n feel very awkward at first, but it will soon be over, and then\n we must endeavor to keep ourselves exempt from the condemnation\n that falls on the whole school for the faults of two or\n three....\n\n \"I am reading 'Temper,' and like it much better than I expected\n to, having heard nothing in its favor, and, besides that, being\n _prejudiced_ against it. I have condemned prejudice in others,\n but never felt the effects of it before; I dislike it now more\n than ever,--it is certainly a most unreasonable thing. I like\n some of the characters very much, and it is not as yet very\n tedious, but contains many good lessons. I find many that I can\n apply to myself, and (as usual) some to other people. It\n cannot, however, be compared to 'The Absentee' or 'Vivian.'\n Novels are generally said to be improper books for young\n people, as they take up the time which ought to be employed in\n more useful pursuits; which is certainly very true; but as a\n recreation to the mind, such books as these cannot possibly do\n any hurt, as they are good moral lessons. Indeed, I think there\n is scarcely any book from which some good may not be derived;\n though it cannot be expected that any young person has judgment\n enough to leave all the bad and take only the good, when there\n is a great proportion of the former. I know we are too young to\n hold up an opinion of our own, independent of the superior\n judgment of those older, and this I would not do. I have\n collected mine from observation, and, if it is not right, would\n thank any one to correct it; nor would I offer it at all to any\n one but you, or those of my own age.\"\n\nThat last sentiment will seem _very_ juvenile to many young people of\nthe present day, but it is none the worse for that. Nor by this writer\nwas the expression of such sentiments restricted to that age; for\nmodesty and deference, combined with self-respect and decision, were\nmarked features and peculiar graces of the character we are presenting.\nThey are features and graces of a strong mind. Superciliousness, in\nyouth or maturity, is a sign of weakness. And it says little for the\nimprovement or the promise of the present, if it be true that respect\nfor experience, reverence for age, and meekness of expression, are rare\nqualities in the young. Mary was still young, when she wrote to her\nfather,--\"I am no advocate for destroying that delicacy which forms, or\nought to form, so great a part of the female character. But such a\ndegree of it as is not compatible with sufficient firmness to command\none's self in danger, appears to me to be false modesty, or 'sickly\nsensibility of soul,'--beneath the dignity of beings endowed with power\nfor higher feelings.\" Here is that union of humility and courage which\nmarked her whole course.\n\nIn all her early letters there is an entire absence of that trivial talk\nabout dress, parties, and the gossip of the day, so common at her age.\nInstead of it, we find remarks either upon moral and religious themes,\nor upon her reading and studies. In the very earliest letter we have,\nwritten in a child's hand, she speaks of her interest in the \"Life of\nWashington, in five large octavo volumes,\" and expresses the opinion,\nthat \"the history of one's country ought to be the first historical\nlesson of a child.\" About the same time, we find her deeply engaged in\nan argument upon the moral influence of the study of astronomy; and her\nmind rises to the highest and the largest views.\n\n \"The hand of Almighty God certainly should raise in our souls\n such unbounded adoration and love, that our only object would\n be, to be worthy to appear before the presence of such\n excellent goodness, and partake of the joys of heaven. It seems\n unaccountable, that any one could for a moment raise his eyes\n to the sky and not be convinced of the being of some superior\n power, who rules and directs the paths of the planets and the\n ways of the children of men. If we for a moment transport\n ourselves to another part of the universe, and behold our\n little insignificant Earth in comparison with the rest, or with\n any other planet, and consider how highly favored it has been\n with the presence of the Son of its Creator, are we to think\n that we alone are thus honored, and that superior worlds are\n not endowed in the same manner with a knowledge of heavenly\n things? But I find myself getting into an argument, on which,\n though the subject may be interesting, the style of the writer\n must be tedious.\"\n\nThese extracts are from letters written to a friend near her own age,\nwith whom there began at this time the longest and most confiding\nintimacy of her life, out of the circle of immediate connections, if\nindeed any exception need be made. To this friend are addressed some of\nthe first and last letters that Mary ever wrote, and by far the larger\nnumber of all which we use for this sketch. It is an evidence of the\nfaithfulness of her friendships, that from the date of the earliest\nletter we have, through nearly forty years, she wrote to that same\nfriend, beside other occasional letters, \"a New Year's epistle,\" every\nyear, to the last in her life. And to her were confided her first and\ndeepest trials, disclosed to no one else, and beginning while at school.\nThere is something both ingenuous and magnanimous in such sentiments as\nthe following, from a girl of fifteen, whom the death of a mother had\nplaced in circumstances of peculiar responsibility, and often painful\nperplexity.\n\n \"I expose to you my weaknesses, my faults, my passions. There\n is but one thing of which I have the slightest apprehension.\n You may sometimes hear me blamed for deeds which you know are\n right. You will hear my lot in life envied, as apparently all\n that the reasonable wishes of any being could desire. And\n sometimes, too, busy Scandal, which honors even the most\n insignificant with her notice, will glance at me. Your\n generous, affectionate heart will prompt, I well know, on\n those occasions, some defence of your friend. But never give\n way to it; never whisper to the winds that she has any trials.\n It will necessarily involve the question, What are they? You\n are the only person to whom I ever communicated them, and my\n conscience almost reproaches me for it. I try to think my\n peculiar loneliness sanctions it, but my very uneasiness proves\n it was not strictly right, and I would not for worlds sin\n farther. You will bear with me. All this is foolish, but I must\n say it. I defy any one to tell from my appearance that I have\n not every thing to make me happy. I have much, and I am happy.\n My little trials are essential to my happiness. They teach me\n to value the only true sources of enjoyment this life can\n afford,--the affection of the good, the cultivation of the\n better feelings of the soul in the service of their Creator,\n and the joyful hope of a better, purer state of existence.\n Blessings and peace go with you, and pure, unalloyed felicity\n be your portion for ever.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nIn the latter part of the year 1814, Mary left Boston for Hingham, to be\nagain in the family and under the tuition of the Misses Cushing. Of her\ncharacter then, and the renewed impression made upon her instructors, a\nletter which we have recently received from one of them will give the\nbest idea; though, from regard to the writer's wishes, we quote but a\nsmall part.\n\n \"I can hardly give you an idea of my feelings towards her,\n during the whole of her residence with us, without seeming to\n speak extravagantly. Every day's experience confirmed our first\n impressions of her, and showed in some form the sweetness of\n her disposition, her self-sacrificing spirit, and untiring\n devotion to the claims of those about her. She possessed such\n purity of heart, and elevation of principle, as were certainly\n uncommon at such an early period of life, and which, it seemed\n to me then, could only arise from a constant sense of the\n Divine presence, and an habitual communion with the Source of\n all good. Love was always, with her, the predominant feeling in\n her thought of God, and I have heard her say she never\n remembered the time when she did not feel that she loved God.\n This was said, you may be sure, not boastingly, but from\n surprise at hearing some one speak of the difficulty of giving\n the heart to God.\"\n\nAnd now came a crisis in that inner life, which was always greater to\nMary Pickard than the outward. Always thoughtful as well as cheerful,\nher interest in religion, and her wish to be wholly a follower of\nChrist, led her to an act, too rare with the young, and requiring, in\nschool and college particularly, courage as well as principle. She\ndesired to connect herself publicly with the Church. And the convictions\nby which she was brought to this purpose, with the views she entertained\nof the nature and importance of the act, we make no apology for giving,\nas fully as we find them expressed in her own letters; for there are\nolder minds that might be instructed, and doubters who might be\nadmonished and aided, even by so youthful a believer. Mary had received\nbaptism in Trinity Church, Boston, but it is evident that in her moral\ntraining more heed had been given to the cultivation of piety than to\nadherence to forms and special doctrines. The preaching that she usually\nheard, in the church of her parents, did not edify or satisfy her; a\nfact which we give, without comment, as part of a faithful record, and\nas we find it in her own account to a son, in one of the last years of\nher life. The language in which she there describes her early religious\nwants is unusually strong for her, and might seem extravagant. We give\nonly the result of her dissatisfaction with what she heard from the\npulpit. \"The final effect upon me was, by throwing me more upon myself,\nto open a new source of religious instruction to my mind; and I can now\nremember with great pleasure, and a longing desire for the same vivid\nenjoyment, the hours I passed in 'my little room,' in striving, by\nreading, meditation, and prayer, to find that knowledge and stimulus to\nvirtue which I failed to find in the ministrations of the Sabbath.\" And\nthen most earnestly does she exhort her son not to let these things, or\nany thing, tempt him \"to treat sacred things with levity and\ndisrespect.\"\n\nFew minds have kept themselves, through life, more free both from levity\nand bigotry. At the time of which we speak, she seems to have thought\nonly of her own unworthiness, her need of religion, and the greatness of\nthe privilege offered her. A long note which she wrote to one of the\nteachers with whom she was living, and to whom she confided all her\nfeelings, will explain the whole. It bears no date, but must have been\nwritten in the autumn of 1814, when she was about sixteen.\n\n \"_Saturday Morning._\n\n \"Will you, my dear Miss C., pardon my addressing you in this\n way, when under the same roof; but as I could not speak on the\n subject I have now most at heart, in the presence of any one, I\n did not think it right to engross exclusively so much of your\n valuable time as would be necessary to say all I wish to. I\n could not feel satisfied with my own conclusions, until I had\n appealed to you, and I hope this will excuse the liberty I\n take. Though still young, I have tasted the bitter cup of\n affliction and disappointment, and have found thus early that\n all worldly enjoyments are incapable of promoting happiness, or\n even of securing present gratifications; and in every\n deprivation have felt the healing balm of religion to be the\n only source of consolation to the wounded spirit and afflicted\n mind. But I may, indeed, say with sincerity, 'It is good for me\n that I have been afflicted,' for it led me to reflect on the\n end for which I was created, to examine my own heart, and, by\n comparing it with the Christian standard, to prove its weakness\n and awake to a sense of my danger. A very little reflection\n convinced me I had been leading a very different life from that\n which was requisite to form the character of a true Christian,\n and that I must exercise my utmost powers to redeem the time\n which I had lost, and which could never be recalled. Though I\n cannot think the observance of any religious ceremonies\n sufficient to secure future happiness, unless the motive for\n their performance is founded on faith in the word of God, as\n revealed to us by his Son, yet they seem to me necessary, not\n only in a moral, but religious point of view, to the attainment\n of that degree of perfection which we are taught it is in the\n power of every one to attain.\n\n \"Ever since I have thought at all on the subject, it has been\n my earnest wish to be admitted a member of the Church of\n Christ. It is a duty which I cannot but think is of the highest\n importance, both as it is fulfilling the last request of one to\n whom we owe all we enjoy here or hope for hereafter, and as it\n continually reminds us of our obligations to obey his\n precepts, tends to make us better, and more worthy our high\n calling. If we assume the name of Christians, and obey not\n those positive commands of our Saviour which are in the power\n of every one who is sincere, how can we expect to receive a\n continuance of his favors? Fearing I was too young fully to\n comprehend the use and importance of so solemn a rite, I have\n delayed saying or doing any thing about it. I have thought much\n on it, and summed up all the reasons which appeared to me to\n prove it absolutely necessary to our happiness and well-being,\n and all the objections that arose in my mind against the\n propriety of young persons joining in it. I then read every\n book on the subject I could meet with, and found in none of\n them half as many objections as I had raised, and very few\n arguments in its favor which I had not thought of. Do not think\n it has made me think better of myself than I deserve,--far from\n it; it made me feel more sensibly my own unworthiness, when\n compared with what I continually saw I ought to be. Still, as I\n could not give up all thoughts of it, I determined to appeal to\n you. Tell me, my dear Miss C., if you should consider it a\n violation of the sacredness of the institution, to think I\n might with impunity be a member? I am well aware of the\n condemnation denounced on those who partake unworthily, and I\n tremble to think how liable I shall be to fall into error and\n sin, and how much greater will be my responsibility. These\n reflections have hitherto prevented my proposing it to my\n father or any one, and now almost make me fear I am doing wrong\n in writing to you. I am afraid I am presumptuous, and, did I\n not view it rather as a means of religion than the end, I\n should hardly suppose there were many who could say they were\n worthy of it. I cannot think there is any _mystery_ connected\n with it, as some are so eager to prove, and its very simplicity\n renders it the more interesting and useful, and increases the\n obligation to perform it.\n\n \"Forgive me, my dear Miss C., if I have said any thing wrong,\n and correct me if you see any seeds of vice in me. Recollect I\n have been the guardian of myself too long not to have erred\n very much in my ideas of every thing; pity, and make me better,\n if the task is not too discouraging; and be assured, the purest\n love and gratitude of which I am capable will be the sincere\n offering of your affectionate young friend,\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nThe self-scrutiny and humility evinced in this note prevented any hasty\naction. Mary seems still to have deliberated, and sought all the light\nand direction she could obtain. A long letter, of which we give a\nportion, to her true friend, N. C. S., in Boston, shows her state of\ninquiry and progress.\n\n \"_Hingham, January 13th, 1815._\n\n \"You could not possibly have received more pleasure from\n hearing Mr. Thacher's sermon, than I did from reading your\n abstract of it. Nothing could be more satisfactory to me, who\n still doubted whether it would not be a violation of the\n sacredness of the institution, for any one so thoughtless and\n liable to fall into sin and folly to join in such a holy\n offering, with the good and faithful of the earth. But that was\n enough to convince any one who believed the obligation in any\n degree to be great, that it extended to young as well as old,\n and would be an effectual means of turning them from error to a\n knowledge of truth, would make them happy here, and be almost a\n security of it hereafter. And though the punishment of those\n who outwardly profess themselves disciples of Christ, and yet\n devote their time and thoughts to the world, is inevitable, I\n cannot but think it will be in a much greater degree inflicted\n on those who wholly neglect it, particularly when once\n convinced of its importance. We have both felt the power which\n only the sight of others performing this duty has had on our\n minds; what then will it be, when we join in it ourselves, and\n feel the direct influence of those heavenly rays, which\n enlighten the Christian at the altar of his God, and guide him\n in his dreary progress through the world to heaven! Surely then\n we should not hesitate; now, while it is in our power, it would\n be absolute wickedness to neglect the performance of such a\n reasonable and delightful act of duty.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nBut one doubt now remained in her mind; that caused by the many\ndifferences among believers, and the numerous branches of the Christian\nChurch. But this she soon answered for herself, with her usual\nsimplicity and largeness of view. \"I have considered the Church of\nChrist to be one body diffused through the whole world, and that sects,\nform, and opinion made in truth no essential difference;--that all the\nvarious denominations of Christians on the earth were united in one\nspirit and one mind, in all the important doctrines of religion.\" Not\nlong after, she received from her confiding friend an account of similar\nfeelings in herself, together with an excellent note from the Rev. John\nE. Abbot, encouraging their serious purpose. Mary's reply follows.\n\n \"_Hingham, April 1st, 1815._\n\n \"I do, indeed, my dear friend, rejoice with you in the\n unexpected and happy event your last letter informed me of. I\n had felt all your doubts and fears as though they were my own,\n and, I do assure you, participated in your joy with the same\n sincerity. How much reason have we to be grateful for this\n instance of the overruling Providence! Does it not sufficiently\n prove, that, if with sincerity and pureness of heart we\n undertake to perform any duty, we may rely on the assistance of\n the Holy Spirit to guide our steps, and to cause all things to\n concur to render it easy and delightful?\n\n \"I cannot tell you how much it increased my own happiness to\n know that you, too, felt happy; for there is in the sympathy of\n friends something that increases all our pleasures and\n alleviates all our pains. It is to this I owe half that I enjoy\n in this life, and without it wretched must be existence, even\n in prosperity, and all other earthly blessings.\n\n \"I believe I have mentioned often to you the desire I had of\n becoming one of the church here, if I could be sure of\n remaining here this summer. When I found there was no doubt of\n that, I had only to overcome the fears which a consciousness of\n weakness and liability to relapse into former coldness still\n kept alive in my mind. Now all have subsided, and I am\n convinced that it is dangerous to delay so important a service.\n From the moment I had decided what to do, not a feeling arose\n which I could wish to suppress; conscious of pure motives, all\n within was calm, and I wondered how I could for a moment\n hesitate. They were feelings I never before experienced, and\n for once I _realized_ that it is only when we are at peace with\n ourselves that we can enjoy true happiness.\n\n \"... I think, all things considered, I was never more happy in\n my life. It was a bright, clear night, and the moon which rose\n just as I went to bed, shining full on me, seemed to reflect\n the tranquillity of my soul, and appeared to me an emblem of\n the mild light that was just dawning on my soul. I could not\n sleep, and actually laid awake all night out of pure happiness.\n\n \"I will not trouble you with any more of my feelings at\n present. On Sunday we were proposed, and the next Sabbath will\n see the completion of all my hopes and wishes relating to\n myself for two years past.\n\n \"I cannot at present write more, but will finish this next\n week.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nThe church with which Mary connected herself was the Third Church in\nHingham, under the pastoral care of the Rev. Henry Coleman, with whom\nshe speaks of delightful interviews, receiving from him the best\ninstruction and counsel at that important period. She shows at the same\ntime her habit of thinking for herself, as well as her liberal and\nhumble spirit, in the casual remark, \"Though I could not agree exactly\nwith him in every thing he said, as they were not essential points I\nthought nothing of it, and received his advice with as much pleasure and\nsatisfaction as could possibly be.\" The same month she records the\ncompletion of her wishes and her happiness.\n\n \"Last Sunday witnessed the accomplishment of my highest\n desires; for I joined for the first time with those who compose\n the church here, in commemorating the death of our blessed\n Saviour. The feelings it excited are not easily described, and\n as you will so soon experience them, you will thus be able more\n fully to conceive of them than by any thing I could say. I know\n you will derive much, very much satisfaction and happiness from\n it; and I sincerely pray that it may be to us both a means of\n becoming more like its heavenly Founder, and finding acceptance\n with God through his intercession. I wish you could have heard\n our dear Mr. C----. He was particularly interesting and\n affecting; his prayers, too, are better than any I ever heard\n (always excepting Mr. Channing); they breathe more of the true\n spirit of Christian humility than is commonly to be found in\n these days of pride.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nAbout this time we find mention of an incident which appeared then of\nlittle importance, but to which subsequent events, though quite remote,\nhave given so peculiar an interest, that it seems not right to omit it.\nMary Pickard, still a school-girl, saw for the first time the individual\nwith whom, twelve years after, her fortunes were to be connected for\nlife, but with whom, during that interval, she had no intercourse. HENRY\nWARE, then a theological student at Cambridge, was on a visit to\nHingham, his native town, and passed an evening at Miss Cushing's. Mary\ndoes not appear to have had any conversation with him, but simply saw\nand heard him, and wrote to her friend in Boston a frank account of the\nopinion she formed of him.\n\n \"_Hingham, April 9th, 1815._\n\n \"Again, my dear N----, I resume the delightful task of writing\n to you, which, I assure you, gives me a degree of pleasure next\n to that of talking with you, however you may judge from my\n writing so seldom. Since Saturday I have experienced a pleasure\n I never expected, the desire of which I have often expressed to\n you. I have seen, heard, and consequently admired, your Exeter\n friend, _H. Ware_;[1] and though his errand took something from\n the delight his presence would otherwise have completed, it was\n sufficiently great for the safety of so large an assembly of\n young ladies. He was as agreeable as he could possibly be, and\n fully satisfied all the expectations you had raised in my mind.\n He spent Sunday evening here, and as he is very fond of music,\n and it is usual for us to spend a part of this evening in\n singing, we sung psalms from dusk until eight, when he was\n obliged to leave us. He joined in all, and added very much to\n the harmony and melody of our little choir. On Monday evening,\n too, he was here, and much increased the good opinion that had\n been formed of him. I thought his face indicated the greatest\n purity and goodness; I never saw a more benign, delightful\n expression on any face before, and much less any thing like it\n in a gentleman. I will not, however, judge any one by their\n face, particularly as I have not proved myself a good\n physiognomist. Yet I cannot help being in some measure\n influenced by it. How can I look at such a countenance as his,\n and not be confident that there is a mind within correspondent\n to it? There is, though, a want of energy in it, which I hope\n is not in his character; but it is sometimes the case, that a\n love of poetry, and habit of writing it, effeminate the mind of\n man, while they only render more attractive and interesting\n that of woman.\n\n \"He came for his sister Harriet, who has left us, very much to\n my sorrow as well as that of all the family. She has an\n uncommon mind, and possesses much original genius: it is very\n seldom you see such proofs of it in one so young, as to put it\n beyond doubt, that, under any circumstances, love of literature\n would have been predominant. She is a great loss to us, and to\n myself particularly so, as I can never hope to have it in my\n power to cultivate her acquaintance as I should wish. But I\n must be content, and if I can only have the power of\n appreciating as they deserve those friends I now have, I think\n it will be my own fault if I am not happy.\n\n \"With love to all friends, I must conclude by assuring you of\n the firm affection of your friend,\n\n \"M. PICKARD.\"\n\n[Footnote 1: He spent two years at Exeter, as teacher in the Academy.]\n\nThis was written the same month, and within a few days of the date of\nthat remarkable religious paper, which Henry Ware wrote for his own\nsacred use,--\"To be opened and read for improvement, once a\nmonth,\"[2]--seen by no other eye, probably, until Mary herself opened\nit, as his widow! From this time they did not meet, as personal\nacquaintance, until the year of their marriage.\n\n[Footnote 2: Memoir of Henry Ware, p. 83.]\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nDISCIPLINE AND CHARACTER.\n\n\nWith all her deep happiness and cheerful aspect, Mary had many anxieties\nand trials at this time. These were caused by her father's loss of\nproperty and depression of spirits. Mr. Pickard seems never to have had\na large property, but was connected with one of the best firms in\nBoston, and enjoyed a good reputation as a merchant and a man. In what\nway reverses came upon him, we are not informed; but the period of which\nwe speak, just at the close of the war with Great Britain, may be a\nsufficient explanation. Either from his own letters, or through others,\nhis daughter heard of his losses, and had written him a letter which we\ndo not find, but of which the following reply indicates the character.\n\n \"_Boston, April 17, 1815._\n\n \"I have just opened your letter. You are every thing that is\n amiable and good; it is not possible to have a better child.\n But you cannot enter into my feelings, because you know not my\n situation. I will not trouble you with any more complaints, if\n I can help it; I will only tell you that I have done nothing\n that should make you ashamed of your father. If I have not\n enough to pay every one their just dues, it is owing to\n misfortune and events that I could not control. No one,\n however, except the estate, is likely to suffer by me, and you\n of course will be a joint loser; the whole, I hope, will not be\n much. My anxiety is, how I shall get a living,--what I shall\n subsist on. Without any capital, I can do no business. I long\n for the time to come when I shall see you here.... I am about\n making inquiry amongst my acquaintance for employment. If I\n succeed, my mind will be easier; if not, what shall I do? I\n know not. I had a long talk alone with cousin N---- last\n evening. She tried to encourage me with the hope of being able\n to support myself, as we calculated you would, after some time,\n have enough to support yourself without mental or bodily\n exertion. Yet I know, my dear child, that you would exert both\n for me; but how much more satisfactory would it be to me to\n support myself while I am able. It is not the change of\n circumstances, but the dread of want, that depresses me. I did\n hope, too, that you would have been in a better situation; but\n you have a mind and spirits, I hope, to keep your heart at\n ease; for you will be esteemed for your virtues. You see I\n cannot help writing what is uppermost in my thoughts.\n\n \"Your very affectionate father,\n \"M. P.\"\n\nWe have not many of Mr. Pickard's letters, but all we have, even those\nin which he writes in rather an unreasonable mood, as if expecting too\nmuch of this endeared and devoted daughter, yet contain incidental\nexpressions which show his exalted opinion and almost respectful regard\nfor her, as well as a tender and grateful affection. He speaks of having\nshown one of her letters to a friend, who was \"highly gratified with the\nseriousness and piety of your disposition; but she did not need that\nproof of it; and in the troubles and vexations of this world, it is a\ngreat consolation to me to have so good a child, whom I look forward to\nas the comfort of my declining years; you know how much your letters\nplease me, and console me for your absence.\" This we can understand when\nwe read the letter which follows, probably in reply to that which we\nhave given above.\n\n \"_Hingham, April 22, 1815._\n\n \"I did not receive your letter, my dear father, until Thursday\n afternoon, and cannot delay for a moment answering it. I should\n be sorry to think you considered me so weak as to bend under a\n change of fortune to which all are liable, and which does not\n affect the interest of my friends or myself, while a\n self-approving conscience is their support. I trust nothing\n which can befall them with respect to the world will wholly\n overcome their fortitude and confidence in the protection and\n care of a Supreme Being. I can, I think, enter in some measure\n into your feelings, and believe I can feel as you do with\n regard to being dependent on others. I am prepared for almost\n any trial; if my ability is equal to my desire of being of\n service to you in misfortune, I do not fear but that I shall be\n able to support myself, and at least not be a burden to you. I\n am sorry you think so much of my situation. I shall never\n regret the loss of indulgences which I have never been taught\n to consider as essential to my happiness, and which do not in\n any great degree conduce to it. I shall be content in any\n circumstances, while I know you have not brought on yourself\n calamity. I am not so proud that I should feel the least\n repugnance to gaining a living in any useful employment\n whatever; I feel that kind of pride which assures me that local\n situation will not disturb my peace within, and with that I\n could combat almost any thing. I can only regret the loss of\n property, when it makes me an encumbrance to my friends, and\n limits my power of communicating good. As to the former, I\n think, while I can possibly do it, I had better remain here,\n rather than burden any of my friends with my company, and I\n will retrench other expenses for the sake of being independent;\n for I do not think that any service I could do would compensate\n for the trouble I should give; and with regard to the latter,\n the _will_ will be present with me, and though the money means\n were denied me, I do not despair of doing good in some way or\n other. I shall do very well; my only anxiety is for you, lest\n you give up hope of better times, and thus put a stop to the\n mainspring of human action. I cannot but regret that what\n belongs to the estate should be lost, for the obligations we\n are under already to the family are more than can ever be\n repaid, and obligations are to some people oppressive. I shall\n see you soon, and will then make some arrangements. Till then,\n I know not what to propose. I hope to hear from you soon. And\n do write in better spirits; it will do no good to be\n discouraged. With love to all, I remain your affectionate\n daughter,\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nThose only who have experienced reverses, or have seen parents suffer\nfrom them undeservedly, know how hard it is to sustain, beneath their\npressure, a cheerful and buoyant spirit. We can moralize upon the\ncomparative worthlessness of this world's goods, and call poverty and\npain light evils. It is a false view. Poverty and pain are positive and\ngreat evils. Sin only is greater, and sin, it may be, is as often\nengendered by these as by the opposite state of health and affluence. In\nsetting forth the dangers of prosperity, we are not to forget the\ntemptations and conflicts of adversity. Honor to the man or woman, who\nmaintains integrity and serenity in the hour of misfortune!\n\nWe mean not to intimate that the pecuniary perplexities of Mr. Pickard\nand his daughter were extreme. But we believe them to have been enough\nto test the power of character, and to throw a delicate and difficult\nduty upon a daughter, so young, and so connected with friends who were\nable and willing to help, but on whom she was not willing to lean. She\npreferred to lean upon herself, though not in unaided strength. Seldom\ndo we find such evidence of early and entire reliance on a higher Power.\nShe had made her election. With the deliberation and firmness of mature\nconviction, she had given herself to God, and was at peace. How\ncomplete, though quiet, was that surrender, and how full and permanent\nthe peace, every subsequent year of her life bore witness. And there\nwere those who saw this in the beginning, and predicted its future\npower. We are struck with the confidence expressed by judicious friends\nin Mary's \"piety,\"--a word of deeper and larger import than belongs to\nmany beginners in the school of religion and life. It is an incomparable\nblessing, when a faithful and experienced teacher can write to a pupil\nthus:--\n\n \"Could I in any way serve you, how gladly would I do it! But\n when I take my pen to write you, and my heart would dictate\n something, which, to most of your age (particularly when so\n early deprived of a mother's care), might be useful, I am\n deterred by the thought of your maturity of mind, your\n well-regulated affections, and correct and dignified\n deportment. This is not flattery; you know me too well, I hope,\n to believe me capable of that, where my heart is interested. It\n is an opinion founded on a long, and for some time close\n observation. May you feel in your own bosom the reward you so\n richly deserve, and be sensible of those joys with which 'a\n stranger intermeddleth not.' So early disciplined in the school\n of affliction, your heart has felt the need of consolation\n which the world has not to bestow; and at a period of life when\n the follies and vanities of the world most commonly engross us,\n you have been led to an attention to those things which are\n unseen and eternal. God grant that you may be induced to\n persevere in the path of _piety_, to reach forward continually\n to higher attainments, nor ever rest satisfied till you have\n attained the glorious prize which is reserved for the followers\n of the blessed Jesus.... I should not, to many of your age,\n write so much on so serious a subject; but I believe you have a\n feeling persuasion of its reality and importance, and therefore\n will not deem me intrusive.\"\n\nIn the summer of 1815, Mary left Hingham, and returned to her home in\nPearl Street, Boston, where another change had just occurred in the\ndeath of her grandfather, James Lovell. This left her grandmother very\nlonely, and for the remaining two years of her life Mary devoted herself\nto her care, and ministered to her wants, with the same assiduity and\naffection that marked her devotion in her mother's sickness. Not that\nshe was wholly confined to the sick-room, or the house. Mrs. Lovell's\nhealth varied, and allowed occasional visits to friends in and near\nBoston, for several weeks together. One of these visits took Mary as far\nas Northampton; and in a pleasant letter to her father she gives a full\naccount of her journey thither, a very different matter then from what\nit now is. Going from the presence of sickness and sorrow into that\nbeautiful region, her heart expanded with joy and gratitude,--gratitude\nto God, and to those generous friends whose guest she was, and whose\nhospitality she describes in a way that would leave no doubt to what\nfamily she refers, even if there were not a direct mention of one whom\nso many love to recall. \"Mr. Lyman is, without exception, the most\nagreeable man I ever met with; and if I could only overcome feelings of\nrestraint which his infinite superiority makes me have before him, I\nmight be able to enjoy his conversation more. I may overcome it, but as\nyet I cannot, and therefore fear I appear stupid.\" This diffidence she\nnever did wholly overcome, and we can conceive of its having been very\ngreat, at that age. Yet it seems never to have prevented her from going\nforward to the performance of any duty, or appearing with propriety and\ndignity in any position. She had a keen relish for all the beauties of\nnature, and no less for the refinements and pleasures of society. But\nher highest enjoyment, even at that age, was evidently sought and found\nin the company of the devout, and the joys of religion. Her father\ngently reproves her, in one of his letters, for indulging too much in\n\"sombre\" thoughts, and talking of \"trials presenting themselves\neverywhere.\" But it is evident that it was to his own trials that she\nreferred, and his depression may have extended sometimes, though very\nseldom, to her. He himself says of this state of feeling, \"I was not\nwithout fear that I had imparted it to you, which would grieve me much.\"\n\nDuring the long period of her grandmother's sickness, Mary formed a new\nattachment, opening to her a fountain of the purest enjoyment. She was a\nconstant attendant on the preaching of Dr. Channing. When a child, she\nloved to go to his church with that relative and devoted friend of the\nfamily, who, though of the same age as her mother, still lives to mourn\nthe loss of all of them. Led by that hand, which was to her as the hand\nof a mother to the very end of life, (may we not so far depart from our\nrule, in regard to the living, as to give the venerable name of Ann\nBent?) Mary listened very early and intently to the man who has moved\nmultitudes of every age. As she grew up, her evident and strong\npreference for his preaching over all other is said to have been the\nsubject of \"a little affectionate bantering on her mother's part,\" while\nto her more rigid father it was so little agreeable as to cause at times\nsome trial of feeling and a conflict of duty. But where duty pertained\nto God and the whole existence, she never doubted long. Her decision was\ntaken deliberately, with respect and gentleness, but with a force and\nfaith that never wavered, and never failed to supply strength and\nconsolation in her varied trials. Indeed, it was amid trials, as we have\nseen, that she first consecrated herself to Christ, soon after her\nmother's death. And now that she was daily watching the decline of\nanother life very dear to her, at the bedside of her aged grandmother,\nher letters are chiefly filled with accounts of her vivid interest in\nthe _preaching_ she hears, and the effect it has upon her character. Two\nof these letters we give together, as relating to the same subject,\nthough written several months apart.\n\n \"_Boston, Sunday Evening, Sept 15, 1816._\n\n \"How frequently have I heard it said, that we never feel the\n true happiness of having a friend more than when, overwhelmed\n with feelings it cannot control, the heart seeks relief in the\n sympathizing bosom of that Being who alone can comprehend them;\n and never, my dear N----, did I feel this truth more than at\n the present moment, never did I feel more eager to open to your\n view my whole heart, to _show_ you the emotions excited in it,\n for I feel sensible that I cannot describe them. It will not\n surprise you that Mr. Channing's sermons are the cause; but no\n account that I can give could convey any idea of them. You have\n heard some of the same class; they so entirely absorb the\n feelings as to render the mind incapable of action, and\n consequently leave on the memory at times no distinct\n impression. That in the morning from this text, 'He that\n forsaketh not all that he hath, cannot be my disciple,' was\n calculated more than any thing I had _then_ heard, to exalt the\n Christian character; but that this afternoon was as if an angel\n spoke,--'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden,\n and I will give you rest. Learn of me, for I am meek and lowly\n of heart, and ye shall find rest to your souls.' Happiness, or,\n as it is here expressed, 'rest to the soul,' does not, it is\n evident, depend on our situation, as may be proved by a slight\n view of the condition of mankind in general. We see them\n constantly aspiring to something beyond what they possess, but\n which, when attained, adds not to their peace, but rather\n increases their discontent....\n\n \"I doubt whether I have succeeded in giving you any idea of\n what Mr. Channing's sermon really contained, as I cannot\n remember any thing of it but the impression it made on my\n feelings, and I have, I find, given you rather a transcript of\n them than any of his original ideas, as you will readily\n perceive. The object of it, however, was to prove that the only\n real happiness to be enjoyed in the world was to be found in\n that peace of mind which a true and lively faith in the wisdom\n and mercy of God necessarily inspires in the Christian, and\n without which all the pleasures this world can give will fail\n to convey to the heart even one transient gleam of real\n enjoyment. Could you only have been here, you would, I know,\n have been much benefited by it; but you could not feel it as I\n did, for you do not so much require it. My reason and\n conscience have always told me that it was not right to let any\n of the trials I have met, and still meet with, destroy for a\n moment my peace; and though they have sometimes conquered my\n weaker feelings, yet there are times when I find my own\n strength so insufficient that I am almost tempted to doubt\n whether it be in my power to attain. This morning, I felt more\n than ever my weakness, from having had a long and unsuccessful\n struggle the whole of yesterday with myself. That the precious\n privileges this day has afforded me are not lost upon me, I\n hope to prove in the day of future trial. Forgive my egotism,\n but I know to whom I write.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"You said to me, as we were returning from meeting to-day, in\n answer to my observation that 'I had been depending on this day\n during the whole week, and had unexpectedly realized all the\n feelings I anticipated,' that you, too, had expected much,\n thinking that Mr. Channing would give us the sermon he did. I\n have often thought that the very great pleasure we take in\n hearing him preach has given us other feelings and motives in\n our attendance on church than ought to be allowed by the devout\n Christian. The good which is to be obtained from one of _his_\n sermons particularly is indeed a great object, and sufficient\n to induce us to attend the hearing of them whenever there is an\n opportunity; but in our eagerness to hear the sermon, to admire\n it, and endeavor to improve by it, the original intention of\n public worship, I fear, is in a manner lost on us. Do we, when\n we go to the house of God, feel that we are as it were entering\n his more immediate presence? He is, it is true, present with us\n in all places, and at all times; but in the world it is not\n required, neither is it practicable, that our whole thoughts\n should be devoted to any one subject; but when we go to the\n house of worship, is it not that we may, by shutting out of our\n minds the world and all that it contains, give to the Lord of\n the Sabbath every thought? Was it not for this end he gave us\n the day, and renews our strength every week? We are called\n together to worship, not merely with our lips, but to unite\n every thought and feeling in adoration. It is a privilege thus\n to be enabled to call our minds entirely from the cares and\n troubles of life; it gives to those who are oppressed by them\n some idea of heaven, when all the trials which now torture them\n will be for ever forgotten; and to all it should be esteemed a\n high and holy privilege, setting aside the delightful\n instruction we receive, thus to hold communion with Heaven, for\n I can compare it to nothing else. It seems often to me, while\n in the hour of prayer I give myself up to the thought of\n heaven, as though I had in reality left the world, and was\n enjoying that which is promised to the Christian. I fear,\n however, these feelings are too often delusive; we substitute\n the love of holiness for the actual possession, and often\n deceive ourselves. But if we can keep our reason unclouded, we\n have nothing to fear from feeling too much. I would not be\n understood to mean, that the delightful, improving preaching we\n are in the habit of hearing is not a good motive for carrying\n us to meeting; but it is not enough, if it be the only one; if\n the happiness of an unreserved devotion of thought to God is\n not sufficiently great to induce us to seek every opportunity\n of enjoying it, I fear the true, vital piety, which is the only\n support of religion, is imperfectly gained by us.\n\n \"I have not time to write more. I doubt if I have explained\n myself intelligibly, but more of this at some future period. I\n presume there is an appearance of vanity in one paragraph,\n which I will some time explain.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nThis fervid religious interest and enjoyment seems to have filled her\nheart, and absorbed her thoughts, more and more, until, in the following\nsummer, it led to a personal interview with Dr. Channing, of the most\ninteresting kind, to be described only in her own words.\n\n \"_Boston, July 10, 1817._\n\n \"There is a certain state of feeling, or I may now say passion,\n in which the heart must either find relief in utterance, or\n burst; when all the powers of mind and body are suspended, and\n thought, feeling, sensation, are all centred in one sole\n object. It is at such moments as these that we feel the true\n value of a friend who will submit patiently to our detail, and\n sympathize in all. I have just had a long--(I do not know what\n to call it)--with our dear minister. You know how long I have\n wished, yet dreaded it. That I should ever have _dreaded_ it\n appears now a most astonishing fact, except that I knew it\n would humble me to the dust. And why should I not be so\n humbled?\n\n \"It chanced that grandma was too unwell to see him; and I,\n though not in the most composed state of mind that can be\n imagined, was to sit down alone with him, fully determined to\n improve the opportunity and say all that I had so long wished.\n I put on as collected an appearance as could possibly be\n required, and, trembling at the very centre of my heart, met\n him with a smile of joy. Indifferent subjects soon entirely\n subdued all kind of internal embarrassment, (external, I did\n not permit,) when, to my great annoyance, C---- walked in! O\n that I could have rendered him invisible,--deaf, dumb,--any\n thing, for the time being! But patience triumphed; I contrived\n at last to let him understand that I wished him far away. He\n took the hint, but when he rose to go, Mr. Channing did so\n also! I could not but detain him. How I did it, or what\n followed on my part, I know not; I heard all he said, I laid\n every word carefully aside in my mind to be enjoyed at some\n future period, but how foolish, how weak, how every thing\n irrational _I_ was, I cannot, dare not, think. I told him as\n well as I could, with what views and feelings I presumed to\n deviate from the path in which I had been led by my parents,\n what he had done for me, and what I hoped to do for myself. I\n could not have been intelligible, but I will not regret that I\n attempted, though I could not succeed. I am relieved by what he\n said of many unpleasant, oppressive feelings. I felt that I was\n detaining him, or I might have been rather more collected. What\n a state has he left me in! O, could I for ever preserve the\n remembrance of what now fills my heart, could I ever feel as I\n now do, that I am one of the least of all beings, capable of\n being better but shamefully neglecting my best interests,\n awfully responsible for the inestimable privileges I enjoy, but\n wholly unmindful of them.\n\n \"Dearest N----, I am wrong to impose on your patience, but I\n am too selfish to resist. Forgive this sentence. I do not doubt\n your interest, but I may talk too long. This is not the fervor\n of sudden enthusiasm; no, I have long felt my sinfulness, but\n the excitement of talking to Mr. Channing has made me now utter\n it. Give me your prayers, give me your advice, assist me in\n elevating my heart to higher objects, purer joys, than this\n world can give. I love it too well; I want the severing hand of\n trial to rend asunder the thousand evil passions which connect\n me with it.\n\n \"I have scribbled this at your desk; this quiet retreat has\n calmed me. It is, perhaps, fortunate that you were not at home,\n except that you would have been saved this fine specimen of\n what an egotist can write. O dear, how weak I am! excitement is\n so new to me, that it almost deprives me of the use of my\n understanding, or I should not thus betray myself. I know not\n what I am coming to; I was very foolish yesterday; I have been\n worse to-day. Do come and see me to-morrow and lend me a little\n sense, or if you cannot spare it, exercise it yourself over the\n mind of your senseless friend,\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nDuring this season of peculiar experience, Mary sought the confidence,\nand enjoyed the sympathy, not only of the one friend to whom the last\nletters were written, but also of her late instructors in Hingham. The\ncorrespondence between them is of the most confiding character, and\nshows a mutual respect and sense of obligation in pupil and teacher.\n\"Talk not of gratitude, my dear Mary,\" the latter writes; \"has not every\nkindness we have ever had it in our power to show you been more than\ncancelled by your unremitting assiduities to serve and please us? The\nuniform disposition you have ever shown to promote the ease and\nhappiness of all around you, will long remain a sweet remembrance of one\nwhose image is connected in my mind with every softer virtue,\naccompanied by that strength of mind which would enable you, if called\nupon, to sustain uncommon trials. No, I shall not, I cannot, be\ndisappointed in you, my dear young friend; you will be all that your\nopening character now promises, because you have built on a sure\nfoundation. If my life is spared, I anticipate much pleasure from the\ncontinuation of a friendship thus commenced. May it be increased and\nstrengthened while we sojourn together on earth, and may we have the\nhappiness of exciting each other to a higher standard of excellence than\nis generally adopted by the world, and thus be prepared for the society\nof those pure and holy beings we hope hereafter to join.\" These\nexpressions of confidence and encouragement were probably induced by the\ntrying circumstances in which Mary was then placed, partly from her\nfather's misfortunes and feeble health, and partly from the weight of\nher responsibilities in a household where there was not only sickness,\nbut other and sorer trials. She went very little into society, and was\nthrown entirely upon her own resources, in the midst of arduous and\ndelicate duties. Some of her struggles, and the sources of her peace,\nare intimated in the following letters to Miss Cushing.\n\n \"_Boston, June 19, 1817._\n\n \"As I can neither see you nor hear from you, my dear Miss\n Cushing, I must write you, if it be only to say how much I\n think of and desire to see you. I know too well that I do not\n deserve any indulgence from you, but there is something so\n solitary, and at times almost overpowering, in the idea that\n those whom we have best loved, with whom we have passed happy\n hours of intercourse and sympathy, are, though still dear,\n divided from us, not perhaps by distance, but by circumstances\n which we cannot control, that I am almost tempted to repine\n that such must be our situation. You will, I know, be ready to\n ask why I have so neglected the only means in my power of\n continuing that intercourse? I would not complain of it, but I\n have little time, and so many occupations which the call of\n duty bids me not neglect, that I seldom write to any one, and\n always in so much haste that I should be ashamed to send such\n epistles to you. Beside all this, I have so little intercourse\n with the world, or those in it in whom I think you would be\n interested, that I must, from a dearth of ideas in this poor\n brain, write almost wholly of self, the most odious and\n wearisome of all topics. But this very isolation makes me\n depend so much on every little iota of external excitement,\n that I should be satisfied, or rather content, with any thing\n in the form of a letter you would find time to give me....\n\n \"I have felt, and I believe have expressed to you, or Miss\n P----, a kind of discontent sometimes operating on my mind at\n the want of opportunity to become what I have vainly thought I\n might be. But this is all over, and I am satisfied that I must\n be content with a very low degree in the scale of knowledge.\n But I trust I may be good, though never great, and am confident\n that the peculiar situation in which I am placed is one more\n calculated for me than any I could choose for myself. Trial is\n necessary to me, and I am happy in it, except when I am\n conscious it is not improved as it should be. It is not for us,\n who have so many blessings, to murmur if our faith is sometimes\n put to the test; did we view things aright, what now seems\n judgment is in truth mercy. What should we be, were we not\n sometimes reminded of our sins and the weakness of our minds?\n Surely, then, whatever may be the trials which bring us to a\n true sense of our accountability to our Father in heaven, they\n are the kindest expressions of his goodness. I never could have\n any gloomy views of religion, and the more experience I have of\n its cheering influences in the hearts of its votaries, the more\n I am convinced that it is the only sure guide to happiness even\n in this world; how much more in another!\n\n \"You will forgive me for writing you just what happened to\n occupy my mind. It is an indulgence that I cannot resist, to be\n able to communicate a few of my feelings and thoughts. I fear\n you will think I impose too much on your goodness.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Boston, August 20, 1817._\n\n \"MY DEAR MISS CUSHING:--\n\n \"There are, I believe, moments in the lives of all human\n beings, when, from some cause or other, the heart is saddened\n by a feeling of peculiar loneliness, which, though perhaps\n rather a disease of the imagination than the effect of real\n circumstances, is nevertheless irresistible. I have felt this\n in the gayest period of my life, and it is not strange that I\n should now often experience it. Leading a perfectly monotonous\n existence, my resources of animal spirits are not entirely\n sufficient to supply the call of duty and the hour of solitude\n too. And when evening closes, and my beloved charge is laid\n peacefully to rest, excitement ceases, and I am thrown on\n myself for pleasure. Then it is that I long to be with friends,\n whom I can only visit in imagination; then I long to annihilate\n distance, and talk with you. It is, I know, imposing on your\n goodness to attempt to write you under the influence of such\n feelings, but it is an indulgence I can hardly resist,\n convinced as I am that, when you are assured it is a relief to\n a poor solitary, your benevolent heart will pardon me. I would\n not convey that I am unhappy in this situation. O, no!--there\n is such a thing as being 'pleased, and yet sad'; and though\n sometimes\n\n 'The heart will feel, the tear will steal,\n For auld lang syne sae dear,'\n\n yet I rejoice with joy unspeakable that the present is still\n filled with many privileges and pleasures, and that I can with\n perfect trust refer the future to Him who appointeth all things\n in mercy. I wish most sincerely I could communicate something\n interesting to you, to redeem my miserable letters from the\n charge of perfect egotism, but I live so wholly out of the\n sphere of the interesting part of the world, that I am as\n ignorant of all that passes within it as those who know not\n that it exists. It is this reason which has often withheld me\n from writing you when indeed I wished for my own sake to\n indulge in it, and I think you will be fully convinced of the\n wisdom of my forbearance after the perusal of this.\n\n \"M.L.P.\"\n\nAnd now another trial impended, to be followed by other and important\nchanges in her condition of life. In the autumn of this year her\ngrandmother died. For the event itself, so long expected and not to be\nlamented, she was prepared. But some of its circumstances were unusually\ntrying, and she well knew that its consequences might be still more sad.\nYet how little these considerations affected her, in comparison with the\nmoral aspects and spiritual lessons of the change, may be seen in her\nown account of the last sickness, to N. C. S.\n\n \"_Boston, Sunday Night, October 12, 1817._\n\n \"You have so long indulged my selfish propensity of\n communicating to you every feeling that chances to be excited\n in my heart, that I find it difficult, when under the influence\n of any peculiar emotion, to resist the ever-present desire to\n impart all to you. But this would be the height of folly and\n weakness, and I therefore contend against it with all my\n powers. There are, however, certain kinds of feeling of such a\n doubtful nature, that the agency of some external power is\n absolutely necessary for the proper management of them. Of this\n nature, I am persuaded, are those by which I am now\n overpowered; and lest I should be too much led away by them, I\n must beg your assistance in ascertaining their origin and\n tendency. This may seem too systematic for any one who feels\n _much_, but the violence of the tempest has passed, and that\n deadly calm which always succeeds the raging of the elements\n naturally inclines the mind to thought and reflection.\n\n \"I have lived for the last few months in the hourly\n contemplation of a most striking picture of the end of human\n life, the termination of all its joys and sorrows, the\n annihilation of its hopes and wishes. This could not fail to\n impress with sadness a mind in full possession of its powers of\n enjoyment, and for a time to give it almost a disgust of all\n those pleasures and pursuits which must so soon fail before the\n dim eye and feeble energies of approaching age. It had, in a\n great degree, this effect on me; for the moments have been when\n I would willingly have surrendered life rather than live in the\n expectation of such an end,--to outlive the ability to engage\n in its duties. I now tremble at the thought of ever having\n suffered such feelings for a moment, to possess my mind.\n Continued and deep reflection on the object of all this, the\n comparative nothingness of every thing in this world, the hopes\n and prospects of another and better, meditation on the\n spiritual life, and occasional experience of the real happiness\n of that elevation of soul above earthly things which religion\n alone can impart, have overcome this melancholy, and sometimes\n produced almost a feeling of triumph. I have this evening been\n almost overwhelmed with a variety of emotions, of which this\n was the most prominent. Grandma has thought herself dying, and\n has been conversing with me on her approaching change with that\n most heavenly calmness which those only who rely on the mercy\n of God, through the merits of his Son, can experience at this\n trying hour. This, together with joining in prayer with her\n that we might all welcome this hour as she did, and her final\n parting with all in the house, has elevated my mind so much\n above this transitory scene, that I can scarcely believe I\n shall ever be so weak as again to be engrossed by it. I cannot\n describe the state of my mind. I never _felt_ so before, though\n I have often imagined that others have. It is almost a kind of\n transport at the thought that this mortal shall put on\n immortality, that there is within us an ethereal spark which\n can never be extinguished or grow dim, capable of rising\n superior to the pains and weakness which bend these frail\n bodies to the ground. O, it is a joy unspeakable! Viewed\n through this medium, death loses its sting, and the idea of a\n glorious immortality alone presents itself with the view of its\n approach.\n\n \"But alas! I can place no dependence on the continuance of my\n feelings beyond the moment that excites them. My life is a mere\n vision; the world in which I act has no connection with that in\n which I think. My pleasure, my happiness, is so far independent\n of the objects around me, that I can hardly associate them\n together. Having little else to do than meditate, I exist\n almost in imagination, and communicate so little with others on\n the subject of my thoughts, that it seems like living two\n beings; the greater part of my time is passed in this ideal\n world, and I am consequently unfitted to mix in the real one in\n which I am placed. This is a misfortune and a fault. Which has\n the greatest share of blame? It is most unfavorable to true\n Christian humility; for, as Mr. Channing says of the effects of\n a diseased imagination, 'We feel superiority to the world in\n ascending the airy height, and pride ourselves in this\n refinement of the mind. After arraying ourselves in the robes\n of glory, we cannot take the lowly seat which Christianity\n assigns us.' Thus, then, although this elevation above the\n objects of this vain world may be a right spirit when it rises\n from the pure flow of real piety, if it be only the enthusiasm\n of the moment, which rises for a time and then vanishes away,\n an abstract theory which would not be practised upon in the\n hour of temptation, it had better never have been. When we have\n once been imposed on, we know not what to trust. All my\n purposes of goodness and high resolves are as yet but theories,\n which I fear I should never put in practice should temptation\n assail me. O, I dare not be thus happy!\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\nCHANGES AT HOME.\n\n\nThe first change consequent upon the death of old Mrs. Lovell, was the\nleaving of the house in Pearl Street. This, to Mary, was not a small\nmatter. It was not the mere moving of furniture, nor the living in one\nstreet rather than another, of the same town. It was the loss of the\nearliest and only HOME that she had ever known; and none are to be\nenvied who cannot enter into the feelings which such an event must\nawaken in a heart like hers. With little of the romantic in her nature,\nand as great independence of the merely local and external as is often\nseen, her love of family and early friends, her memory of childhood and\nall its associations, the very changes and sufferings which had made so\nlarge a part of her life, were all identified with \"that house\" as the\nplace of their birth, and bound her to it by the strongest chords.\nWithin a month of the day of her grandmother's death, she wrote her last\nletter there, which, with the first that was written out of the house,\nwill show what she felt, and why.\n\n \"_Boston, November, 1817._\n\n \"It is with many new and peculiar feelings that I attempt to\n write you for the last time from this blessed spot, rendered\n doubly sacred to me from having been the scene of that intimacy\n which ever has been, and I trust ever will be, one of the\n purest sources of happiness which it has pleased my Heavenly\n Father to bestow on me.... It has been _one_ of the happy\n effects of the trials which, during the last few years, have\n fallen to my lot, to produce a more unreserved acquaintance\n between us than under any other circumstances could have been\n effected. I bless them in all their influences, but\n particularly in this, that they have brought me the knowledge\n and affection of such a friend. I should blush at the\n recollection of the numberless follies, weaknesses, and sins\n which this frail heart has discovered to you, but I wish you to\n know me entirely; the candid confession of faults is the\n greatest proof of confidence I could give. But that delightful\n intercourse which has so much conduced to this must for a time\n be broken off, perhaps never again to be renewed in this\n changing world. Change of situation will necessarily preclude\n the possibility of that continued intercourse of thought and\n feeling, which has been the joy of the past. I cannot admit the\n idea that this will weaken the bonds that unite us, much less\n can I think it will break them. But I have been the creature of\n situation; my character (if any thing I possess can be entitled\n to the name) has been moulded by circumstances peculiar in\n their nature, and which will soon cease to exist. What I shall\n be in the wide world into which I am going to enter, I know\n not. I hope, yet fear to change. Without a guide to lead me in\n the right path, I fear my inexperienced steps will stray into\n some of the many fascinating, delusive snares which are found\n in every direction. My course has hitherto been over an old and\n beaten track, secure by its remoteness from all temptation.\n What, then, shall I do, when the whole host of the world's\n allurements are presented at once to my weakness?\n\n \"I wish I could describe to you the feelings which the very\n prospect of leaving this house excites in this poor, weak\n heart,--so weak that it cannot subdue or control its emotions.\n It would seem romantic and visionary to any one who had been\n accustomed to change; but this house supplied in a great\n measure the relation of instructor, parent, and friend. And it\n is true, that in every part are recorded by association the\n admonitions of those friends I have known in it, or lessons\n which the experience of repeated trials has impressed in\n indelible characters on these scenes. Here, when temptation\n assailed, and this frail heart was on the point of surrendering\n to it, would the remembrance of former good resolutions,\n presented by the very walls around me, recall my wandering\n virtue, and strengthen me to new exertions. And to that sacred\n retreat, that sanctuary of all my joys and sorrows, I owe, if\n not the creation, at least the preservation of the best\n feelings I possess. There I find the history of the most\n important moments of my life, for in that spot did the first\n sincere and heartfelt aspirations of my soul to its Creator\n find utterance; and there, too, have I always found support\n under trial, in prayer. It were an endless work to recount all\n the associations which attach me to this only home I have ever\n known; it would be to give you a minute account of every\n transaction which has taken place since I lived here.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Boston, December, 1817._\n\n \"For the first time since I left that loved spot in Pearl\n Street have I seated myself at my _desk_; and, although my\n object in now doing so was a very different one, I cannot\n resist the impulse which the sight of it gives, to renew the\n employment, so wont to be pursued at it, of pouring forth a few\n of my feelings to my friend. It is so long since I have had an\n opportunity to do so, and so various have been the\n occurrences, and still more various the feelings which it has\n been my lot to experience in the course of the last two months,\n that, though my mind is full of what I wish to communicate, I\n am as much at a loss what to write as if all was vacancy. This\n poor little, unconscious desk has carried me back, against my\n will, to scenes which it were wise seldom to think of. The last\n time I wrote at it was the last evening I spent in the I 'oaken\n parlor,' when all was sad and solitary. But I cannot dwell on\n it. I find in the record of that evening prophecies which are\n hourly fulfilling. I felt deeply impressed with a sense of\n insufficiency to meet with, and bear aright, the temptations\n which a life of indulgence would present. I felt that I was not\n fit for society, and I feel so still, but more sensibly, more\n truly, for it is now the lesson of experience, sad indeed. But\n a truce with such feelings;--it is not of them I wish to write.\n This wicked desk has conjured up the old complaining spirit\n which so used to haunt me whenever I attempted scribbling to\n you. I am happy, contented with any change that has or may take\n place. I only ask a less selfish, more disinterested frame of\n mind,--to be more independent of the opinion of others, when a\n consciousness of sincere endeavor to do right acquits me of\n actual transgression. Selfish are all my regrets, all my\n trials, and wherefore, then, trouble another with a detail of\n what self alone can sympathize in, or ameliorate, or cure? I\n will not;--for once, I will follow reason rather than\n inclination.\n\n \"The more I know of the world, the more I see of the beings who\n constitute what is so called, the more the hopes and wishes\n which excite and keep alive their energies sink into\n insignificance, and the more my own restlessness and anxiety\n about the cares and pursuits of life excite my astonishment and\n contempt. We surely were not placed in this world solely to be\n occupied by its allurements, or, without reference to the\n design of our Creator in placing us here, to pursue that which\n seems to us the most easy and pleasant path. And with our\n reasons convinced, how can we so unweariedly pursue that\n phantom happiness which has here no fixed abode? We acknowledge\n that nothing here can satisfy us, and yet vainly delude\n ourselves with the hope of soon attaining some ideal joy which,\n like the philosopher's stone, will convert all into solid\n happiness. One would think I had been disappointed in some fond\n hope, or found too late _my_ fancied joy a dream. But no, I am\n not disappointed, for I have never anticipated; and if aught I\n have said savors of this temper of mind, I would recall it.\n\n \"Mr. Colman advised me never to write in the evening, lest I\n should deceive myself and my friend with an exaggerated account\n of what in the light of day would prove false. I am half\n asleep, and therefore will take his advice, and I already find\n myself on the verge of the gulf,--self-deception.\n\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\nTo some it will seem strange, that one of such faith and principle, with\nno proneness or taste for the follies of the world, should express fear\nof \"fascinating, delusive snares,\" or think for a moment of the \"whole\nhost of the world's allurements.\" But this will be understood by those\nwho remember that strength does not lie in a sense of security, nor\nwisdom in assurance. It seems to have been ever a part of Mary Pickard's\nwisdom, to own her weakness. And more than this, the evil that she\nfeared was not that coarse, palpable thing usually called \"vice,\" but\nthe invisible, subtle evil, so serious to the sensitive and pure mind,\nthough by the many lightly regarded. \"I fear not actual vice,\" she said\nat this very time, \"but to become thoughtless, forgetful of duty,\nunmindful of my highest interests, is to my mind a more deadly sin than\nmany which are accounted by the world _crimes_. It is this I most dread.\nMy conscience, or, should that fail, my friends, would save me from the\nfirst, but who can control the thoughts of my heart?\" Thus fearing, thus\narmed, she went out into the world, beginning at this point her life of\nself-guidance. Of her means of support we know little. She was not\ndependent. From her grandparents, to whom she had been so true a child,\nshe received enough to enable her to assist her father in his\ndepression, though it is evident that he took no more than was\nabsolutely necessary, and that she retained enough for her wants, more\nthan she used to the time of her marriage. This could have been\naccomplished, however, only by a uniform and strict economy, whose\nnecessity she never regretted, except as it curtailed her charities.\n\nAnd now began a life of business and of motion. Since her return from\nEngland, at the age of five, Mary had been from home very little, and\nonly for her schooling. Hereafter she is to become a traveller, to a\ngreater degree than was then common for a lady, and greater than she\ndesired. Her journeyings, we infer, were always more for others than\nherself; either for the gratification of friends, or in aid of her\nfather. For she seems to have become, in various ways, his active as\nwell as domestic helper, and was intrusted by him, we should judge from\ntheir letters, with important business. For some purpose of this kind,\nin the year following our last date, she went, for the first time, to\nNew York. And the account she gives of the preparations and the journey,\nwhile it shows what changes there have been since, shows also how much\nthere was on her mind and her hands. She speaks of getting but four\nhours for sleep from having \"so great a variety of occupation,--so much\nfor my poor, weak head to think of.\" And then, half playfully, half in\nearnest, she writes of being \"at last equipped for a journey probably of\ntwo months.\" But we must give a part of the letter itself; showing, as\nit does, how near to her, even in her busiest moments and most fatiguing\nlabors, were the higher cares of the mind and the soul.\n\n \"I am glad of having a great deal to do; any thing that will\n call my little powers into exercise gives me a transient\n feeling of consequence, which, as it is highly flattering to\n vanity, produces rather pleasant sensations. I will not enter\n on the subject of leaving home, and setting out on an\n expedition fraught with untried temptations, and presenting\n even in the most favorable view a scene of life little\n calculated to satisfy my taste or warm my heart. But I believe\n there may be instruction found in every situation, and I hope\n that seeing eyes and an understanding heart will be given me,\n to discern and improve it. I cannot tell you how much more I\n feel than I ever did before, at leaving home;--I cannot; it is\n in vain to attempt so vast a subject at such a time. I have\n been highly favored the last two Sundays in hearing two of Mr.\n Channing's most delightful sermons, which I hope will not be\n soon forgotten. Last Sunday was the anniversary of many\n eventful days to me. The first Sabbath in September has for\n many years been a memorable day to me, and this last, I think,\n exceeds them all. It is three months since I have been at home\n on Communion-day, and the coldness which I had felt creeping\n through my very soul gave me a feeling of hope that I should\n find something to excite and elevate my affections. I never\n felt more entirely humbled to the dust, or more sensible of the\n immense privilege we enjoy, in having such a man to guide us on\n our way. But I am so excessively weary that I cannot write\n more,--scarcely to assure you of the warm affection of your\n\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\nThe journey to New York, by way of Providence and Norwich, was \"a week's\nwork,\" though it seems to have been all used in travelling, but with\nmany \"adventures\" and delays incident to the beginning of\nsteamboats,--against which, notwithstanding the discomforts and perils,\nMary expresses herself \"not so prejudiced that I should be unwilling to\nstep on board one again.\" The letters she writes from the great city, so\nnew and strange, are almost exclusively business letters to her father,\nand his replies show that he had given her important commissions, to be\ndischarged in person, and in her own discretion. Directions are given\nfor the sale or purchase, not only of muslins and moreens, but also of\nskins, saltpetre, and the like. And at the end of several weeks, in\nwhich she seems not to have indulged herself in much recreation, she\nspeaks of returning as soon as she \"has seen the city.\"\n\nBut instead of returning, she was induced by a tempting opportunity to\ngo still farther from home, and with no time to get her father's\npermission,--a liberty evidently new on her part, and receiving at first\nsevere reproof from him. The incident is not important, except as\nshowing their relation to each other, and the manner in which she\nincurred and endured (being now a woman) the only harsh language that we\nfind addressed to her by her father,--though it is clear that he always\ninclined to be exacting. The trouble in this case was, that he first\nheard from another of her being seen on her way to Baltimore, when he\nthought her safe with friends in New York, if not on her way home. The\nfact was easily explained. A gentleman with whom she was intimate\ninvited her to accompany him to Baltimore, where she had long wished to\nvisit a cousin newly married and settled there; and, with the approval\nof those with whom she was staying, she accepted the invitation as\nsuddenly as she received it, \"and in two hours was in the stage for\nBaltimore,\" to ride night and day till she arrived there. As soon as\npossible after her arrival, she wrote to her father all the\ncircumstances, giving her reasons in a way that should and did avert his\ndispleasure entirely. But unfortunately he had already heard of the\nrunaway by accident, and one is forced to smile at the manner in which\nit affected him. Not waiting to hear from Mary, he instantly wrote to\nthe lady in New York with whom she had staid,--\"I am exceedingly vexed\nand mortified that she should do any thing so foolish, and cannot\nconceive how she will be able to justify herself; had I had any idea she\nwould have been so indiscreet, I would not have consented to her\nleaving Boston. I have been expecting daily to hear what was likely to\nbe done with some muslins she had the charge of; but instead of\nattending to that, she is flying like a wild goose about the country.\nThese girls in their teens [Mary was just twenty] should not be let out\nof their leading-strings; nor would her's have been let loose, but from\nconfidence in her discretion.\" Yet in company with this letter he sent a\nnote for his daughter, which begins with saying he can hardly call her\n\"dear,\" but ends in a very different tone; and the first letter he\nreceives sets all right. His only anxiety now is to have her with him,\ncoupled, however, with a fear as to her companion home, and again making\nus smile by a prediction which has been singularly reversed in the\nfulfilment. \"If you are well, pray come by the first _good_ opportunity.\nI am afraid you will wait till the end of the month for the parson; your\nbeing so fond of parsons is rather ominous, and you had better almost be\nany man's wife than a parson's.\" The parson referred to was Mr. Colman\nof Hingham, now returning from a visit to Baltimore. It is a pleasant\nconclusion of this little episode, and offers a hint to children as well\nas parents, that, when Mary found how much her father had felt, without\nblaming herself for doing what seemed right and a duty, she expressed\nsuch sorrow for the pain she had given him, in terms so respectful and\nfilial, as to turn all his severity against himself, and increase his\nadmiration and love for her. The next time he refers to her fondness for\nthe \"clergy,\" it is in a vein of pleasantry which seldom relieves his\nmerchant-like letters. \"Could you not, my dear, enliven your letters by\nwriting of persons and things which you have seen? I think your letters\nare too much tinctured with what may be called moral philosophy, for so\nyoung a person. You are so fond of the clergy, you will get into a habit\nof writing like one of them, and if you were to turn Quaker, I have no\ndoubt but you would preach yourself. Tell us something of Baltimore, how\nit is situated, &c.; and, as Mrs. Slipslop says, something of the\n'contagious country.' Pray take care of your own health, and get the\nfamily well soon.\"\n\nThe last words refer to the actual cause of Mary's protracted absence.\nOn returning to New York, intending to go home by the first opportunity,\nshe found her good friend, Mrs. Harman, whom she was visiting before,\ndangerously ill, the husband absent, and the family in great confusion\nand trouble. At once she became the director and nurse,--offices which\nshe seemed destined to fill wherever she went, as her subsequent life\nwill show. All thought now of herself and her plans yielded to the\npresent duty. And not an easy duty could it have been, as she describes\nthe severity of the mother's sickness, the care of difficult children,\nand her responsibility in another's house and a strange city. As soon as\nthey were in a condition to be left, she returned to Boston, though Mr.\nPickard even urged her to stay longer, for rest and her own\ngratification.\n\nFor a year or more Mary and her father remained together in Boston, with\nno change or incident to be noticed. They were living at board, so far\nas we find, though they may have taken a house, as he seemed very\nanxious before her return to be alone with her, having an aversion to\ncompany, and preferring her society and care to all other.\n\nIn her correspondence at this time, the prevailing theme and object, as\nusual, were religion and its influences, for herself and others. We\ncannot but observe the preponderance of this theme, and yet its\nperfectly natural and healthy tone. With nothing dark or melancholy in\nher religious views, with an habitual horror of ostentation and cant,\nshe lost no opportunity to cherish and diffuse an all-comprehending\nfaith. The letters which follow, addressed to her constant friend,\ndeclare their own occasion and design.\n\n \"_Boston, August 12, 1819._\n\n \"There was something in the strain of your last letter to me\n which has given me some feelings of anxiety. You refer to the\n course of medical discipline which has been pursued with\n Mr. ---- with expressions of regret, which, though natural, must\n add greatly to every other painful feeling that his present\n situation, and perhaps loss, must inevitably excite. I cannot\n reprehend you for what I know but too well is the natural\n impulse under such circumstances; but I would, if it were\n possible, point to a healing balm for that worst of all\n wounds,--fruitless regret.\n\n \"I am no fatalist, but the continual influence of an unerring\n Providence is a truth which was early impressed on my heart,\n and which daily observation has confirmed and strengthened. The\n simple order of nature speaks it with a powerful voice; the\n sacred pages of God's own book proclaim it in terms which\n cannot be misconstrued; and would we impartially review our\n own lives, should we not see in them incontrovertible proofs of\n an unseen power, that guided and directed many things for our\n happiness which our blindness would have wished otherwise? And\n are we to assent to this truth only when our minds can clearly\n see its reality? Are we to withhold our confidence in Him whom\n we have always found mighty to save, because we cannot in a\n single instance see its practicability? O, no! far be it from\n us, who profess to acknowledge the being and attributes of a\n merciful God, to shrink when he puts our faith to the test. Are\n his so often repeated expressions of love towards his creatures\n mere empty sounds to deceive the credulous, or assist the\n imagination in forming a perfect model of moral sublimity, but\n to wither into airy nothing when we dwell on them for support?\n This we would not, most certainly, admit in our actions, and\n why should we even in our thoughts? Surely, believing, as we\n do, that his promises are sure and steadfast, we may in the\n darkest hours of adversity find consolation in the thought,\n that, however mysterious may be his decrees, there _must_ be\n some good result, some benevolent design, concealed beneath the\n most doubtful appearances.\n\n \"Cowper has beautifully versified this idea in his hymn,\n beginning\n\n 'God moves in a mysterious way,\n His wonders to perform';\n\n you will find it in Belknap. Read it for the sake of one whom\n in all trials it has animated and consoled. Forgive me for\n dwelling so long on this subject. Do not infer that I think it\n new to you, but it is one in which I have felt most deeply, on\n which, too, I have had the most severe contentions with the\n spirit that warreth within, and one which, of all others, it is\n necessary for our happiness and goodness to establish in our\n hearts, that it may effectually influence our lives.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Brush Hill, September 22, 1819._\n\n \"It is now a month since the date of your last letter, during\n which time I think I have at least once written you; but our\n intercourse is now so different from what I would desire at\n this peculiarly eventful period, that it seems as if I did\n nothing, if I do not tell you every day how much depends on its\n events. I have been with you in a happy vision, and awake to\n the sad disappointment that it is but a dream, and to the\n consciousness that for a long time my unfruitful pen will be my\n only means of communication. It would be weak to repine at what\n is inevitable; I will not give way to it. How often have you\n told me that you were almost tempted to pray for trial, that\n you might know the true state of your religious life, that you\n might have your faith put to the test, and the veil of\n self-deception taken from your eyes! Often have I prayed that,\n whenever it should please the Disposer of all things to send to\n you sorrow and affliction, you might find strength and support\n where least expected, not from your own resources, but in that\n arm which is mighty to save to the uttermost all who seek. It\n is not, however, simply in the belief that whatever He appoints\n is right, that you are to receive his dispensations; difficult\n as is the task, we must not rest satisfied with ourselves until\n we have learned to receive with cheerful acquiescence what the\n world calls trials; until we have learned to view all events as\n tending to the same great end, and be thankful for what is\n denied, as well as what is received; knowing that there is but\n one great object in each. This may at first seem too high an\n aim, even above human powers to attain. But it calls not on us\n to give up natural feeling, only to guide it aright, and the\n higher our standard of excellence is fixed, the greater will be\n our efforts to attain it, and our success unquestionably\n proportioned to it.\n\n \"But why talk to you of what you have already more knowledge?\n Forgive me; I lost, in the interest I felt in your present\n happiness, the remembrance that you were not in want of counsel\n on a subject on which you have already experienced enough to\n feel its importance. But do not, my dear friend, look only on\n the dark side of the picture; do not suffer your mind to lose\n its activity, because confined at present to one subject. It is\n not to contract our feelings, but to expand and teach them to\n enter into the feelings of others, that we are made thus to\n experience what it is to suffer. Should it not quicken our\n efforts to alleviate, to our utmost endeavor, those who are\n tried also, and by a cheerful example lighten the hearts of\n fellow-sufferers? I have felt, and _know_ therefore too well,\n the tendency of severe trial to enervate the mind, and lead us\n insensibly to give up our ambition to act on any other subject;\n but our general duties are not the less imposing, because a\n particular one requires more attention, nor are we to give way\n for a moment to the impulse of self-indulgence, because we feel\n any peculiar right to it.... All this is unnecessary, but you\n can conceive how deeply I feel interested in the result of this\n great trial of your Christian faith. I know its difficulties,\n therefore can appreciate its triumphs.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Boston, 1819._\n\n \"I leave the dismal beginning of a letter, intended to excite\n your compassion for my suffering under the confinement of a\n cold, and it would be rather _mal apropos_, after what has\n passed, to proceed in due form to give an account of myself\n during the long period since I last saw you. But in order to\n preserve the unity of time and place, I must first revert to\n the accident which brought us together so opportunely. I will\n not pretend to defend the prudence of the action, but\n acknowledge it was rather the impulse of strong desire to give\n some one a little pleasure, than the sober dictate of reason,\n and I felt that, in M----'s solitary state, she would be glad\n to see any one. I know it was wrong in one point of view, but\n right in another. I was rewarded for a severe sickness, as far\n as regarded my own sufferings, should one have ensued. I had a\n very pleasant ride, and became more acquainted with J---- than\n I could in any other way. I was agreeably surprised to find in\n his conversation so much depth of thought and knowledge of\n mankind. I am glad of any opportunity to extend my acquaintance\n with character, in its infinite variety. There is no human\n knowledge, I am persuaded, which has so great an influence on\n our happiness. We learn to estimate ourselves more justly, and\n in the formation of our own characters we are enabled to\n discriminate between right and wrong more accurately; for in\n nothing are we more liable to confound them, than as respects\n our own feelings and motives. Is it not wilful blindness that\n leads us so often to ridicule in others what we unconsciously\n practise ourselves? Why are we not as cautious to ascertain the\n motives of the conduct of others as of our own? We console\n ourselves, when we have done any thing which to the eyes of the\n world appears weak and foolish, with the thought that our\n motives are good, and with a consciousness of having done what\n was right. All else is of little importance; but did we believe\n that our friends were as much influenced by appearances, in\n their judgment of us, as we are in ours of them, I doubt if the\n approving smile of conscience would always compensate for the\n loss of the good opinion of those we love. Let us not, then,\n judge solely by the conduct of any what are their real\n characters; peculiar circumstances may prevent even our most\n intimate friends from disclosing to us their particular reasons\n for every action; but in that case, if it be a tried friend,\n it were surely a proof of friendship to believe that it is at\n least felt by him to be right. And with regard to people in\n general, let charity have its perfect work, and let us think\n all are free from deliberate faults, till we have good reason\n to suppose otherwise. This is, perhaps, if understood\n literally, rather too liberal a plan for this world of sin and\n wickedness; but as far as is consistent with reason, and our\n previous knowledge of men and manners, is it not just to judge\n of all as we would be judged? I have _felt_ the want of this\n spirit of impartial justice, and speak from experience in some\n respects; in one, I hope never to be tried. I have been what\n you call mysterious; could you understand me, you would, I am\n sure, approve. Believe me, I am not governed by caprice in my\n treatment of friends; if any thing may have appeared so, there\n has always been a motive, and I feel that I may confidently\n rely on your friendship for all charitable construction....\n\n \"I am in a sad state. I long to see you, in hopes of procuring\n some remedy in your better regulated mind. I am so much under\n the dominion of certain sickly feelings of late, that I begin\n to think my mind will never recover its healthy tone again;\n active employment for the good of others is the only preventive\n for such disorders. I have not at present any prospect of such\n a means towards my own recovery, but trust the vital energy of\n my being is not quite extinct, and that ere long it will rise\n and subdue the weaker powers.... I have just thought that it is\n the spring-like feeling of the day that has such a weakening\n effect on my mind. Why do we indulge so much in idealism,\n instead of the real pleasure of our existence? I have no\n opinion of this giving way to imagination in our estimate of\n life.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nIn the month of October a death occurred which awakened all her\nsympathy, and the sympathy and sorrow of a large community. The Rev.\nJohn E. Abbot, whose life and character Henry Ware has made familiar to\nus all, died in October, at his father's in Exeter, where Mary's friend\nwas staying as a relative. To both of them he had been a Christian\nhelper when they most needed Christian counsel and encouragement. His\nshort life was, indeed, a blessing to all who knew him, and his death\nfull of \"joy and peace in believing.\" Again was the pen taken, and\nsolace offered.\n\n \"_Boston, October 15, 1819._\n\n \"I attempted, my dear friend, to write you on Tuesday, for I\n felt then that, all being over, I could calmly write of what\n had passed, and direct your feelings and my own to the future.\n But I knew from experience that a few days' delay would find\n you more in want of a letter; as the necessary exertion which\n attends a scene like that you have passed through occupies the\n whole mind while it is necessary to support it, but leaves,\n when it is passed, a vacuity which needs some external power to\n fill it. Perhaps I too easily found in this an excuse for\n leaving my letter unfinished, and now that I review it, I blush\n at my own weakness. I sought to relieve my own heart, instead\n of strengthening yours. I have been with you every moment since\n I last wrote you, and too fully realized all that you have\n suffered. At the moment I was writing you, that pure spirit was\n taking its flight. I felt it as by intuition, and needed not\n further confirmation. But it was a relief to know that his\n blessed spirit was for ever beyond the reach of pain and\n anguish; that it was exalted to its native home, there to\n realize all that his brightest hopes could anticipate of a\n glorious immortality.\n\n \"I feel an almost total inability to write you on this subject.\n Could I talk to you, there would be time to enlarge on all the\n thoughts which it suggests. But they are so various, so\n interesting, so overpowering, that I know not on which to\n dwell. His virtues are too deeply imprinted on our hearts to\n receive any additional weight by enumeration. We can only go\n forward with them to that world where they shall meet a reward\n proportionate to their value. The remembrance of his character,\n while it awakens every emotion of affection which he excited\n while on earth, sheds on the heart a light which unfolds to the\n eye of faith its glorious perfection in heaven. Nothing in him\n can have escaped the mind of one so closely connected with him;\n friends need not to be reminded of what is imprinted in\n indelible characters on their hearts. But the thought that what\n we so loved and cherished is gone for ever from us, that the\n form by which we have held communion with the spirit is hid for\n ever from our view, the chilling realities of death and decay,\n as they appeal to our purest earthly feelings, are the most\n difficult to contend with. Our brightest visions of the future\n have a most powerful drawback in the horror with which nature\n shrinks from the sad appendages of death.\n\n \"It is this, I think, which more than any thing else makes us\n look forward to our own dissolution with instinctive dread, and\n leads us to avoid, if possible, every thing that reminds us of\n it. But when we view it as it really is, but a step in the\n ceaseless progression which is to carry us on to eternity, as a\n mere change of the external habitation of our spirits, a\n removal of the greatest impediments in our progress towards\n perfection, then, indeed, it loses all its terror, and we think\n of our friends who have passed through it as absent only in\n body, but present in spirit. Our own souls, though still\n connected with an earthly load, form by their derivation from\n heaven a part of the spiritual world, and in proportion as they\n become purified from the corruption of the world, they approach\n the state of those beatified beings who have finished their\n course. And therefore, though separated from them in this\n world, we are allied to them more closely than earthly ties\n could bind us, and must patiently wait for the fulfilment of\n our Father's plans for our joyful removal to them. This is,\n indeed, a new incentive to exertion, to prepare ourselves for\n this change. I have feared it might supersede a still higher\n motive; but how far it may be permitted to influence us, I dare\n not determine. That our earthly affections _may_ be a means of\n leading us to the Creator of them and of all our powers of\n thinking and feeling, I believe must be true, or they would not\n have been given us as sources of such pure enjoyment here. But\n their tendency to make us forget all other considerations, to\n absorb those thoughts which should be directed to higher\n objects, is the trial which always attends every means of\n worldly enjoyment we possess, and as such should be combated\n with our utmost powers....\n\n \"Yours, most truly,\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\nIn the summer of 1821 Mary went with her father to live in Dorchester.\nAnd the change from town to country, and from a life of business and\ncare to the free and still enjoyment of nature, seems to have had both a\nfavorable and unfavorable effect upon her mind. Unfavorable in part, if\nwe may trust her own account of herself. In this account, however, there\nis a nearer approach to morbidness than we have before seen, and a kind\nof self-disparagement, which must have been sincere at the time, but\nwas not, we think, a part of her essential character. Humble she was\nalways; truly, deeply humble; yet no one knew better than she, or acted\nmore upon the truth, that genuine humility says very little about\nitself. And the expressions of it which appear in the letters that\nfollow were made, we are to remember, to a confiding friend, to whom she\ndeclared all that she felt, though it were but the feeling of the\nmoment, and the next moment recalled. She says herself, in this\nconnection,--\"I believe I have given an extravagant detail of my danger;\nand I may be under the influence of one of those fits of distempered\nmind, to which I have always been prone.\" If this were so, it shows the\nmore what efforts she made, and how completely she brought every such\ndisposition under the sway of principle, so that few who knew her ever\nsuspected, we imagine, that any effort was necessary.\n\nBut we are ourselves overstating, it may be, the disposition to which we\nrefer. Wherever it appears, as here, it is connected with such just and\nexalted sentiments, that it seems incidental and unimportant.\n\n \"_Dorchester, June 18, 1821._\n\n \"The first line which I date from this place is to you, my\n friend, to whom my first feelings, on all occasions of\n self-interest, turn for sympathy. Your friendly curiosity is\n awake to know what effect a new kind of life is to have on a\n character which I know you feel of some importance to yourself.\n I would not imply that this selfish reason is the only motive\n of your interest, but I seek rather to find in it some pretence\n for indulging myself in the egotism which is creeping over me;\n and which led me to this desk for relief. How much will one\n short week of quiet reflection teach of our own hearts! How\n deceived are we, if we imagine we know ourselves thoroughly,\n when we have been but partially exposed to that change of\n circumstances and situation which alone can develop character\n even to one's self! I have found, indeed, just what I\n anticipated, that the change from constant activity to perfect\n stillness and inaction would of course produce a vacuity which\n time and habit would alone overcome; but I knew not the whole\n weakness of my mind. In the bustle of a busy life (idly busy,\n perhaps, but not the less exciting) I had almost lost sight of\n my natural propensities. Accustomed to find objects to occupy\n my powers wherever I turned, I mistook the simple love of being\n employed for real energy of mind, and therefore did not even\n apprehend the want of power to direct these energies to\n whatever I pleased. But it is not as I thought. My natural turn\n of mind (if I may so call what is perhaps more a weakness of\n heart) is for that calm, saddened view of things, which seeks\n enjoyment from the contemplative in character, and lives rather\n on the food of imagination than reality. I never found in words\n a more accurate description of the prevailing mood of my\n natural feelings than in that exquisite little poem, 'I'm\n pleased, and yet I'm sad,'--yet not of an uneasy, discontented\n temperament, but simply inclined to the purest refinement of\n melancholy. Trials which called for vigor of mind and\n cheerfulness of manner, a situation whose duties required the\n full employment of time which might otherwise have been wasted\n in cultivating this propensity, and perhaps a little pride lest\n those who could not understand it should discover it, and I\n hope a principle which taught me to wage war with what must\n interfere with higher duties,--all these combined to stifle the\n propensity, and I sometimes thought had almost extinguished it.\n But now, removed from those occupations which demanded thought\n as well as action, thrown entirely upon myself, with every\n thing around to inspire the enthusiastic indulgence of fancy,\n my imagination has suddenly taken the reins, and I find it will\n not be without a struggle that reason and principle will\n recover them.\n\n \"I suppose I must set about some new study or dry book, if I\n cannot find some animate subject to interest and fix my mind.\n There is a little deaf and dumb girl just opposite us, and if I\n knew the process I would teach her to read. I must have\n something to do which will rouse my mind to exertion. I have\n employment enough, but it is not of my _mind_, and that is\n unfortunately one which will retrograde if it does not\n progress. I am delighted with our situation, and cannot\n describe to you the sensations of first realizing that I am\n living in the pure, unconfined atmosphere of nature. It has a\n power, which I hope familiarity will never efface, of elevating\n the heart to Him whose 'hand I see, wrought in each flower,\n inscribed on every tree.' It is a privilege which I hope I\n shall fully estimate, to be thus reminded at every glance of\n the love and power of our Father in heaven. I am grateful for\n that goodness which has appointed me so much of the purest\n enjoyment of life, and I would testify it by devoting all my\n powers to his best service. I was not made for solitude of\n heart, and I would find all that my heart requires in the love\n of divine perfection. I think Foster will do me good,--'On the\n Epithet Romantic.'\n\n \"I have just been taking a delightful walk, as the sun was\n setting gloriously, and I think if you were only with me I\n should enjoy it tenfold. I wish you could arrange matters to\n come out with father one night before you go, and we will go to\n Milton.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Dorchester, July 25, 1821._\n\n \"I wrote you last rather a monotonous round of sedentary\n employments, occasionally interrupted by a visit to the city,\n or a ride about the country. On the whole I enjoy life highly,\n although my present mode is so novel a one, that I am sometimes\n at a loss to decide whether it is actual enjoyment or negative\n indulgence of ease. But country life is a privilege I estimate\n most highly; that I can at all times, when I raise my eyes,\n find my thoughts so forcibly directed, by all I behold, to that\n 'still communion which transcends the imperfect offices of\n prayer and praise'! I am persuaded that it is far easier to\n cultivate a devotional spirit here than in the confusion of\n life, and to have a deeper sense of the presence of God in the\n heart. Feeling is little, to be sure, unless it fortifies for\n action; but in the hour of trial, we find great assistance in\n recalling past exercises, and in spiritual as well as temporal\n concerns habit is a powerful coadjutor. That high-wrought state\n of feeling which some of the splendid appearances of nature\n often produce on a heart which has once felt the power of\n piety, is ridiculed as enthusiasm of the most dangerous kind;\n and I do not myself think it is any test of religious\n character; but as far as the enjoyment of the present moment is\n of any importance, what can exceed it? We are, indeed, too apt\n to feel that we have been on the mount, when it was but a\n vision which we saw; but where it does not so deceive us,\n nothing but a good effect can result from its indulgence. I\n recollect part of a description of this state of mind in\n Wordsworth's Excursion, which from its accuracy has remained in\n my mind, though I forget the scene which suggested it:--\n\n 'Sound needed none,\n Nor any form of words; his spirit drank\n The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form\n All melted in him; they swallowed up\n His animal being; in them did he live,\n And by them did he live; they were his life.\n In such access of mind, in such high hour\n Of visitation from the living God,\n Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired.\n No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request.\n Rapt into still communion that transcends\n The imperfect offices of prayer and praise,\n His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power\n That made him; it was blessedness and love.'\n\n \"I have got Samor to read, because you recommend it, and am\n shocked to find how unfit my mind has become for every kind of\n application in the way of reading. I know you think I am\n greatly deficient in that kind of literary taste which fits one\n for an agreeable companion,--and I feel most sensibly that it\n is true. But I am fully persuaded that if the _sentimental_\n requisites of an interesting character are only to be derived\n from books, I must go through life the plain matter-of-fact\n lady I now am; it is too late for me to work a reform.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nNot long afterward, an event occurred of no little interest and\nimportance to Mary,--the marriage of her true friend, now Mrs. Paine,\nwho went to reside in Worcester. In a letter dated May, 1822, we find a\nfull expression of the thoughts and wishes caused by this event, but of\ntoo personal and private a character to be used. The letter closes with\nan allusion to herself, showing that she had trials and experiences of\nher own, not to be disclosed to the public eye. She speaks of the\nprevious winter, as \"a remarkable era, never to be forgotten. Its\nperplexities have passed away, but its blessings have increased and\nbecome consummated. We have all found it an important period, and to\nsome of us the most so of life. How far it has improved us, He who\nsearcheth the heart alone knows; but for myself, I feel that it has been\na scene of more mental suffering than I ever before knew. You have seen\nit, and will not misunderstand me when I say that, had I been more\nindifferent, I should have escaped much torture. But it has been a good\nlesson for me.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nThere are few greater demands upon the exercise of a sound discretion\nand practical wisdom, than the giving counsel and exerting a right\ninfluence on _sceptical_ minds. Nor is it often that such minds are\nwilling to open themselves, and confide their doubts or indifference to\na Christian friend. Unfortunately, Christians are apt to be either too\ncareless in their conduct, or too morose in their manners and severe of\njudgment, to make a favorable impression on the sceptical, and win their\nconfidence in the assurance of a generous sympathy. We dare not\nconjecture how much of the infidelity of the world, and the unhappiness\nof the unbelieving, is owing to this cause. We are sometimes driven to\nthe fear, that Christians themselves may have as much to answer for as\nthose whom they exclude for their unbelief, and whom they fail to\nimpress with the power of their own faith, or the beauty of their\nholiness. We have many intimations that this was felt peculiarly by her\nof whom we write. And it is one indication of character, and of the\naspect and influence of her faith, that many came to her freely with\ntheir doubts and difficulties. Some of the particular cases cannot be\npublished.\n\nBut where no names are used in her account of them, nor a hint given of\nthe persons intended, there can be no impropriety in offering the facts\nas related. The reflections with which she accompanies them may be\nprofitable to both classes of minds, the believing and the doubting.\n\nUnder date of August, 1822, Mary writes to her former instructors in\nHingham, giving with other incidents the following case of hard\nindifference, if not infidelity.\n\n \"This leads me to a subject upon which I want assistance. I\n have lately met with a person of my own age, who, though living\n in a Christian land, under the public dispensations of the\n Word, from the more powerful influence of those with whom she\n has lived and the want of education, is as it were wholly\n ignorant of what religion is, in any form, except as it is in\n some way connected with going to church, but without the least\n _feeling_ of what that connection is. She is not deficient in\n strength of mind, or capacity to receive instruction on the\n subject, but without any idea of the necessity of any other\n principle of action than she already possesses; that is, a\n firmness of purpose proceeding from natural decision, and a\n patience under trial, because experience has taught the\n weakness and uselessness of irritation. Now this seems to me an\n opportunity of doing some real good. I have almost unlimited\n influence over her from the strong affection she feels, and, as\n my opportunities are few, I cannot neglect this one without\n reproach. But that dreadful consciousness of incapacity will\n place its iron hand on my wishes. I am aware that much might\n and ought to be done, but that much, if not every thing,\n depends on the first impression. She must be made to feel the\n _necessity_, in order to be excited to the pursuit of piety;\n and how this is to be done I know not. Never did I feel so\n forcibly the imperfection of the characters of Christians, as\n on this occasion. To be able to point to one example of the\n power of religion in producing that uniform loveliness of\n character and happiness of life of which it is capable, would\n do more than volumes of argument to such a mind and heart. It\n has made me shrink at my own unworthiness of the name I bear.\n Could you find a moment to assist me in this undertaking, you\n would confer an unspeakable kindness.\n\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\nAnother more decided and serious case came to her knowledge about the\nsame time,--a case of avowed atheism, confided to her for relief, and\nmost kindly and wisely met by her; so that, while she supposed no effect\nhad been produced, the work was going on, and an intelligent, troubled\nspirit came out of darkness into marvellous light. This success, which\nseems to have surprised her, was apparently owing to the beauty of her\nown religion, and the harmony and happiness of her life, which the\ndoubter could not fail to see, which indeed first induced the\nconfession, and was more effectual than any formal arguments; another\nevidence of the power and responsibility of the Christian course and\ncharacter. \"What a responsibility did this trust impose on me!\" Mary\nwrites; \"for I knew that no human being but myself was aware of it. It\nwas too much to bear alone; I was unequal to it, I dared not attempt it\nfor a time, I knew that so much depended on the very first step in such\ncases.\"\n\nThe counsellor to whom she would gladly have gone for aid, her beloved\npastor, was then absent, travelling in Europe for his health. He\nreturned the following summer; and the account she gives of that happy\nevent, familiar as the facts may be to the readers of the Memoir of\nChanning, will be interesting to many, as the impression of one who saw\nand heard for herself.\n\n \"_Dorchester, August 25, 1823._\n\n \"MY DEAR N----:\n\n \"I have just returned from passing the day with E----, and\n although it is late, and I am very tired, I cannot resist the\n strong desire I have to send you a few lines by her to-morrow,\n that I may give you some faint idea, at least, of what you\n would have felt, had you heard Mr. Channing yesterday. But to\n begin at the right end of the tale, I passed Thursday in town,\n and learned that Mr. Channing would possibly come in a vessel\n which was expected daily. On Friday I was at Nahant, and saw a\n ship enter the harbor which might be that. Saturday I went to\n Newton, and on my return was told that he had actually arrived,\n and was to preach the next morning. I could scarcely credit it,\n and it was not until my arrival at home, when I received a note\n from George requesting me to come in to hear him, and pass the\n day in Pearl Street, that I could be convinced it was actually\n true. I went in on Sunday morning, and with what sensations I\n saw the church filling, and every one looking round in anxious\n expectation, you may perhaps imagine; it was a feeling more of\n dread than pleasure, lest the first glance at his face should\n destroy all our hopes. He wisely waited until all had entered,\n and when his quick step was heard (for you might have heard a\n leaf fall), the whole body of people rose, as it were with one\n impulse, to welcome him. He was much affected by this, and it\n was some seconds before he could raise his head; but when he\n did, it made the eyes that gazed on him rejoice to see him,\n seated in his accustomed corner, looking round on his people\n with the most animated expression of joy glowing on his face,\n and with the evidences of improved health stamped on every\n feature. His skin was much burned, to be sure, which may have\n given him an appearance of health that did not belong to him,\n but the increase of his flesh and the animation of his\n countenance promised much.\n\n \"Mr. Dewey commenced the services as he used to do, but when,\n after the prayer, Mr. Channing rose and read his favorite\n psalm,--\n\n 'My soul, repeat His praise,\n Whose mercies are so great,'\n\n I could hardly realize that he had been absent, his voice and\n manner and action were so exactly like himself in his very best\n days. He stood through the whole psalm, and seemed to join in\n and enjoy every note of the music. He could not control a smile\n of joy. But of what followed I can tell you little. You have\n heard him when he felt obliged, as then, to dismiss the\n restraints of form, and speak freely the thoughts that filled\n his mind, and have perhaps often thought with others that he\n went too far, was too particular, too personal; but yesterday,\n I believe the most uninterested person present could not find\n fault. I thought it was the most deeply affecting address I\n ever heard; it was also deeply and decidedly practical. There\n are few occasions which will authorize a minister to excite the\n feelings of his audience in a very great degree, and none which\n can make it allowable for him to rest in mere excitement. But\n when their minds, from any peculiar circumstance, are\n particularly susceptible, I know no reason why it should not be\n permitted that they be addressed familiarly and affectionately\n on the subject of it. But you need not that I should defend Mr.\n Channing from the charge of egotism. You understand his motives\n too well to require it.\n\n \"His text was from the hundred and sixteenth Psalm: 'What shall\n I render unto God for all his mercies? I will offer the\n sacrifice of thanksgiving, I will call on the name of the Lord,\n I will pay my vows unto the Lord now in the presence of his\n people.' Returning, as he said, under such peculiar\n circumstances of mercy to his home and his people, he trusted\n no apology was necessary for waiving the common forms of the\n pulpit, that he might speak to his people as to his friends,\n that he might in the fulness of his heart utter its emotions to\n those who, he trusted, could understand and sympathize with\n them. As he slightly reviewed the views with which he left us,\n the mercies that had followed him, and the blessings which were\n showered on his return, he seemed almost overpowered with the\n fulness of his feelings, and I feared he would not be able to\n go on. But his voice rose as he said, 'And now what shall I\n render for all these benefits? I will first pay my vows unto\n Him, whose mighty arm hath been stretched out to save, whose\n never failing love hath everywhere attended me.' The ascription\n of praise which followed was more truly sublime than any thing\n I ever heard or read. His solemn dedication of his renewed life\n to the service of Him who had borne him in safety over the\n great deep, who had sustained him in sickness, comforted him in\n affliction, and crowned all his gifts by giving him strength to\n return to his duties, was almost too much to bear. It was a\n testimony to the power of religion, which spoke more loudly\n than all the books that ever were written to prove it. But he\n meant not to speak of his past experiences merely to relieve\n his own heart; he had but one great object in view, the good of\n his people, and he would not lose sight of that even when the\n fulness of his own feelings might almost be allowed to engage\n his whole mind. He could not be expected to enumerate all that\n he had learned during his absence, but one thing he could\n assure us; that at every step, under all circumstances, in\n every country, and with every variety of character, he had\n become more and more convinced of the value and necessity of\n the Christian revelation.\"\n\nThe last of that succession of bereavements which Mary was so early\ncalled to meet, and by which she was left as alone in the world, was now\nat hand. Since the death of her mother, in 1812, when there devolved\nmainly upon her, at the age of fourteen, the care of a dispirited and\nfeeble father, and two aged grandparents, with other members of the\nfamily in a most trying condition, she had lived either in the\nsick-room, or in a press of domestic cares and business avocations. That\nthese often made a severer demand upon her strength and patience, as\nwell as affection, than any one knew at the time, or indeed ever knew,\nappears from various intimations in her letters and life. And all this\nwas now to be brought to a crisis by the death of her _father_, leaving\nher without one near relative, or proper home. They had been boarding\nfor some time in Dorchester, in the family of Mr. Barnard; where she\nreceived, as she says, \"the greatest kindness and affection,\"--and she\nfelt the need of it. But let her give the circumstances in her own\nwords.\n\n \"_Boston, November 1, 1823._\n\n \"MY DEAR FRIEND:--\n\n \"I have been wishing this whole week to find time to write you,\n but it has been wholly impracticable. I have been in a\n perpetual agitation from sundry unexpected occurrences and\n continual interruptions from visitors. In fact, at no moment\n of my whole existence have I more wanted your counsel and\n sympathy. You know it is my lot to be assailed in more than one\n direction if in any, and it has been more remarkably the case\n now than ever.... I thank you most sincerely for your two good\n letters; it was more than I dared expect, and it was a cordial\n to me to receive the kind expression of your sympathy, though I\n should not have doubted its existence without it. You say you\n 'have heard but little of me,' and it was scarcely possible\n that you should hear of the immediate circumstances that\n attended my trial. It was so sudden that I was, as it were,\n alone, and I have feared that, in indulging myself in writing\n to you of it, I should give way too far, and distress and weary\n you. I have realized more than I ever did in any of the various\n changes I have met with, that 'the wind is tempered to the\n shorn lamb,' and even in the very extremity of trial we can be\n strengthened to support all with calmness.\n\n \"For the first three days of my father's sickness he seemed to\n have only a severe cold and slightly disordered stomach, and\n though I had called Dr. Thaxter, it was more to satisfy him\n that the medicine I gave was necessary for him, than from any\n doubt that I could do all that was needed; for he had often\n appeared more sick, and I had administered to him without any\n advice. On the morning of the fourth he appeared to be a little\n wandering, but remained quiet until night, when he was very\n violent for two or three hours; and the following day I was\n told by the physician that nothing but a miracle could preserve\n his life until the next morning. I heard it calmly, I believe\n because I could not realize it. He did not seem to be conscious\n that he was sick; he did all that I asked him to, but did not\n seem to know me. I soon found that the doctor's prediction was\n but too true, for symptoms of decay increased very rapidly,\n and at three the next morning he breathed his last, as a child\n would go to sleep. Not a struggle indicated the approach of the\n destroyer. I held his hand, and gazed at him until I was taken\n from him senseless. No one was with me but Mr. B----, and Mr.\n E----, his son-in-law. I recovered myself in a few moments and\n found Mr. E---- fainting; this obliged me instantly to rouse\n myself to action, which was all mercifully disposed, and I sat\n down quietly with them for the remainder of the night, giving\n directions when any thing passed my mind, or remaining silent,\n knowing all would be done just as I wished.\n\n \"It would have seemed dreadful to me had I anticipated passing\n through such a scene with only two gentlemen, who a few months\n before were perfect strangers to me; but it never passed my\n mind that I was not with my nearest friends. I could not in\n volumes tell you of all their kindness. It was one of the\n striking testimonies of God's merciful care of me, that He\n placed me with them. Indeed, His goodness towards me has been\n most wonderful, and above all, that He has enabled me to feel\n it continually; even in the awful stillness of that night I\n never lost sight of it. I could feel as it were His arm beneath\n me; and I can truly say I never experienced that fulness of\n heavenly peace which results from undeviating confidence in\n Him, which I then did. It was an hour of peculiar elevation\n which I can never forget, and which I trust will ever be a\n source of unfailing support, as it must be of gratitude. What\n beside could have sustained me amidst its horrors? All that I\n could call my own was departing from me, and I was standing as\n it were alone in the universe; but I felt that I was the object\n of His care who was all-sufficient, and I found in that\n consciousness a calmness which nothing could move. I stood firm\n and erect, though the storms of life seemed to have\n concentrated their power to overthrow me, and I felt that the\n Power which enabled me to do this would never forsake me, for\n it was not my own. We may talk of the resolution and fortitude\n which some possess, but what would it all be at such an hour?\n Nothing,--less than nothing. I gave up all reliance upon\n myself, or I should have utterly failed. Every thing was\n directed with the utmost mercy. Even his unconsciousness, which\n I thought at first I could not bear, was a mercy to him, for\n how much was he spared by it; he could not have left me alone\n without a severe struggle.\n\n \"I am now fixed for the winter, and shall soon feel, I doubt\n not, as much at home as it is possible for me to feel; and if\n the greatest kindness and affection that ever were shown to any\n human being can make me happy, I shall be so, for I have it.\n\n \"With love, I am yours,\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nVISIT ABROAD.\n\n\nMary Pickard was now alone. Every member of her own family had gone, and\nshe had witnessed and smoothed the passage of every one. She had only\nentered mature life, but her twenty-five years of experience and change\nhad been equal to double that period of common life. Already had she\nlearned the great truth, which to many comes late, if at all,--\n\n \"We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;\n In feelings, not in figures on a dial.\"\n\nHeretofore she had always had an object to live for,--some one dependent\nupon her affection and exertions, to whom it was happiness enough to\nminister. Now there was no one; and we wonder not that she said, \"I seem\nto hang so loosely on the world, that it is of little importance where I\nam.\" It was indeed a singular providence which at this moment opened to\nher an entirely new field, yet one wholly congenial with her tastes and\nwishes.\n\nHer only relatives on the father's side were in England, connections\nwhom she had seen only as a child twenty years before, but had always\nhoped to see again. And not for her own gratification only, but that she\nmight be of service, if possible, to those who were in depressed and\nobscure condition, as some of them were. This consideration, which would\nhave offered least inducement to most young minds, perhaps have kept\nthem away, was an incentive to Mary, and gave her a right to find in the\nopportunity a duty as well as a pleasure; especially as the occasion\ngiven her was itself an opportunity to serve an invalid friend. The\ncircumstances will appear in the following letters to Miss Cushing and\nMrs. Paine.\n\n \"_Boston, March 8, 1824._\n\n \"MY DEAR MISS CUSHING:--\n\n \"If sorrow for sin is any ground for forgiveness, I trust you\n will grant it to me, for my shameful neglect of you. Do not\n think that forgetfulness or want of interest has led to this;\n you know me, I trust, better than to believe that, and you know\n my faults too well not to be able to account for it, from my\n too deeply rooted habit of procrastinating. Often during the\n past winter have I thought, if I could only see you, I should\n be sure to find the guidance and sympathy which I have longed\n for; but when I thought of writing to you, I felt the\n selfishness of troubling you with my own perplexities, knowing\n that, as my mind was so much occupied by them, I could not\n compensate you for it by any other communications I could make.\n The last six months have indeed brought to me a constant\n struggle of feeling. Left as I was to choose my own path on the\n wide ocean of life, with health, strength, and some means of\n influence, the responsibility which it imposed to use to the\n best possible advantage the powers that God had given me, to\n promote the end for which I knew they were given, was almost\n overpowering,--and at times I would have given myself up\n willingly to the control of any one who would relieve me from\n the burden. I have experienced in so many striking ways the\n great goodness of God in giving me light to guide, and strength\n to sustain me in hours of trial, that it is, I know, but\n practical infidelity to doubt for one moment that his\n protecting influence will still be extended towards me, if I\n try my utmost to attain a knowledge of duty, and persevere to\n my best ability in the path which conscience dictates. But the\n difficulty is, that, though in great events where we see at\n once that no human power can aid us we cannot but acknowledge\n that He is sufficient for all things, we are too apt to lose\n sight of this truth in cases in which human agency must be\n exerted, forgetting that God is as surely the operating cause\n in one case as the other. When it appears that our fate may be\n determined by a single word which we feel the power of\n uttering, we can scarcely help thinking that upon our own heads\n must be all the consequences which may follow; and thinking\n thus, we must realize our weakness and insufficiency.\n\n \"All this has been preying upon my mind, and its effects have\n been deplorably contracting to my thoughts. I have, indeed,\n been outwardly much occupied by various pursuits, trying to do\n something for others, but my thinking has been nearly all for\n myself. This is my only excuse for not writing you more, and I\n think with this specimen you will be satisfied that I have not\n before attempted it. I believe that all the events that befall\n us are exactly such as are best adapted to improve us; and I\n find, in a perfect confidence in the wisdom and love which I\n know directs them, a source of peace which no other thing can\n give; and in the difficulty I find in acting upon this belief I\n see a weakness of nature, which those very trials are designed\n to assist us in overcoming, and which trial alone can conquer.\n Whatever is in store for me, I trust that I shall not forget\n that the first and only important object of existence is to\n promote, as far as my powers may extend, the cause of holiness.\n That every one, however humble their station and limited their\n capacity, has some power to do this, I doubt not, as I find in\n every line of God's word a command to do so; and I pray that my\n feeble efforts may be fully devoted to this end.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_March 15._ What changes a few days may produce in one's\n prospects! Little could I think, a week ago, that the\n conclusion of this letter was to tell you, that in less than\n another week I should be floating on the vast ocean, on my way\n to England. But so it is, and I hope that the suddenness of the\n determination to go has not shut from my eyes any very\n important consideration against it. It seems to me like a\n dream, for it is only in my dreams that I have ever thought of\n it as a possibility. I have wished to see my relations there,\n having always kept up a constant correspondence with them, and\n felt very much interested in them; but since my father's death,\n I have viewed the accomplishment of this wish as an\n impossibility. But now that so good an opportunity has offered,\n I cannot hesitate to accept it. I seem to hang so loosely on\n the world, that it is of little importance where I am, as it\n regards duties, and it is an advantage to enlarge one's ideas,\n which I feel ought to be improved. To tell you all that I feel\n at leaving home would be impossible; it is a most solemn\n undertaking, and when I glance at the possibilities connected\n with such a step, it almost overwhelms me.\n\n \"I wish I could see every one of you once more. My heart is\n indeed too full to tell you half that I wish.\n\n \"Yours most affectionately,\n \"M. L. P\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Boston, March 13, 1824._\n\n \"MY DEAR N----:\n\n \"I have been sitting many minutes with my pen in my hand and\n paper before me, trying to bring to myself sufficient\n resolution to tell you the new and surprising turn which has\n taken place in my wayward destiny. I have been so long the\n creature of circumstances that you must be prepared for changes\n of all kinds in my lot; but I know not how it will strike you\n when you learn for truth, that in one week from to-morrow I\n sail for England. I thought that I was entirely willing to go,\n but as I find myself telling you of it, and think that it is\n utterly impossible for me to see you again, my heart sinks\n within me, and I almost shrink from it. In fact, this is the\n first moment I have realized it. I knew nothing of it until the\n day before yesterday, when Edward Robbins sent to me, to say\n that his physicians and friends advised his taking a voyage,\n and that, if I could go with him, it would decide him to take\n their advice. I had thought of the subject so much, that I was\n prepared at once to answer. It is a very desirable thing for me\n to visit the few relations which I have there, and I could\n never give up the expectation and endeavor to accomplish it. My\n dependent state was the only barrier, as I could never go\n unless under the protection of one of the few male friends from\n whom I should be willing to receive such an obligation, and it\n was so unlikely that either of those few would ever think of\n going, that I had but little hope I should ever realize my\n wishes. But this proposition at once removed all difficulties.\n Our families have been so long connected, and Edward himself\n has been so particularly kind to me through life, and more than\n ever since I have been without a parent's protection, and is in\n every respect so exactly calculated to make one feel willing\n and happy to be under obligation, that I could not but feel\n that now was the time (if ever) for me to accomplish this\n great object. Doubts about the sufficiency of my means, and\n some scruples about my right to employ them in this way, made\n me hesitate a few hours; but in less than four I decided, with\n the advice of all whom it was necessary to consult, that it was\n right to improve the present, as all future opportunities were\n uncertain. That it cost me a deep inward struggle to make my\n feelings acquiesce, you will not doubt. The first day I felt\n like a child. I could not glance even at the reasons which\n favored my going without sad and overpowering retrospection,\n and the thought of the uncertainty of the result, the thousand\n possibilities involved in such a change, almost turned my\n brain; and yet every one was wondering how I could look so\n composed and keep so still. It is singular how much little\n things sometimes concur to aid us. It was Thursday, and I was\n just going to lecture, as Mr. Robbins came in with his\n proposal. I went still, and Mr. Walker gave us one of the most\n delightful, strengthening sermons upon the influence of the\n Spirit, and the all-sufficiency of trust in its guidance, that\n I ever heard in my life. I believe no other subject could have\n fixed my attention, and it did fix it most effectually.\n\n \"I know it is utterly impossible that I should see you,\n therefore I will not dwell for a moment on the thought. I have,\n of course, a great deal to think about, although little\n personal preparation; but I must leave every thing in which I\n have the least concern just as I should wish if I was certain I\n should never return. God only knows what the future will bring\n to me, but I hope to find myself wholly willing to yield myself\n to the disposal of his providence. We think of these changes\n for others, and feel little doubt about their safety, but when\n the case becomes our own, it is another thing. To embark on the\n wide ocean in a little, frail vessel with perfect calmness,\n requires a firmness of faith of which no one can boast until\n they have stood the test. I have no fear of it now, and I trust\n I shall find that the ground of confidence in the all-powerful\n God, which the experience of my life has given me, will be\n sufficient to support me in all events. I am willing to be put\n to the test, for if all that I think I feel is but delusion, I\n had better discover the delusion before it is too late.\n\n \"We have taken passage in the Emerald. If I feel alone here, I\n don't know what I shall do in a land of strangers. We go to\n Liverpool, and probably immediately to London from there. I go\n with very moderate hopes about seeing the wonders and beauties.\n I must be satisfied with seeing people, not things. I shall\n have no right to travel much, and shall have no advantages not\n common to the most insignificant; nevertheless, if I can attain\n my principal object, all the rest will be unexpected gain. It\n is most probable we shall be gone a year, but it is possible we\n may return in the fall.\n\n \"What a variety for one poor soul in the last four months! It\n absolutely makes me giddy to think of it all. But what a source\n of comfort is it, that in all things I have sought guidance\n where I believe it is ever freely given; and I do believe,\n whatever is the event of all this, it must be the direction of\n Him who knows and governs all things I must not write more.\n\n \"Yours most affectionately,\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\nA particular friend in Milton, one of the truest and noblest friends\nthat Mary or any one ever had, describes her as at this time \"worn to\nthe bone\" with care and trial; and then breaks forth in praise of her,\nin unmeasured terms; adding, \"Yet, with all this superiority, where is\nthe other being on whom any poor fool can repose with such trust and\nconfidence, as on her? My meanest thought is not checked in the\nutterance, because her mind is so flexible it stoops to the lowest. I am\nonly afraid of adoring her, so I may as well hold my peace.\" This was\nsaid in earnest, and is one of many expressions of admiration and\naffection called out by her departure.\n\nOf her progress and occupations abroad, our knowledge is drawn\nexclusively from her own letters. These, therefore, we shall use freely,\nleaving them to show their connection as far as they can, and make their\nown impression; begging the reader to remember, however, that they were\nall written in the haste of travelling or the fatigues of watching, and\nthat their literary merit or public appearance was the last thought to\noccur to the mind of the writer. She wrote a great deal, and we confine\nour selection chiefly to passages relating to personal experience,\nrather than descriptions of places or works of art. For these last she\nallowed herself little time, though keenly alive to the enjoyment of all\ngrandeur and beauty, and giving passing indications of her power of\nappreciating and delineating.\n\nArriving in Liverpool in April, she was made to feel at home\nimmediately, by the kindness and sympathy of a kindred mind, in one to\nwhom Dr. Channing had given her a letter, and whose name and sad fate\nare familiar to many,--Mrs. Freme, daughter of the Rev. Dr. Wells, who\nsettled in Brattleboro', Vermont, where she afterward perished by fire.\nMary's account of her interview with that excellent woman is\ncharacteristic, as her first interest in a new country.\n\n \"_London, April 19, 1824._\n\n \"In Liverpool, I went with Mrs. Freme to visit the Female\n Penitentiary, and took a long walk with her. She had\n relinquished an engagement out of town to go with me, and I\n know not that I ever felt more grateful to a stranger in my\n life. She is an uncommonly sensible, kind woman, extremely\n interested in the encouragement of all good works, a warm\n Unitarian, and a truly liberal, benevolent Christian. I never\n enjoyed any thing in my life more than the conversation I had\n with her. I had begun to feel the want of that free intercourse\n upon those subjects upon which we can speak only to those who\n we are sure are equally interested in them; and in a strange\n land, to meet with one who not only entered fully into every\n thing I wished to say, but carried me on to higher, more\n improving and elevated thoughts, was indeed a privilege.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_London, May 6, 1824._\n\n \"MY DEAR ANN:--\n\n \"It was a great deprivation to me to be unable to write at sea.\n I hoped to have had a large packet for the many kind friends\n who aided and blessed my departure, expressing something of the\n gratitude which overpowered me. I have sometimes feared that\n you thought me insensible to it all, for I dared not try to\n utter even a word of what I felt lest I should lose my\n self-possession entirely, and trouble them more than my thanks\n would please them. God alone knows how fully I appreciated it\n all, and when I look back upon the period which elapsed after\n my father's death until I left you, I know not how to speak my\n astonishment that such a one as myself should have been so\n signally favored. For your Aunt Nancy I can only say her reward\n must be beyond this world; nothing that I or any one here can\n do, is adequate to it. Never was a human being so blessed with\n kind friends, and could I feel that I had been as grateful as I\n ought to have been, I should be happy. But the entire\n absorption of every thought in self, during the past winter, is\n now a subject of much reproach.\n\n \"I had time to think of all this during the long days and\n wakeful nights on the voyage, and I do assure you I took a new\n view of every thing connected with it. Whether it was the\n absence of every thing else to interest my mind, or the natural\n increase of our attachment to all objects when we are going\n from them, I know not, but there were moments of acute agony,\n when I thought of the return I had made for the kindness\n manifested towards me. How often I longed to be for a little\n time on the little stool in the drawing-room, giving utterance\n to my spirit! There was so little in the monotony of sea-life\n to interrupt the train of one's thoughts, that I could not\n sometimes get rid of an idea which possessed me, and I often\n woke up, wearied with the continuation of one and the same\n dream, night after night. But I did enjoy a great deal at sea,\n there was so much to elevate the mind in the very situation;\n and the want of confidence which I felt from the first evening\n in the head of the concern tended most powerfully to raise my\n thoughts above all second causes, to the One Great Cause and\n Supporter of all things. Never did I so deeply feel our entire\n dependence upon the power of God, never did I so fully realize\n the impotence of human skill, as when I saw it contending with\n the winds; and yet there was something ennobling in the idea,\n that human skill had contrived and taught to guide such a\n vehicle as a ship upon the trackless waste of waters; and while\n we trace all this power to the original source of it, we cannot\n but feel that He has given to us a noble nature. Often when the\n sea was rising in immense waves on every side, and the ship\n tossed about as though it were but a little shell which the\n waters would soon overwhelm, have I felt as I never before did\n the immense value of that religion which was able to calm all\n fears, and raise the mind to a state even of enjoyment, under\n such terrific circumstances. What but a firm confidence that,\n whether we live or die, or whatever event befall us, it is in\n Infinite Wisdom that it is so, can give this composure? Shall\n we not then hold fast and cherish such a faith? shall we not\n seek to understand its nature, and endeavor with our whole\n hearts to ingraft its principles upon our characters?\n\n \"Tell me as much about Mr. Channing and his sermons as you can.\n I went to chapel on Sunday with Mrs. Kinder, but heard very\n poor preaching, to very poor houses. But Mr. Channing told me\n just what to expect, therefore I was prepared for it. Poor as\n it was, however, the delight of finding myself once more in a\n place of public worship overbalanced all, and when I heard the\n same tunes sung to the same words which I had heard in Federal\n Street, it was a little more than I could bear firmly. I am\n charmed with the whole Kinder family; they are too literary to\n make me feel able to communicate the least pleasure, on account\n of my ignorance upon all literary subjects, but they are every\n thing that is kind, and very agreeable, and I find a good\n lesson for my humility when I am there.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_London, May 26, 1824._\n\n \"MY DEAR FRIENDS:--\n\n \"For the first four weeks I resisted all the entreaties of my\n cousins to go to them, because Dr. R---- was so depressed and\n ill, and it was so bad for Mrs. R---- to be left alone. But the\n third week Dr. R---- improved very much in health, and somewhat\n in spirits. And though he offered me many great inducements to\n accompany them to Leamington, I could not think it quite right\n to do so, as my society would not be as necessary to them as\n it had been, and they were going to a fashionable\n watering-place. I had seen nothing of my own friends, and as\n Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Morton had asked me to stay with them when\n I first arrived, I took the liberty of accepting their\n invitation for a few days.\n\n \"I believe I told you I had a kind letter from Uncle Ben, and\n have since had a visit from his son, who heard of our arrival,\n and came up the next day, in true Lovell style, to take me home\n with him to Waltham Abbey, near Enfield.\n\n \"Through the kindness of Mr. Kinder's family I have had many\n privileges. By their intercession I have been admitted to\n Newgate, and though Mrs. Fry was not there, I was very much\n gratified. I met with a young Quakeress, who was rather\n handsome, was very intelligent and kind, and has been very\n attentive to me. Mrs. Fry is too much out of health to go\n often, but I am to be informed by my little friend when she\n next goes.\n\n \"Walking to Newington with the Kinders, to return a call, they\n asked me if I would go with them to see Mrs. Barbauld. To be\n sure, it made my heart beat, but I could not say no. It was\n indeed a privilege, and I wish I could tell you all about it.\n She spoke with great feeling of those of our ministers whom she\n had seen,--Buckminster, Thacher, and Channing. Having never\n seen Mr. Thacher's sermons, I had the honor of sending them to\n her, and of writing her a note. A note to Mrs. Barbauld! What\n presumption! Yet I was asked afterward to dine with her. She is\n remarkably bright for her age, speaks of death with the firmest\n hope, and I really felt as if I were communing with a spiritual\n body. Though now eighty-two, she possesses all her faculties in\n full perfection. Her manner is peculiarly gentle, her voice\n low, and very sweet.\n\n \"I went with the Kinders to see some rich Quakers, who are very\n active in the school concern, and also to a meeting of the\n British and Foreign School Society, where I saw the Duke of\n Sussex, and heard some fine speaking. They go upon the\n Lancaster and Bell system, and truly wonderful is their success\n and usefulness. I have heard Madame Catalani, and some of the\n finest singers, at a concert at the Opera House, and was as\n much amazed as it was possible to be, notwithstanding all I had\n heard. But some of those with less power pleased me more. No\n one can equal _her_, or be compared with her. Braham sung with\n her, with a full band, and her voice was heard above all; it is\n tremendous, for the house is immense, and she entirely filled\n it. At a meeting of the Sons of the Clergy at St. Paul's, I\n heard some very fine sacred music. About thirty little boys\n sang the high parts, and chanted the responses. The church was\n very full. The Duke of Clarence, Lord Mayor, and a goodly\n company of the dignitaries of the Church, filled the seats of\n honor. Nothing could be more solemn than the whole scene, and\n when at parts of the service the whole congregation joined in\n the chant, the dome rung with the sound, and one almost looked\n to see if the statues around were not roused.\n\n \"Do you fear that my head is growing giddy, with all this\n variety? At present there is no danger. My thoughts turn too\n often homeward, to be very much engrossed by any thing here,\n and my heart will feel sad when I think of the time which must\n elapse ere I see it again.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Broadwater, Worthing, June 11, 1824._\n\n \"MY DEAR COUSIN:--\n\n \"On Saturday, the 29th, I received a letter from Dr. R----\n saying that Leamington did not agree with him, that Mrs. R----\n was quite unwell, and they begged, if possible, that I would\n come to them the next day, with some plan of proceeding for\n them, for he felt wholly unable to decide what to do. After\n some debate with Mrs. S---- I concluded that it was a duty to\n give up all my own views, and do what I could for him, as there\n was no one else who could assist them in this land of\n strangers. Accordingly I wrote him that I would join them on\n Tuesday, as it was not in my power to make such an entire\n change in my arrangements before. I had just prepared on Monday\n to start, when another letter arrived, saying they should be in\n London at night.\n\n \"We propose going from here to the Isle of Wight, and round to\n the western part of England, Bristol, Bath, and Wales. I hope\n on the way to have a peep at Mrs. McAdam, who is now at\n Plymouth, for it is rather tantalizing for us to be kept so\n long separated. I would not have believed that any thing would\n have kept me so long from my friends after I had found myself\n in England. But it is well to be obliged to control our\n selfishness in England, as elsewhere. The little I have seen of\n my relations has only increased my desire to know them and be\n loved by them. My reception at Uncle Ben's was more like that\n which I hope to have at home, than any thing I could have\n expected in this strange land. He is a warm-hearted old man,\n with all the best of the Lovell feelings in full vigor. He was\n very much attached to my mother, and retains a stronger\n interest in his Transatlantic relations than I could have\n thought possible after an absence of fifty years. He was very\n much overcome at seeing me, and wept over me like a child. They\n demand three months, at least, from me, but I am afraid I shall\n not have half that time for them. You don't know how delightful\n it was to be among people who seemed so like my own home\n friends.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Broadwater, June 11, 1824._\n\n \"MY DEAR ANN:--\n\n \"You have been sorely afflicted indeed, doubtless for some good\n purpose. I am rejoiced to find by your letter that you are\n disposed to view it so, and improve by the chastisement. I hope\n it will lead the way to a more free communication with our good\n minister. It is a great privilege, and one which ought to be\n improved. I have learned since I have been here to estimate our\n advantages in this and all other religious affairs, as I could\n never have done at home. In London, it seems to me that there\n is no more connection between minister and people, in the\n Established Church, than if they had no influence whatever to\n exercise; and among the Dissenters I have met with, the case is\n not much better. They are so scattered, and wander about so\n much, that it is difficult to have much intercourse, or keep up\n much interest among them....\n\n \"I have heard but one sermon since I have been in this country\n which made the least impression upon my mind, and that was from\n one from whom I expected nothing that would satisfy me. This\n was Mr. Irving, whom Mr. Channing mentioned as the popular\n favorite in London. He is a most singular-looking Scotchman, a\n pupil of Dr. Chalmers, and now so much the fashion, that\n tickets of admission are sold, to enable those who wish to hear\n him to go in before the hour when the doors are thrown open.\n Even in this way it is like the theatre of a Kean night, and\n for two hours before the service commences the crowd is\n immense. His manner is very like Kean's, most impassioned, and\n when he commenced I turned from him in disgust. But there was\n that in the subject and substance of the sermon which made me\n forget the manner in which it was delivered. It was, I\n understood, one of the least flowery of his productions. I\n shall never forget it, I think; but I would not be obliged to\n go to such a place for the best sermons that ever were written.\n It was just like the theatre or some great exhibition.\n\n \"You cannot think how I long, when the Sabbath comes round, to\n have an ear in Federal Street. I find, as Mr. Channing warned\n me, that travelling is a sad enemy to the cultivation of\n religious knowledge and improvement; it does so derange the\n regularity of one's habits of thinking and acting. The day is\n too confused, and the nights too wearied. But there is much in\n the experience of every day to excite a strong sense of\n gratitude to that Providence whose care is extended over us in\n all places; in the consciousness which we must have, even when\n the idea of separation from those we love presses most heavily\n upon us, that there is One, ever present, whose love for us is\n infinite. Yet it is not of feelings that I ought to speak; I\n could fill volumes with the variety of thoughts which every day\n suggests, but I am learning to do without the communication of\n them.\"\n\nFrom Broadwater the party of four went to the Isle of Wight, and made\nthe usual circuit, in their little open carriage, through that charming\nregion, \"with nothing wanting but health, and with that deficiency all\nwas a blank.\" Dr. R---- was too unwell to enjoy any thing, and Mary\nherself, for a wonder, speaks of suffering from a cough which she had\nhad a month. But it did not prevent her from making what she calls \"a\nbreak-neck excursion\" up a precipice of about four hundred feet, at the\nsouthern part of the island. Of the country she gives a glowing\ndescription, for which we have not room. On leaving the island, Dr.\nR---- found it necessary to return to Broadwater for medical advice,\nand Mary, who had arranged to meet some of her relations at Plymouth at\nthis time, readily, though not without regret, gave up her own plans,\nand went back with the family to Broadwater. The place had little\ninterest for her, and she writes of \"useless idleness\" as a new thing to\nher, and uncomfortable. But others did not think her presence useless,\nnor did she fail to find employment. From the wife of the clergyman, who\nhad lately established schools in the parish on a new plan, she learned\na good deal of the national system of education. After a short time, Dr.\nR---- determined to go to Paris, and she accompanied him. But of Paris\nitself she saw very little, being chiefly devoted to the care of her\nfriend. And except for him, she had no wish to be there. \"It may seem\nstrange,\" she writes, \"that I should not wish to see Paris, but the\npleasure of every thing depends upon the circumstances which immediately\nsurround us. Yet I am very glad I came, for, though I cannot be of much\nuse, any one is better than none.\"\n\nTheir stay in Paris was short. In view of all considerations, Dr. R----\nfound it best to return at once to America, and sailed that same month\nfrom Havre, Mary remaining to make her visit to her friends in England.\nHer next letters are from Chatham.\n\n \"_Chatham, September 7, 1824._\n\n \"MY DEAR ANN:--\n\n \"You may easily suppose that my sensations at leaving Havre\n were not the most cheering. I knew that I could have been of\n but little comfort to our friends on the voyage, but I could\n not help wishing that it had been so ordered that I might have\n returned with them. There was something, too, so very lonely in\n the idea of being left in a strange land, with no chance of\n escape for a certain length of time, even if my friends should\n take it into their heads to dislike me; and worse than all,\n under my own sole direction, to govern myself and my actions\n only by my own judgment. Indeed, I did feel as though I should\n almost shrink from the effort it required; but this did not\n trouble me long. I thought of the mercies of my past life, the\n great goodness and preserving care which had hitherto upheld me\n in many times of danger and difficulty. The night was a most\n beautiful one, and the very motion of the little vessel\n recalled so much which had once given me support under similar\n circumstances, that my mind seemed to acquire a degree of\n calmness and firmness which was almost sublime. For this I have\n great cause of gratitude; it was the gift of a Power mightier\n than I, and prepared me for the coming danger. We were two\n nights and a day crossing to Southampton, about twice the usual\n length of the passage, the greater part of the time in a\n violent storm and most dangerous situation. I suffered more\n from sickness than in crossing the Atlantic, but met with very\n great attention from the ladies who were in the same\n state-room, and much entertainment beside; but I never was more\n rejoiced than when I found myself in a clean bed on _terra\n firma_, upon the second morning.\n\n \"My first attempt at journeying alone was a very encouraging\n one. A good old clergyman was my companion, and after three\n weeks in France, I assure you, I enjoyed any thing like serious\n conversation; though he happened to be a Methodist, he was a\n rational and learned one, and I believe I learned much that was\n useful from him. I had apprised my good cousin of my intended\n descent upon her family, and was received with open arms and\n much kind greeting by all her flock. Here I am, then, at last,\n and I know you are impatient to know all about them, and the\n place in which they live. Mrs. S---- is in appearance but the\n shadow of what she was when her picture was taken. Trouble and\n age have made her thin and pale. But the perfect symmetry of\n her pretty little figure, and the brightness of her still\n beautiful eyes, enable one to see in her the remains of one of\n nature's fairest works. Her naturally good spirits are almost\n wholly subdued by the trials and perplexities which have\n followed her in constant succession for many years, and ill\n health and an anxious mind have created a disposition to\n despondency which even her piety cannot at all times overcome.\n This has unfitted her for great exertion, and, not possessing\n much natural force of character, it is impossible for her to\n make much effort even for herself. She is all gentleness, and\n full of affectionate feeling, and I often think, in looking at\n her in her happiest moments, that she would be a good\n personification of Shakspeare's Patience smiling at Grief. Her\n situation here is that of matron to the hospital, but it is\n almost a nominal office, a perfect sinecure, for she has\n scarcely any duty, and a comfortable income. She is now\n peculiarly tried, and seems to consider it an especial mercy\n that she has one to whom she can turn in her loneliness with\n something like a claim for sympathy.\n\n \"... There is a small Unitarian chapel here, and cousin N----\n will say, 'Why do you not go to that?' Merely because I found\n out but yesterday that there was such an one; hearing a lady\n say, 'We ought to tolerate all denominations but those\n dangerous enemies to religion, the Unitarians,--I cannot pass\n their chapel without shuddering,'--next Sunday I shall endeavor\n to ascertain the grounds of this pious hatred. But in truth,\n if I had not learned liberality before, I have had experience\n enough to teach it to me since I have been in this country, I\n have met with so many good Christians, of such a variety of\n sects; and found that the bond of union created by a mutual\n desire to aid in the cause of benevolence was sufficient to\n excite interest, without any regard to different creeds or\n doctrinal points.\n\n \"I am constantly hearing now from all my little circle of\n relations, who seem determined to prevent my feeling alone, if\n their attentions can prevent it. Do not suspect me of vanity in\n mentioning all these attentions; this is not the case, for the\n effect is rather humbling, and I fear when they know me better\n they will find a poor return for it all; but I do feel such\n gratitude for so many unlooked for, undeserved blessings, that\n I want you all to know it, that you too may unite with me in\n thanksgiving to God for his watchful care of me, a solitary\n orphan in a foreign land.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_September 14._ The day after I wrote the above, I received a\n letter from Mr. and Mrs. C----, then at Ramsgate, a town upon\n the eastern shore of Kent, saying that they were making a short\n tour, and had intended coming to Chatham to see me on their way\n home, but thinking I might like to see Dover and its castle,\n proposed that I should join them there, and pass a few days\n with them. So, without hesitation, I got into one of the many\n coaches which daily pass through Chatham, and in six hours was\n with them. The ride was delightful, through a richly wooded and\n highly cultivated country, the fine old city of Canterbury, and\n a number of pretty towns. My companions in the coach were very\n genteel, intelligent people, and I was quite pleased with\n finding that it was a very customary thing for a lady to travel\n inside a coach without escort; I wished it were equally so to\n travel outside, I do so much prefer to see all I can. This was\n on Thursday last, the 9th, and I remained with them until\n to-day, receiving every attention and kindness from them, and\n much satisfaction from seeing the place....\n\n \"I returned here to-day. My cousin was to have met me at\n Canterbury, but was prevented by the weather. I rode the\n greater part of the way alone, inside, though the outside was\n full; and you may tell Mary that my thoughts were often turned\n to her; for a guideboard with the name of 'Milton' upon it\n reminded me of my shameful neglect of our sweet _tune_ of that\n name. I had not once sung it since I left her, and found full\n employment for some miles in trying to bring it to mind; and it\n was not until after recalling her looks and voice, and beating\n three strokes in a bar, over and over again, to try the power\n of association, that I could bring it to my recollection. But I\n sung it enough, when I did get it, to make up for all past\n deficiencies. It carried me back to last winter, and all your\n happy family, so fully, that my empty coach was soon peopled,\n and I had as pleasant a ride as need be.\n\n \"I had the gratification of seeing the famous actress, Mrs.\n Siddons, at Dover,--a rare sight indeed; she is a wonderfully\n handsome woman for her age, living in elegant retirement, in\n handsome style.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Chatham, October 4, 1824._\n\n \"MY DEAR COUSIN:--\n\n \"I am delighted that Mr. Gannett pleases you all, and to hear\n such good accounts of Mr. Channing. The very idea of a letter\n from him was almost too much for my poor brain; the reality\n would overpower me, I believe. I greatly fear, unless the\n spring should bring me some kind American friend with whom I\n can travel, that I shall see little more of England. But I will\n be satisfied, at any rate, if I can but find the means of\n seeing my poor aunt S----.\n\n \"The return of this season brings so forcibly to my mind the\n recollection of the trying events of which it is the\n anniversary, that I find it difficult to prevent myself from\n dwelling too much upon it. I would not lose the remembrance of\n it, for every hour of that time was filled with valuable\n experience of the goodness and loving-kindness of my Heavenly\n Father. I love to dwell upon it, and recall every act of the\n many friends who then surrounded me with renewed feelings of\n gratitude towards them. May I yet be enabled to prove in my\n actions what I cannot express in words.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nMary Pickard is now among her kindred, those relatives of her father\nwhom she had so long desired to know, and whom she hoped in some way to\nbenefit. For her idea of conferring benefits was never defined by the\nthought of wealth, or excluded by the want of it. That she gave most\nliberally, according to her means, at this very time, we learn from\nothers; her letters would never suggest it. In other and better ways, by\nmost unexpected opportunities, did she render service to many before she\nleft England, where her stay was greatly prolonged beyond the first\nintention, for this very purpose. For ten weeks she remained in Chatham;\nand though she does not say it, we infer from other intimations that\nmuch of that time was occupied with the care of the sick, or in\nrelieving some kind of trouble. It is in reference to Chatham that she\nsays, \"I am fated to find trouble wherever I go,\"--which is true of all\nwho are willing to _take_ trouble, that they may relieve others.\n\nFrom Chatham Mary went to Waltham Abbey, and passed three weeks with the\nson of the only surviving brother of James Lovell. And in December,\nunwilling to be detained longer from the cousin to whom she designed to\nmake one of her chief visits in England, and finding that sickness in\nthe family prevented any one from coming for her, she took the coach\nalone, leaving London before daylight and riding to Salisbury, where\nsome of her friends met her, and conducted her to their home at\n\"Burcombe House,\" in that vicinity. And there she spent the next three\nor four months, in a way that her letters will best tell. These letters\nwe give as we find them, without excluding the personal allusions and\noccasional descriptions of character; since it is in just such\ndescriptions, natural and easy, that we best read the mind of the writer\nand of those whom she portrays, as well as the features and ways of a\ncommon English household. And should these letters chance to fall under\nthe eye of any to whom they allude, if any still survive, we trust they\nwill pardon a liberty which exposes nothing that is not to their honor.\n\n \"_Burcombe House, December 8, 1824._\n\n \"Congratulate me, my good friends, that I am at last under this\n roof, and have seen cousin Jane and all her dear family. I left\n London at five o'clock on Saturday, the 4th, and I found myself\n at Salisbury at three o'clock, not at all fatigued. Cousin Jane\n and her son came to meet me; but as their carriage was from\n home, they were in an open gig, and we thought it expedient to\n take a postchaise, as Burcombe is five miles from the town. But\n before I proceed to the events of my ride, I must tell you\n something of my cousin, as I know you are wishing to hear how\n she received me. Our meeting was just what you could easily\n imagine it would be, knowing her to be a person of ardent\n feelings, strongly attached to her dear uncle, and consequently\n determined to love his daughter, let her be what she might; and\n after the frequent disappointments we have had, with regard to\n meeting, we both had an almost superstitious fear that\n something might yet happen to separate us. But we were at last\n together, and, if it took us both some time to realize it, we\n were not the less rejoiced to find it true. She has suffered\n much, and it has subdued her mind and spirits, and softened her\n manners. She is certainly one of the most entertaining women I\n ever saw, and one of the most interesting. She has strong\n powers of mind, and of course strong passions, warm-hearted,\n enthusiastic, prone to extremes, almost without restraint in\n youth, and the sport of adverse circumstances through life,\n ignorant of the only sure Guide to direct and guard the soul\n under the temptations to which such trials subject it. Imagine,\n then, what such a mind must be when brought by suffering to a\n deep sense of religious obligation, turning all its energies to\n the accomplishment of good to others and the subjection of\n self, not content with feeling until every feeling leads to\n active exertion,--and you have my dear cousin before you. You\n will not be surprised that I should already dearly love her,\n and feel that it was worth coming so far to know and give her\n pleasure. Her mind is just in that state which requires free\n discussion upon subjects of faith and practice, and shut out as\n she is here from society, and almost wholly without ministerial\n instruction, she suffers from the want of a companion who feels\n a like interest in the matter. How often do I wish for her the\n same privileges which I have had in Mr. Channing, or that you,\n my dear cousin, could step in and pour forth a little from\n your fund of knowledge.\n\n \"But I have digressed vastly from my tale. To return to the inn\n at Salisbury. We soon seated ourselves in a chaise, trunks,\n boxes, and all, and were driving on at a furious rate towards\n Burcombe House, when, lo! in a quiet lane, a mile at least from\n any houses, the axle of the front wheels gave way; off went one\n wheel, and down went we, just at dark, and the rain falling in\n torrents. We soon found it was only a subject for laughter; we\n had but one resource, which was to send the postboy back to\n Salisbury for another coach, and to sit quietly in the broken\n one until he returned. We had not, however, sat long, before\n Lord Pembroke's carriage came to our relief; it had passed us\n full at the commencement of our disaster, and was sent back to\n take us home, or to Wilton House. As we did not like to take\n all the baggage with us, we left it in the care of a servant,\n and, glad to get out of the cold, we proceeded to my Lord's\n house. I could not but be amused, that my first introduction to\n this region should be to Wilton House, in an Earl's carriage. I\n was not sorry to have an opportunity of seeing a place of which\n I have heard so much, and should have been quite pleased to\n have seen the great folks themselves; but they chanced to be\n dressing for dinner, and as our chaise soon came up for us, I\n had but little time to survey the place. The house is filled\n with pictures, statues, and ancient armor. I hope to have an\n opportunity of seeing it more leisurely.\n\n \"This whole family gave me a most hearty welcome, and I found\n that it would be my own fault if I was not loved by them, and\n happy with them. Jane has, indeed, a remarkably fine family, of\n steady principles and habits, and sufficiently accomplished to\n be agreeable and well fitted for society. This is a very\n retired spot, and except a call from Lord and Lady Pembroke\n when they are in the neighborhood, or a visit from some\n travelling acquaintance, scarcely any one enters the house\n except the family.\n\n \"... The state of the poor in this country is so very different\n from any thing we see at home, that I can scarcely give you any\n idea of the striking difference everywhere observable in their\n manners and habits. The immense sum which is collected for\n their support, under the form of poor rates, must lessen their\n exertion for themselves, and the very dependence which is thus\n created makes them servile. Some great man owns the village and\n lands about it, his steward lets them to farmers, and of course\n it depends upon sundry contingencies whether they retain\n possession even during life; and how can they feel as much\n interest as if it were their own freehold, and they knew their\n children would reap the benefit of their improvements upon it?\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Burcombe House, December 31, 1824, Half past Eleven._\n\n \"MY DEAR FRIEND:--\n\n \"This hour has for so many years found me at my desk pouring\n forth to you, that, although in a new hemisphere and under new\n influences, I instinctively turn to the pen and ink, with a\n feeling that something remains to be done before the old year\n can be allowed to take its departure. I am not, as I was wont\n to be, seated quietly alone by my 'ain fireside,' cogitating\n upon the past, and, for the only time in the twelve months,\n daring to look forward and hope for the future. It is the\n custom here for all the family to sit out the old year, and I\n am in the parlor, surrounded by the whole tribe. On one side is\n my cousin's eldest daughter, playing 'God save the King' as if\n all possibility of ever doing it again was going with the year;\n on the other, an animated Miss C----, acting the old-maid aunt,\n giving her nephews and nieces sage advice upon the occasion,\n who are all laughing most heartily. In fact, the whole house is\n in a bustle; so you need not expect a very connected epistle,\n as I am obliged to turn to one or the other, every other word,\n to join in the merriment.\n\n \"The changes which the past year has made in my life are so\n amazing, when I view them in a body, that I cannot but be\n astonished that we should ever attempt to look forward with any\n thing like calculation or plan. You can easily conceive that\n the contrast between this night and its past anniversary is\n enough to excite the few nerves I have; and you will not at all\n wonder, that, whatever attractions there may be around me,\n thought will wander back to home and its interests, and it\n requires some effort to restrain my impatience to be again\n restored to them, that I may make up, if possible, for my abuse\n of some of them. Yet do not imagine me discontented or\n homesick; I am not in the least, for every hour's experience\n makes me rejoice that I am here; and, if kindness and attention\n could make up for old acquaintance, I could be as contented to\n pass my life here as anywhere. I would not return without\n seeing and doing all that may be in my power; but that I do\n look forward with a feeling of desire, such as I never knew\n before, to the period when, all this being accomplished, I\n shall find myself again at home, it would be folly to deny. But\n this is just what I expected to feel, and of course was\n prepared for with some degree of firmness; and when thus\n prepared, it is astonishing how indifferently we go through\n with what, under any other circumstances, would destroy one's\n self-possession entirely. The greatest evil I find in this\n state of constant preparation for enduring is, that I am\n getting into a quiescent state of inaction; not being quite\n enough at ease to exert my own powers freely, I am losing that\n activity of mind which I rather hoped to increase. But I have\n long since learned that youthful habits are not easily\n displaced, and I am sure now that I never shall learn to be\n loquacious. You know how much I felt the inconvenience of my\n silent habits at home, and will readily believe that I must\n suffer still more among strangers, with whom agreeability is a\n necessary passport.\n\n \"It is so long since I have written you, that I scarcely know\n where to take up the thread of my discourse. I was then, I\n believe, at Dover, and you probably have learned from my\n letters to Boston how much I found to please me in my cousin's\n family at Chatham. It was my good fortune to have it in my\n power to be of some service to them, and I assure you I was\n most thankful for any opportunity of redeeming my time from\n entire uselessness. I am fated to find trouble wherever I go,\n and ought to be truly grateful when it is such as I can\n relieve. I staid ten weeks at Chatham, and went then to Waltham\n Abbey, about sixteen miles from London, and spent three weeks\n with George Lovell and his most lovely wife. He is the son of\n the only remaining brother of my grandfather, with all the\n warmth and generosity which characterized the family in\n America. He unites good judgment and firm principles, an\n uncommon versatility of talent, and consequent power of\n pleasing.\n\n \"I came here upon the 4th of December; and if I have ever told\n you enough of cousin Jane and her concerns to give you any idea\n of the strong interest I have always felt in her, you will\n fully understand how intense was the excitement of my mind when\n I found myself at last approaching her mansion. She had been\n the greatest attraction to me on this side of the water, indeed\n the principal object of my visit; the constant impediments\n which had prevented our meeting during the past summer of\n course increased our interest and impatience about it, and I\n can scarcely tell whether pain or pleasure predominated when I\n felt that the crisis was near which would decide how far it\n was well that I had come.... She has had a life of trial, and\n being without that only comforter under suffering which can\n teach us to submit patiently to it, the effect has been\n unhappy. And now that she is just awaking from her dream of\n darkness, you can easily conceive that the effect of the bright\n sunshine which is breaking upon her mind should be most\n powerful, and apt to carry such a mind to the extreme of\n enthusiasm. She has but few connections, and almost idolized my\n father as the guardian of her youth, and therefore inclined to\n extend to his child all the strong affection she felt for him,\n so that her delight at seeing me was little short of mine to be\n with her. Here, then, I am enjoying much with her and her\n family.\n\n \"The house itself is one of those ancient stone edifices which\n abound in all parts of the kingdom, in connection with the\n houses of the great; probably built for some younger and less\n affluent branches of the family. The grounds are laid out with\n taste, and the lawn behind it has not probably been disturbed\n since the house was built, and is covered with a turf which\n might rival velvet in beauty. The fir-trees, elms, and walnuts\n which surround it, and the yew hedge which divides the garden\n from it, all speak its antiquity and add to its loveliness. We\n have no neighbors; but the occasional visits of the different\n branches of the family give us some variety.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Burcombe House, January 1, 1825._\n\n \"MY DEAR MARY:--\n\n \"A happy new year to you, and all the good people at\n Marlborough House, South Street, Newton, and Canton! Although I\n cannot have the pleasure, as I had at this time last year, of\n waking you out of a sound sleep upon the occasion, I have taken\n the liberty of thinking of you almost all the night, and\n wishing you in my heart all possible blessings during the year\n upon which we have entered. I do not dare to look forward, but\n I cannot help hoping that it may witness my return to you, to\n find you in the enjoyment of all that is worth possessing in\n life. It is the custom here to sit out the old year, and as we\n were expecting Mr. McAdam and William home last night, we\n determined to sit up for them. They did not arrive until nearly\n five this morning, so that I had time enough to reflect upon\n the past and hope for the future; and every thought and action\n of the last anniversary were lived over again in full reality.\n I only wanted liberty to pour forth to some one, to be a most\n eloquent egotist; but as it was, I just thought on quietly to\n 'my ain sel,' and enjoyed what was going on around me as well\n as I could.\n\n \"Our only neighbor is the farmer's wife, a most excellent woman\n of sixty, one of the old primitive people of the country, of\n good sense and sound judgment, just such a body as cousin N----\n would delight in. Her husband is the church-warden, overseer of\n the poor, and indeed the principal man in all parish concerns;\n and their goodness to the cottagers makes them beloved by all.\n You may imagine Mrs. L---- as about dear aunty's size, of pale\n complexion like her, white hair, just parted under a neat white\n cap, always surmounted with a neat black-satin bonnet, stuff\n gown, made as grandma used to wear hers, with a plain double\n muslin neckerchief within and a black or calico shawl outside,\n and a full linen apron, as white as the snow itself. Her face\n is all benevolence, and her voice, even with the broad\n provincial pronunciation of the country, sweet and musical.\n They have a large family of sons and daughters; one of the\n former, a very interesting young man, is now going in a\n consumption. It is the best specimen of an English farmer's\n family that I have yet seen.\n\n \"I went on Christmas day to the Cathedral at Salisbury. It is a\n very fine building, and the part appropriated to the services\n of the church is fitted up in a much better style than any\n thing I have seen, being of black oak, and in unison with the\n style of the building. The organ is a remarkably fine one, and\n I think I never felt music more powerful than the first\n symphony, played as the bishop and clergymen entered. It was at\n first so soft, that in that immense building it seemed rather\n as if it were the sound of the air itself than any earthly\n creation; and as the tones swelled, the very building trembled,\n and one involuntarily held the breath with awe.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Burcombe House, February 24, 1825._\n\n \"MY DEAR COUSIN:--\n\n \"The winter months have passed very quickly, and, as spring\n approaches, I begin to look forward with much anxiety to the\n period when, having completed all for which I came, I may\n prepare to return to my beloved home, and join again the many\n dear friends I may find there. I thank God that he has been\n pleased to spare so many of them for such a length of time, for\n it is remarkable that among so large a circle there should have\n been so few changes in ten long months. You cannot conceive of\n the gratitude which I feel whenever I hear from you, for you\n know not the anxiety which the consciousness of being at such a\n distance inevitably excites. I know not why it is, for were I\n ever so near, I could do nothing to save even one of the least\n of them all; but so it is, and it is a greater exercise of\n reliance and trust than I could have ever known, had I not left\n you. I try to look forward without fear, and I never doubt\n that, whatever trials may be in store for me, it will be in\n mercy that they will come, and I will be patient and\n submissive.\n\n \"With regard to the probable time of my return, it is\n impossible for me to speak with any certainty. The first four\n months that I was in England were lost, so far as the\n accomplishment of the immediate object for which I came was\n concerned; and it retarded my progress more than that time, as\n it is impossible to do as much in winter as might be done in\n half the time in summer. I do not speak of this as regretting\n it, for I have no doubt that it was for some good object that I\n was so employed; and I saw much which I should not have\n otherwise seen at all. But it makes it necessary that I should\n prolong my stay here, in order to do even what I calculated\n upon when I named a year for the probable limit of my absence.\n In addition to this, many objects of interest have been\n presented to me of which I knew nothing, and peculiar\n circumstances have occurred since I have been here to make me\n desirous of remaining longer than I had anticipated. For I\n consider myself a sort of isolated, unconnected being, who,\n having no immediate duties in life, is bound to improve all\n opportunities of usefulness which may offer themselves.\"\n\nIn April Mary received the welcome intelligence that her very dear\nfriend, E. P. F., from America, had arrived in Liverpool. Being at this\ntime at Ash, Surrey, the residence of her father's uncle, she\nimmediately arranged to meet E---- in London, making, as she says, \"a\ndesperate effort\" to break away from her friends at Burcombe House, to\nwhom she had become so strongly attached as to make it no easy matter,\nas we may believe there was some attachment on the other side also.\nAgain and again was she constrained to alter her plans and defer her\npurpose of returning, by the entreaties of those whom she wished to\ngratify, and who urged upon her, when other arguments failed, one that\nwas unanswerable; namely, that she had no _duty_ to call her home. With\nsadness did she admit it, and nobly too. \"I feel that I have many ties\nwhich have to _me_ the force of duties, in drawing me back; but I cannot\nforget that I am indeed without bond of any kind in life which can be\ncalled peculiar duty.\"\n\nThe two friends met in London, and, after a few days of delightful\ninterview, Mary was called to Sydenham, where are dated two letters,\nfrom which we take portions, referring to widely different subjects and\nscenes.\n\n \"_Sydenham, June, 1825._\n\n \"DEAR EMMA:--\n\n \"It is so evident, from many circumstances of which you must be\n fully sensible, that this is an appointment by that Providence\n who guides even the sparrows in their course, that you have\n only to seek to fulfil its duties to the best of your powers,\n and humbly leave the event in His hands without whose blessing\n the best endeavors of the mightiest must be ineffectual. Do not\n be thinking how much more this or that one might have done; we\n should do what we can for the sake of obeying God, not for our\n pleasure; and acting from this motive, we may learn to be\n 'willing even to be useless,' if it be His will. This may seem\n more than the Gospel requires, but I believe, if we knew\n ourselves thoroughly, we should ever be suspicious of all\n feelings which led to personal comparisons. We should, as you\n say, be thankful for the one talent, not dissatisfied that we\n have not the many, knowing that we may please God, and\n accomplish the end of our being in the one case as well as in\n the other. And as it regards the good we may do, do we not\n often see Him using feeble means to effect great ends? At all\n events, it is our duty to be satisfied with what He has thought\n sufficient for us. But you need no urging to induce you to do\n your utmost; the only difficulty is, to know in what manner it\n is to be done.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Sydenham, June 9, 1825._\n\n \"MY DEAR MARY:--\n\n \"I made a call with some friends one day upon the clergyman's\n lady, when our names were carried along by a row of livery\n servants, each one sounding it louder and louder, until it was\n announced by my lady's own servant at the door of the\n drawing-room, in a voice that made me start at the fellow's\n impudence in speaking so loud to his mistress; but I found that\n the poor lady was very deaf, yet a good, easy, old-fashioned\n body, as sociable and kind as need be. My risibles\n unfortunately took alarm at the similarity of this train of\n servants to a line at a fire handing buckets, and I had much\n ado to look indifferent and dignified, as if I were used to it;\n but I had my laugh out when I got into the room, for the\n good-natured body soon gave me a pretence for it by her\n whimsical stories.\n\n \"I went to St. Paul's last week to see the annual gathering of\n the parochial schools and I could not have conceived any thing\n so striking as the sight was. That part of the church which is\n fitted up for service is not used, but temporary seats are\n erected for the children under the great dome, and the\n spectators sit in the body of the church, quite down to the\n western door. The children, about eight thousand, all clothed\n in the uniform of their several schools, are arranged one row\n above another to the number of sixteen, and to the height of at\n least fifty feet, within the pillars of the dome and on each\n side of the aisles. The appearance of the children was most\n deeply affecting; all between seven and fourteen, not half of\n what belonged to the schools, for want of room; all clothed and\n educated by charity; taken, for the most part, from the poorest\n classes, and perhaps saved from destruction; it was a\n delightful sight for a Christian, a striking testimony to the\n power of religion. They were directed by the motions of one man\n and it seemed as if one impulse moved the whole, so perfectly\n did they keep time together. And when at last all were\n assembled, and the solemn silence was suddenly broken by one\n swell of their united voices in a hymn of thanksgiving, I think\n the most insensible there must have been melted; the sound\n filled the whole of that vast building, and reverberated again\n and again along its aisles. The morning service was performed\n by the clergyman, choristers, and children; the minister's\n voice was almost powerless in that vast place, and the organ,\n and voices of the singers, sixteen in number, could scarcely be\n heard at the end of the aisle; the children only could fill the\n space, and as they occasionally burst out in different parts,\n the effect was wonderfully fine.\"\n\nAt this point, Mary received a cordial invitation from a party of\nAmerican friends, to go with them to Scotland. It was an opportunity\nwhich she hardly expected, but most earnestly desired; not only for its\nown sake, but as facilitating a cherished purpose of visiting her\nfather's only sister in the North of England,--a visit of which she\nthought more than any other, and which was to prove more important than\nany other, though in a way which she could little anticipate. The\njourney thither, which was almost her only pure recreation, and was\nshared with a friend of all others desirable, was a high enjoyment; and\nher unstudied account of it, written from Chester and Gretna Green, we\ngive at length, as we have allowed but little room to this kind of\ndescription. We claim for it no distinction, except that of naturalness\nand ease.\n\n \"_Chester, July 22, 1825._\n\n \"MY DEAR COUSIN:--\n\n \"From sundry letters from Emma and myself, which will, I trust,\n have reached you long before this does, you will be able to\n guess how I have found my way to this place; but I am very glad\n that I have time and opportunity to tell you, not only how, but\n why, I am here. I wrote to Ann the last of June, mentioning Mr.\n Perkins's kind proposition, that I should join his party and go\n with them to Scotland. I received your delightful letter the\n day after, and, I assure you, the encouragement you gave me to\n see and do all I could, with the promise of the approbation of\n those kind friends whose wishes it is my greatest desire to\n fulfil, did not a little in deciding me to use the means placed\n within my power of acquiring the information, which I probably\n should never again have an opportunity of getting. I try to be\n satisfied in having done what appeared best, by the thought\n that it is my duty to improve all the means of doing good which\n may fall in my way. But I do not like to think that any thing\n is to keep me from you much longer. I had made up my mind when\n I came, to go on bravely to the end, let it take what time it\n might, but my hope was that a year would be sufficient, and I\n still hope that it will; yet I know you would not think me\n right to leave my work half finished, for any childish\n weakness, or homesick feeling. Be assured that I am as\n industrious as I can be, for my stimulant to exertion is a most\n powerful one, that of being again united to the beloved\n friends which that blessed spot, home, contains. We have had a\n most delightful tour so far, and I daily feel that I am a\n highly favored mortal, to have such an opportunity of\n witnessing the wonders of this goodly world; and I cannot but\n be grieved that I can make so little use of such a privilege.\n\n \"We left Bath upon the 9th, and have since passed through South\n and North Wales, and to-day took leave of the interesting\n scenery and people we found there, with much regret. At\n Chepstow we passed a day, seeing the ruins of its old castle,\n upon some sublime rocks on the banks of the river Wye, and\n walking through the grounds of Piercefield, a gentleman's seat\n in the neighborhood, finely situated upon the rocky, yet\n thickly wooded heights, which border the river for a long\n distance from its mouth. On our ride from Chepstow to Hereford,\n we stopped to see the ruins of Tintern Abbey and Ragland\n Castle, both very famous, and I should think as fine as it was\n possible any thing of the kind could be. Of the former, the\n walls and pillars of the church are nearly all that remain, but\n they are so perfect as to give one an exact idea of the beauty\n which it once possessed, built in the purest Gothic style, in\n the bottom of a quiet, beautiful valley, watered by the Wye,\n and protected on all sides by rocks and hills, which seem to\n defy any power that should dare to approach. But the hand of\n Time has worked silently and effectually, and what was once a\n most noble temple is now but a tumbling ruin, sublime, indeed,\n even in its decay, covered almost with ivy, and shaded from\n within by trees which have grown upon the very spots\n consecrated to the prayers and confessions of its former\n possessors. Its situation, and the peculiar lightness and\n beauty of its architecture, have made it very much talked of by\n travellers; but all my expectations were fully answered,\n although they were very great.\n\n \"After riding all day over hill and dale, with only the sheep\n for our companions, we came at once upon one of the most\n romantic scenes imaginable; the singular pass called the\n Devil's Bridge, a stone structure thrown over a chasm in the\n rocks of one hundred and fifty feet depth, through the bottom\n of which runs a very rapid stream, dashing over rocks which at\n some seasons must make quite a grand cataract; but at this time\n the water is low. The banks are thickly wooded, even to the\n edge of the water, and altogether it is very attractive. At\n A---- we passed a night, and came through much glorious scenery\n to Dalgelly, where we performed the mighty feat of mounting\n Cader Idris, the highest mountain in Wales, except Snowdon, and\n two thousand eight hundred feet from the point we left in the\n plain below. Imagine me mounted on horse back, for the first\n time in my life, for such a perilous undertaking, fortunately\n without any fear, and much amused by the novelty of the\n situation. The day happened to be very hot, but the atmosphere\n was clear; and we should have been amply repaid for tenfold the\n fatigue we endured, by the grand scene we beheld from the\n summit. Never having before been on a great elevation, I knew\n not what to expect; and if the sensations were not just what I\n had supposed, they were sufficiently solemn to make me sensible\n that it was 'good to be there.' A birdseye view of a circuit of\n five hundred miles could not fail to fill one with an idea of\n the power and majesty of Him who formed these wondrous glories,\n such as no common scenes could ever have inspired. I think I\n shall never look back upon that hour without recalling emotions\n which should make one better for ever.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Gretna Green, July 30, 1825._\n\n \"MY DEAR MARY:--\n\n \"My last, I think, was from Lancaster, just as we were about\n commencing our journey among the beautiful lakes of Cumberland\n and Westmoreland. We crossed what are called the Ulverstone and\n Lancaster Sands to Ulverstone. The shore is very hard at this\n place, and when the tide is down the ride is perfectly safe and\n free from water, except in the centre, where a river passes\n through. At this place is always found a guide, who conducts\n the carriage through the ford. I confess I did not much like\n the sensation, for though there is no danger in a heavy\n carriage, the current of the river is so strong that it seems\n as if the carriage were swimming. It was an odd feeling, too,\n after having been so recently three thousand feet in the air,\n to find one's self walking on the very bed of the ocean. We had\n about twelve miles of this kind of travelling. The coast is\n very bold, and we were quite delighted with the variety.\n\n \"The next day's ride, from Ambleside to Keswick, was a very\n interesting one; the scenery of the grandest, and at times most\n beautiful, character. At Rydal we stopped to see what would\n have been a beautiful cascade if there had been any water, but\n we have had such a long period of dry weather that the stream\n had almost disappeared. The scenery about it was fine, and the\n thing itself could not but interest us under any circumstances,\n for it borders upon Wordsworth's grounds, and has no doubt been\n a favorite resort of his, and the suggestion of much of his\n fine poetry. His house is just below, and we could not help\n stopping at the gate, to look at the abode of one whose\n writings we so much admired. He was not at home, but his sister\n came out and invited us to see the place, and take a view from\n the Mount which gives the name to his place. This we could not\n do, but it was some consolation for our disappointment to have\n spoken to her, although it was very tantalizing not to be able\n to avail ourselves of her polite invitation. The lakes of\n Rydal, Grasmere, Windermere, came in succession on our way, all\n beautiful, but Grasmere with its little island in the centre\n the most so, by far; the banks being much wooded and ornamented\n by gentlemen's seats. And Emma and I fancied that, after\n searching the greater part of England, we had at length found a\n spot in which we should be willing to take up our abode for\n life. The mighty Helvellyn tempted us mountain-climbers to\n ascend its rough sides, but with Skiddaw before us we were\n satisfied to pass it, in the hope of accomplishing the ascent\n of that. At Keswick we staid one night, riding to Bassenthwaite\n in the afternoon, and sailing upon the lake in the evening.\n Nothing could exceed the beauty and sublimity of the latter\n excursion. When we first went upon it, the sun was just setting\n behind the immense mountains which bound this lake on the west,\n throwing their shadows upon its smooth surface, and lighting\n those beyond with that purple, misty hue, which is not to be\n described but by the brush of an artist, this again giving way\n to the sober hue of evening, until all view of them would have\n been lost, had not the moon risen in full-orbed glory, to\n enlighten the scene with her paler, but not less beautiful\n light. We sailed about four hours upon the lake, landing upon\n one of the islands upon which is a gentleman's seat, and going\n to the other extremity to see the falls of dark Lodore, and to\n hear the singular effect produced by firing a cannon on the\n shore; it seemed like the rumbling of thunder, and was\n distinctly echoed five times. I don't think I have enjoyed any\n one thing so much as this sail, since we commenced our journey.\n\n \"We came on through Carlisle, and passed the boundary line\n between Scotland and England, and reached this place before\n dark,--the first town over the border. It is a very small\n village, consisting of scarcely more than a dozen white\n cottages, but it has, perhaps, been the scene of as many\n critical events as many a larger one. We are at a very\n comfortable inn, got up for the accommodation of the fugitives\n who fly hither to seal their fate with the blacksmith's unholy\n blessing. Do not be alarmed for me, although I am quietly\n seated in the very room which has witnessed the consummation\n 'so devoutly wished' by most young dames. It is, indeed,\n mortifying to find one's self so near the goal, with so many\n requisites, obliged to miss the glorious opportunity for the\n want of one trifling article,--a husband; but so it is, and\n notwithstanding I am treading fairy land, I in vain look for\n some kind godmother to conjure up the needful, and must even\n submit to single blessedness a little longer. But I must stop;\n and have not time to look this over.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nSCENES OF SUFFERING.\n\n\nVery different from its beginning was the termination of the pleasant\ntour through Scotland. Mary felt it a duty to suppress all longings to\ngo on with her good friend, who was soon to leave the country. Gladly\nwould she have returned with her to America at once. But the great\npurpose, certainly one of the chief objects, for which she had gone\nabroad, was not yet accomplished. Her father's only sister, who had been\nleft a widow in a very destitute condition, was still living in a\ndistant and obscure village of Yorkshire. Mr. Pickard had made an annual\nprovision for her support while he lived, and his daughter determined to\ncarry out his intentions, so far as she could. Yet she felt that no aid\nin her power to send would be as much to her poor aunt as a visit, and\nshe had been anxiously looking for an escort to the place, which was so\nremote as to make it hardly prudent for a lady and a stranger to venture\nalone. She was therefore the more ready to accompany her friends to\nScotland, as on their return they would go within eighty miles of\nOsmotherly, her aunt's residence. Accordingly she parted from them at\nPenrith, and went the rest of the way alone.\n\nThe visit that followed forms the most remarkable, and in some respects\nthe most interesting and important, chapter in the story of her life.\nInstead of three weeks, which she had set apart for this purpose, she\nremained three months at Osmotherly. And it is not the least noticeable\nfact in that experience, that she wrote on the spot a very full account\nof the whole, in the midst of cares and the sight and sound of\nsufferings which are ordinarily allowed to excuse, if they do not wholly\nprevent, any use of the pen or effort of mind. But we will not\nanticipate. Nor will we interrupt the narrative, which we have drawn\nfrom various letters, by any comments of our own.\n\n \"_Osmotherly, September 2, 1825._\n\n \"MY DEAR EMMA:--\n\n \"I wish I could relieve your mind about my undertaking and\n prospects as quickly as my own was set at rest. I will not\n recapitulate all or any thing that I felt at parting from you\n yesterday, but you know me well enough to believe that it was\n with no common degree of regret and anxiety, which the\n uncertainty of the path before me tended not a little to\n increase. But I did recollect that I had never yet been\n forsaken in any difficulty; supposing the worst, there could be\n no fear of real evil, and anxiety and distrust only made all\n that real which might after all be merely imaginary. In order\n to obtain the quiet feeling which this view of things should\n create, I turned my attention to my fellow-passenger, who\n proved a very respectable, well-informed woman, and my only\n companion to North Allerton. Her experiences helped to make me\n more comfortable, for she had come from London alone, travelled\n all night, and had a very long distance farther to go. She said\n she found no difficulty in travelling alone, and gave me some\n useful hints upon the subject. Our route lay over a different\n road from that by which we approached York, and as the day was\n so fine, we had a more tolerable ride than I expected. At North\n Allerton I found a quiet room at the inn, and a civil\n landlady,--went directly to the post-office, where a long and\n delightful letter from Jane McAdam awaited me. Not a word there\n of my aunt's letter, and I then went to a gentleman, through\n whom I had formerly transmitted letters to her, and found that\n he had sent the day before a letter from her to me, and that\n she was then well. This set me quite at ease, and I took a\n chaise and rode hither with a comparatively light heart. And\n then I wished it had so chanced that you could have taken this\n ride with me, for a more beautiful one I have seldom seen. This\n town lies upon one of those hills which we saw at a distance\n towards the east the day we rode from Richmond; and the ride\n from North Allerton is a gradual ascent, giving at every step a\n more extended view of the rich country which we passed through,\n with the additional beauty of numberless little streams which\n we could not see, and highly cultivated hills rising on one\n side to a great height.\n\n \"I found my aunt much better than I expected, and, as you may\n suppose, almost overpowered with joy to see me. I did wish you\n could have seen her,--a small, thin old lady, with a pale\n complexion, like Aunt Whipple, and the very brightest black\n eyes, which sparkle when she speaks with a degree of animation\n almost amusing in such an old lady. She lives in a comfortable\n little two-story cottage of four rooms, which far exceeds any\n thing I ever saw for neatness. I find that I could not have\n come at a better time to do good, or a worse for gaining\n spirits. My aunt's two daughters are married and live in this\n village; one of them, with three children, has a husband at the\n point of death with a fever; his brother died yesterday of the\n small-pox, and two of her children have the whooping-cough;\n added to this, their whole dependence is upon their own\n exertions, which are of course entirely stopped now. One of the\n children, a year and a half old, is with the grandmother, but\n so ill with the cough that she is almost sick with taking care\n of it. It has fortunately taken a fancy to me at once, and I\n can relieve her a little. But worse than all, one of her sons\n had come home in a very gloomy state of mind, and all her\n efforts had failed to rouse him to exertion. I hope to be more\n successful, for he seems willing to listen to me. You may\n suppose, under such a state of things, I shall find enough to\n do. My aunt's mind is in a much better state than I expected,\n and if she does not get worn out with care to do more for me\n than ever was done for any body before, I shall be most\n thankful that I came. She tells me of many neighboring places\n which it would interest me to visit, as resorts of my dear\n father, and I think, next week, if possible to get a vehicle, I\n shall take her off upon a jaunt round the country for a few\n days, in home style, driving myself.\n\n \"I have not seen half the multitude of cousins that I find are\n to be seen, but so far they are kind and affectionate, and\n disposed to make me comfortable and happy. I feel just like a\n child who has left home for the first time; the change is so\n sudden and so great, that the last eight weeks seem to me very\n like a dream of some distant age, and a most interesting one\n too. I never was more thankful for the varieties of life\n through which I have passed, for without actual experience I\n never could have adapted myself to the new order of beings I\n now have to deal with. I shall find full employment for my\n fingers, in making my poor aunt as comfortable as I wish to\n leave her.\n\n \"Yours,\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Osmotherly, September 8, 1825._\n\n \"MY DEAR EMMA:--\n\n \"Watching all night by a death-bed is but a poor preparation\n for writing; and yet I am not willing to lose the first leisure\n moment that I have had since I wrote you, lest you should be\n alarmed at my long silence. But I think, from the account I\n gave you of the state of affairs here, you will naturally\n conclude that I should have had constant occupation, and will\n not be uneasy about me. I have indeed found quite as much\n employment for mind and body as either were able to perform,\n and have not had one moment to devote to you, although my heart\n has been with you, and my thoughts have often followed you. The\n poor sick man, of whom I told you, has been growing worse\n daily, and it was with feelings of almost joy that I last night\n closed his eyes, knowing that his sufferings were at an end;\n and yet he is so great a loss to his family, that I seldom knew\n a case in which it was so difficult to feel that 'it is right.'\n His wife, who is but a slender woman, is left with three little\n boys, without a penny to support them, and almost without the\n power of gaining it, for the youngest, which is but three weeks\n old, is dreadfully ill with the whooping-cough. She is a calm\n and patient sufferer, however, and it does one good to see how\n trouble can be borne by the most unlettered and uninformed,\n when the spirit is right. I have not been able to do much for\n him, but the little baby has been my constant care, and I have\n got to loving it dearly. Every thing around me is sad and\n sorrowful, and nothing but the effort, which it is absolutely\n necessary for me to make, to cheer and assist others, gives me\n the least pleasure. My poor aunt, weakened in mind and body by\n continued and most severe afflictions, is almost a child; her\n son is nearly insane, and keeps her in constant fear lest he\n may destroy himself; and the trials of this poor daughter are\n enough to break her heart. Another of my cousins is well\n married, and wishes me to be with her at her quiet and happy\n home; but I cannot think of deserting this post, however\n painful, for any prospect of ease to myself. In fact, it seems\n to me that posts of difficulty are my appointed lot and my\n element, for I do feel lighter and happier when I have\n difficulties to overcome. Could you look in upon me, you would\n think it was impossible that I could be even tolerably\n comfortable, and yet I am cheerful, and get on as easily as\n possible, and am in truth happy.\n\n \"This village is the most primitive place I ever was in, and a\n very obscure, out-of-the way place; the inhabitants almost\n entirely of one class, and that of the poorer kind of laboring\n people, ignorant as possible, but simple and social. You may\n conceive of their simple manners, when I tell you they 'never\n saw such a lady as Miss Pickard' among them before; and of\n course Miss Pickard is an object of as much curiosity and\n speculation as if she were Empress of all the Russias; but they\n are kind-hearted and civil. The peculiar situation of things\n has taken me more among them than I should have been in twice\n the time, under common circumstances, and it has been a good\n exercise for my faculty of adaptation. I have succeeded, I\n believe, in pleasing them, for it seems as if they only vied\n with each other in trying to do the most for me, and I really\n think, if they had a parson to write the 'Annals of their\n Parish,' the arrival of the 'American lady' would stand as the\n most remarkable event in the year 1825. This amuses me, and\n gives me an opportunity of doing much good with little\n trouble, for it gives me influence; and, moreover, it shows me\n human nature under a new form. But I am entirely destitute of\n every thing like companionship, and having had so much in this\n way lately with you, of the most satisfactory and delightful\n kind, you will readily believe that I must feel a great\n deficiency. There is not even a clergyman's family for me to\n associate with, for the curate of the place is of the very\n worst class of that set whose existence is a standing disgrace\n to the Church; an ignorant, drinking man, as careless and\n negligent of the duties of his station as if he considered it\n of no consequence whatever. I hope to have a little leisure\n soon, and then reading and writing will make up to me in some\n measure for the loss of society; but as yet I have literally\n had to work hard, and have not found time even to look at 'the\n journal.' I have a nice, little, quiet room, however, and feel\n quite at home in it.\n\n \"I have thought much, very, very much, of your voyage back\n without me. I will not say I regret the circumstances which\n have led to my disappointment, for it seemed to be my appointed\n path, and when one follows the dictates of conscience it must\n be right; and when it is right, why should we wish it\n otherwise? But I am weak, and there are times when the thought\n of another six, perhaps nine, months' absence from home, with\n all the uncertainties which attend the future, makes my heart\n sink, and the tear start, in spite of myself. Yet it could not\n be otherwise; it would have been wrong to have neglected coming\n here. I am more convinced of this now than ever, for though it\n was said that I could do as much good by sending money as by\n coming myself, I do not think so; and though I may be thought\n foolishly scrupulous for subjecting myself to the evils I must\n meet with here, when I might have avoided them, I am sure I\n never could have felt satisfied that all was done for my poor\n aunt as well as it could be, unless I had seen and managed it.\n But I am allowing myself in talking of self in a most\n unwarrantable manner; you will pardon me, in consideration of\n the difficulty of giving up at once the habit of\n self-indulgence which your kindness has created and fixed.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Osmotherly, September 10, 1825._\n\n \"MY DEAR EMMA:--\n\n \"I do not mean to act modest and beg a compliment for it, but\n in sober truth you do overrate me. Just because you happen to\n have seen more deeply into my 'inner man' than you are wont to\n do with others, and have your feelings strongly interested, you\n let them carry you off, upon their liberal and expanded wings,\n to a region of romance peopled by ideal spirits with which you\n identify your poor friend Mary, who has in truth no business\n there. But I do indeed rejoice, if the experience which God in\n his goodness has given me has been in any measure useful. I do\n consider it a privilege to have learned so much of His\n character and will as in the wisdom of His providence He has\n enabled me to do, though it has been by fiery trial. I feel\n responsible for the right use of such a privilege, not only for\n my own, but others' good; and if in the fulness of my heart I\n have been tempted to show you more of myself than a cooler\n judgment would have approved, I trust that it may not have been\n without its advantages to both; to me, in teaching a lesson of\n humility; to you, as a warning, perhaps. But I must not yield\n to this propensity to egotism; I have too much beside to talk\n about.\n\n \"Our poor man was buried yesterday, and, as clergymen rarely\n come here, my cousin thought she would have her infant\n christened on the same day. It was a most affecting sight. I\n stood as its godmother at her request, because I could not\n refuse her at such a time; but it is too great a\n responsibility to be lightly taken. The child, however, cannot\n live, for it has begun already to have fits with its cough.\n\n \"_September 12._ In three days you are to be gone from the\n country, and I shall not have this means of communicating. Dear\n Emma, you cannot tell how much I shall miss you. You seem to be\n a connecting link with home, which I have a fearful dread of\n losing. I don't know how it is, but these coming six months\n seem to me a worse separation than all the past eighteen. Yet\n do not think, because I feel so sad about not going home, that\n I dread staying. You know enough of the interests I have here,\n to feel satisfied that I shall have much to occupy me\n pleasantly. It is only the protracted separation from home that\n I feel sorry for, and that is unavoidable, and will perhaps\n prove best on many accounts. Farewell.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Osmotherly, September 13, 1825._\n\n \"DEAR EMMA:--\n\n \"I had determined to write last night, as I found it quite out\n of the question to attempt it in the daytime. I had been up\n with the little boy a great part of the night before; yet I\n knew I could keep awake writing, I wanted to do it so much. But\n in the true spirit of Polly Pickard, attempting more than any\n one would think reasonable, I was quite persuaded that, as I\n was to sit up, it was as well to do all I could; and as poor\n cousin Bessy had not had a quiet night since her child was\n born, and was going to sleep alone in her house for the first\n time since her husband's death, I thought it would do her good,\n and me no harm, to sit up in her parlor, and take care of the\n baby in the cradle, that she might have a little sleep, and not\n feel alone. The dear little baby had been better than for some\n time, during the day, and I doubted not it would lie in the\n cradle or on my knee very quietly, except during its coughing\n fits. Bessy went to bed, but the poor little creature grew\n worse, and coughed itself into a fit, in which it lay so long\n that I thought it dead, and awoke its mother; but its little\n heart began to beat again, and it seemed to be reviving, though\n slowly, and I sent her off again. It appeared for some time to\n be recovering, but all at once it sunk away and died in my\n arms, so peacefully and sweetly that I could scarcely be\n persuaded that it had not fallen into a still slumber, or had\n another fit. But it was indeed gone, and when I could bring\n myself to give it up, I arranged its little body for its last\n home. I don't know when I have had my feelings more excited. It\n was a lovely little creature, and I have nursed it so much\n since I have been here, that I found it had become an object of\n great interest to me; not a day has passed that I have not\n given three or four hours to it, and it was always so quiet\n with me that it seemed almost to know when I took it. The\n circumstances of the family, too, made it singularly affecting\n that it should be taken away, and the suddenness of its death\n seemed almost to bewilder me. Its poor mother is ill, and\n between comforting her and coming home to my aunt, who is very\n feeble, I scarcely know how to find time enough for either. I\n have been up three nights since Wednesday last, and, with two\n children to manage, I am almost mazed.\n\n \"I have tried to write this morning, for the baby was not out\n of my arms a moment last night, but I cannot collect my\n thoughts,--I don't know what I mean to say. You must state the\n case for me. Could you look in upon me you might wonder I was\n not crazy, but I shall do very well when I get a little sleep.\n Do not feel uneasy about me; I am not in danger of being sick,\n unless the prophecies of the old women here will kill me, for\n they think, I believe, that I am too kind to live, and they\n shake their heads most knowingly,--one proof among a thousand\n how much more frequently our characters are estimated by the\n circumstances in which we happen to be placed, than by any\n other criterion. Do write, to the last minute. I cannot bear to\n part with you in this unsatisfactory manner, but indeed I am\n incapable of any thing more; my eyes are dazzled as I write,\n and I must lie down. I shall write by the packet of the 24th\n from Liverpool, so that you will hear of me almost as soon as\n you get home; and I pray God that in safety and health and\n increased happiness you may all reach 'that haven where you\n would be, with a grateful sense of His mercies.' May God for\n ever bless you, my dear, kind friend, and strengthen you by His\n grace to pursue with success that path of virtue and holiness\n which it is your wish to follow, and enable you to perform all\n the duties which lie before you, consistently with His divine\n will, and worthy of His acceptance. This can only be done by\n humble reliance upon Him who is the way, the truth, and the\n life, for guidance, support, and reward. He alone can enable us\n to do that which we ought to do, and, feeling our own weakness,\n let us rely with faith upon His promises, neither doubting nor\n fearing the certainty of their accomplishment. But I cannot\n write or think; I seem to feel that 'bonnie little bairnie' in\n my arms still, and my nerves are something shaken. The worst of\n the whole is that poor, unhappy young man, whose low moans are\n continually sounding in my ears; but I send him away to-morrow\n for his own sake, as well as ours, and all will go well. Again,\n dearest Emma, Heaven bless you! Ever your\n\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Osmotherly, September 14, 1825._\n\n \"DEAR EMMA:--\n\n \"I have had a grand night's sleep, and am better\n to-day,--should be well, but for this lazy feeling, and a dull\n headache. Don't fear for me. I do not think I am going to be\n sick, and it will be for some good purpose if I am. I could not\n regret what I have done; I could almost say, as Mr. Thacher\n once said, 'I had better live a shorter life, and a useful\n one.' But I am not inclined to throw away life either; I enjoy\n it much, and think it right for all to endeavor to preserve it,\n for we may all do some good if we try, and that is reason\n enough for keeping it, were there no enjoyment to be had; as\n there is, even for the most distressed. But I must leave you,\n for I am not able to write more.\n\n \"... We buried the dear little baby to-day, which has been a\n wet, uncomfortable one, and I do not feel the better for the\n exposure, but on the whole am very well; nothing but a trifling\n cold, scarcely worth minding. I feel with you that it is as\n well, if not _better_, that I should stay. But you must not\n judge of its importance by cousin Jane's representation; her\n warm heart runs away with her judgment where she feels so much.\n\n \"A truce with your 'feelings of inferiority.' Who scolds me for\n the same feelings? It is Pride, my dear, depend upon it. I know\n it of old. Do not let it triumph.\n\n \"Ever sincerely yours,\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Osmotherly, October 3, 1825._\n\n \"MY DEAR EMMA:--\n\n \"I have just received your farewell blessing, and could you\n look in upon me, and know the peculiar circumstances and\n situation in which I am placed, you would not be surprised that\n it has made a very child of me, and that for the time I feel as\n if all my connection with my home and its interests was severed\n by your departure. I would not write under these impressions,\n for I know it is a diseased state of mind, did I not fear that,\n unless I improve this one leisure evening, I shall not have\n another opportunity of writing for a long time; and I know you\n will be anxious to hear from me, from the uncomfortable feeling\n which you express at not receiving late letters. I did at first\n regret that I had not written upon the chances of your being\n detained, but on the whole it was best that I did not, for I\n could not at any moment since my last date have relieved your\n anxiety, had I told you the truth, and I think your imagination\n could not picture any evil so bad as the reality has been.\n\n \"But to proceed in order. I wrote you last, I think, the day\n after the dear little infant was buried, and I believe I\n mentioned to you that I had taken up my night quarters with my\n poor cousin Bessy. She had never been left alone since her\n husband died, and now that she had no longer her baby to occupy\n her attention, she felt her desolateness more forcibly. I\n therefore gave the day to my aunt, having Bessy and her two\n little boys as much with us as possible, and passed the night\n with her. She was the most patient sufferer I ever saw; not a\n word of repining ever escaped her, and she went about her\n occupations and duties with a steadiness which spoke a\n determination to sacrifice every selfish consideration to the\n good of her children. Scarcely a tear could be seen on her\n cheek, and a common observer would have accused her of want of\n feeling, if he had not understood that the settled calm which\n sat upon her face might hide more real agony than is ever shown\n by any 'sounds of woe.' Her resolution astonished her friends,\n for they knew her to have a very timid and self-distrusting\n character, and the situation in which she was thus suddenly\n placed would have appalled even a stout heart. But I saw the\n true state of the case. When the duties of the day were past,\n and the necessity for exerting herself over, and all at rest\n but ourselves, she felt at liberty to indulge herself in\n talking of that of which she would not speak to any one beside;\n and I found that what seemed insensibility was in reality a\n degree of fortitude and resolution which I never saw equalled.\n I thought it best, too, to encourage her thus to open her\n heart, for I believe that concealed grief is always the most\n destructive to the mind, and her situation really required the\n advice and assistance of any one who could aid her, as she was\n inexperienced and felt her own deficiencies to a most\n overpowering degree. She had had but little instruction upon\n religious subjects, and would listen to my reading of the\n Scriptures, and detail of my own experience of the power of\n religious consolations, as if a new light were opened to her\n soul. I did not then know how much she was affected, but the\n readiness with which she adopted advice upon the subject gave\n me much hope that it would in time become as valuable to her as\n it had been to me.\n\n \"I told you that her infant was only a fortnight old when her\n husband was taken ill, and only a month when it died. Its\n mother had never recovered her strength, and distress having\n destroyed her appetite, and watching deprived her of sleep, she\n was as thin and weak as possible, and but ill able to bear the\n consequences of the sudden death of the child. This, added to a\n cold which she took, made her very feverish, and the absence of\n the physician from town obliged her to confine herself to such\n simple remedies as we could prescribe, to avert further evil\n and restore her strength. But the benefit which she derived\n from them was but temporary. A week from the day upon which her\n baby died, while passing the afternoon with us, she was taken\n very ill, and it was with great difficulty that her brother and\n myself carried her to her own house, only a few rods distant. I\n lost no time in administering the prescriptions of the\n physician, and for a few days she seemed to mend; but I soon\n felt convinced that her disease was the worst form of typhus\n fever, and was sure that she had not strength to get through\n it. The doctor confirmed my suspicions, but told me that such\n was the dread of it among the country people, that, if it were\n known, I should be left to myself, for no one would come near\n the house. I had not then required any assistance, for I was\n very well, and, knowing her situation to be a critical one, did\n not like to trust her to any one beside. By some means,\n however, the story was sounded abroad and spread like wildfire,\n and the suspicion of (what was in fact the truth) the two\n brothers having died of the same disorder added to the evil.\n\n \"The day after Bessy was taken, Jemmy, her youngest child, a\n boy of three, fell ill too, and though it was doubtful whether\n whooping-cough or typhus had the greater share in his malady,\n to the fearful minds of the villagers it was all one and the\n same, and the family were thought to be doomed to destruction.\n One by one fell off from coming near the house, till I at last\n scarcely saw a person except the doctor during the day. This I\n did not mind, for I preferred being constantly with my cousin,\n and the actual labor of attending her was not great; she took\n but little, and all the help which I wished for I had. She\n died, however, on the 30th of September, eleven days after she\n was taken, and during that time I had never left her, night or\n day, except to change my clothes occasionally at my aunt's. I\n had watched with her seven nights, and been up part of every\n other; for so accustomed was she to my care, that she did not\n like to be touched by any other person. I had sent the two\n little boys to their grandmother's, and the youngest was very\n ill during the whole of his mother's sickness, and still\n continues so. My cousin's little cottage was so small, that I\n felt unwilling that any one should sleep in it, lest they\n should suffer from infection; and often did I sit up with her\n alone in the house. I had been so exposed to the disease that I\n felt no fears for myself, and I believe this helped to\n preserve me, and the good doctor watched me very narrowly. I\n could not in a month tell you half the interesting\n circumstances attending this trying scene. Her senses never\n forsook her for a moment, nor her deep sense of gratitude to\n God for the mercies which he had bestowed on her amid all her\n sufferings. It seemed to her His immediate providence which had\n sent me to them just at this time, and her expressions of\n affection and thankfulness were indeed most delightful to me.\n It does appear most singular that I should have come just now,\n for the fact is, poor Bessy would have suffered for want of a\n nurse, beside many other necessaries, had I not been here. Her\n mother was fully occupied with the little boy, and her sister\n too distant, and of too much importance at home, to be with\n her, and the people of the place are too ignorant and\n frightened to have been all to her that she required.\n\n \"It was necessary to bury her immediately; and thus is this\n family entirely broken up, in the short space of three weeks,\n by the death of both its heads. She left her children to my\n sole direction and care, and the settlement of all their\n affairs, so that I have still much to do, beside the care of\n the sick child. His grandmother is almost worn out with it, and\n left his mother's death-bed only to nurse him. I have now\n stolen away from him for an hour to visit this deserted place,\n and am sitting by the fire in the lonely parlor, without any\n other being in the house but the eldest boy of seven, who is\n amusing himself by my side, interrupting me now and then by\n saying, 'Cousin Mary, you will let me live with you, wont you?'\n Every thing is still without, and so strongly is my poor\n cousin's voice associated with every thing I see around me,\n that it would not require any very strong effort of imagination\n to fancy I still heard her blessing me from what is now, I\n trust, her abode of peace and joy. But I must not indulge\n myself in writing about feelings, for I have much else to say;\n but I really think, since the last solemn evening that I spent\n alone in the old oak parlor in Pearl Street, I have never felt\n so forcibly the mutability of all earthly things; and had I any\n one to listen, I could talk all night upon the subject.\n\n \"This is by far the most primitive, uncivilized place I was\n ever in; I cannot liken it to any thing I know at home, for\n even Worthington has lawyers and a clergyman's family to redeem\n it; and, moreover, the general inhabitants of our little towns\n have more information and education than is to be found in\n these out-of-the-way villages, to which the modern improvement\n of national and free schools has not yet been extended. I am\n glad to see all the varieties of life, but under present\n circumstances this is a very solitary one. Were it not for the\n physician's visits, which he kindly makes every day, I should\n live totally without conversation in its true sense. The people\n are good and honest-hearted, and treat me as if I belonged to a\n higher order of animals,--and this is a novel situation! I am\n very free from complaints, and take care not to do more than I\n feel able to, and if I am superstitious in feeling that\n Providence directed me hither at this time, it is a useful\n superstition, inasmuch as it gives me a feeling of security\n that I shall be guided and strengthened to accomplish the work\n appointed for me. Do not fear, but hope and pray for me.\n\n \"I cannot tell you how much your visit to Burcombe gratified\n me; you could not have obliged me more, for I should have been\n so suspicious that my own description of it and its inhabitants\n might be a partial one, that I doubt if I should really have\n done them justice at home: Jane was as much pleased with the\n effort you made to see them, as any one could possibly be, and\n more pleased with the visit itself than I choose to tell you. I\n have most kind letters from the family at Penrith, offering to\n come for me whenever I give the word of command; it is a\n delightful rest to look forward to, but it will, I fear, be\n long before I can avail myself of it. The thoughts of home are\n to me now something like the dreams one has of heaven, in the\n twilight hours between sleeping and waking; I dare not form any\n definite picture, and yet the idea will not be wholly\n discarded. But with so much around me to make me realize the\n uncertainty of life, and exposed to actual danger every moment,\n how can I presume even to hope? May I be able to say from the\n heart, 'Thy will be done.'\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Osmotherly, October 23, 1825._\n\n \"_My dear Cousin_:--\n\n \"I wrote Emma a hurried letter a few weeks since, giving an\n account of my poor cousin's illness and death, and then hoped\n that I should soon be able to tell a happier tale, to relieve\n the anxiety which that might have produced. But it is not yet\n in my power, and I should not venture to write at all, did I\n not hope that all your uneasiness on my account will find an\n antidote in the confidence which daily experience increases in\n my heart, that He whose arm is mighty to save, and who has\n hitherto protected me from all danger, will still extend to me\n his fatherly care, and guide and guard me under all the events\n of his providence. You will readily believe that I have need of\n this confidence to strengthen me, when I tell you that I am\n writing this by the bedside of the eldest of those two dear\n little orphans whom my cousin left in my care. His little\n brother had scarcely recovered from his fever, when I was\n obliged to leave him to attend this poor child with the same\n fever, and have now been for more than a week his sole nurse,\n night and day.\n\n \"But to give you an adequate idea of the peculiarly trying\n situation in which I have been placed for the last seven\n weeks, I must recapitulate the story, which you may perhaps\n have gathered in unconnected details from my letters to Emma.\n It is indeed a melancholy one, but proves to me most painfully\n that our steps are oftentimes guided by a wisdom from above,\n far beyond our own limited conceptions. You know that one of my\n objects in coming to England was to try to do something more\n than I had hitherto been enabled to, for the comfort of my poor\n old aunt, and you will not therefore be surprised that it was\n my fixed resolution not to return until I had an opportunity of\n ascertaining how to do this most effectually. When at last I\n did get here, it was with the expectation of staying only just\n long enough to see that she was made comfortable. I knew\n nothing of her family even by name, and of herself only that\n she was old and feeble, and subject to fits of extreme\n melancholy. I had not any anticipations of pleasure, except\n from the feeling that I was doing what my dear father would\n have done, and fulfilling one of the duties of my life. My\n father had been her idol through life, and, as I have now\n found, almost her sole dependence; her children could do little\n for her, and the relations she had in England knew nothing of\n her. She was of course most delighted to see me, and prepared\n to devote herself with all her faculties to my comfort. But,\n poor body, she stood in need of all that I could do to comfort\n to her.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"I have written this in the intervals of attendance upon the\n little boy, and, as you may perceive, at different periods, for\n I seldom sit five minutes at once. It is now the 25th, and I am\n happy to say he is a little better; but I scarcely dare hope,\n he is of so feeble a constitution. I left him yesterday under\n the influence of opium, so that I was sure he would not miss\n me, to go to North Allerton, seven miles distant, to meet old\n Mr. McAdam and my cousin S----, who had come from Penrith in\n their carriage for me. They did not come hither, fearing that\n strangers would be but intruders in such distress, but stopped\n at North Allerton, and sent an express to me on Sunday night,\n begging me to return with them if possible, for they had known\n of all the sickness which surrounded me, and feared I should\n suffer from contagion. It was most kind in them, and I should\n have been most happy for the release could I have gone with an\n easy conscience. But it would have been worse than inhuman to\n have left this poor little sufferer, beside that much of the\n business which I have undertaken is unfinished, and I should\n not think I had done my duty until I had settled these orphans\n permanently. But I thought I ought to go to them to explain\n this, as I should have been afraid to have had them come here,\n and I took a chaise and passed the day with them. My patient\n did not wake up enough to know I was away, and it was quite a\n refreshment to me. Am I not most fortunate to have such kind\n friends in this strange land? It is a comfort to feel that I\n have such a resting-place when my labors here are over, and\n cheers me even in this most solitary of all the situations in\n which I have ever been placed. Were it not for the good little\n doctor who attends my patients, I know not what I should do. My\n cousin cannot leave home for an instant, and my poor aunt is\n overwhelmed with all these distressing events, added to the\n continual trial which the melancholy young man is to all of us.\n I get on without much fatigue, however, and have not yet been\n obliged to sit up all night; and with the sleep which I get\n whenever the little fellow is quiet, I do very well. He has\n been very much out of his head the greater part of the time,\n but very patient when he is sensible. It is now ten days since\n he became ill, and you may suppose he is somewhat attached to\n his cousin by this time, and I to him. O, if you could look in\n upon me, what would you say!\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_October 30._ You would pity me now if you could look upon me,\n for I have this night closed the eyes of the dear child whom I\n was watching when I wrote the above. He seemed better daily\n after my last date, and on Friday, the 28th, sat up and\n appeared in every respect on the recovery; his appetite was\n good, his fever reduced, and his strength improving. He awoke\n on Saturday early, and begged for his breakfast, ate a light\n one, and fell asleep. His nose had bled a little the evening\n before, but not much; but about eleven, he suddenly threw off\n from his stomach such a quantity of blood, as proved to us that\n there was some internal rupture in the head. This continued\n through the day and night, increasing in violence. No earthly\n power could save him; all was done that could be, but certain\n spots which appeared upon him soon after the bleeding commenced\n decided the physician that he could not live. He lingered until\n this evening, and died from absolute exhaustion at ten o'clock,\n of what is called spotted fever here;--and I laid with him\n after the spots had come out, without knowing what they meant.\n It is a great shock, for I felt almost secure that he was\n getting better, and his poor grandmother is nearly distracted.\n This seems to affect her more than all; being under her own\n roof, it is brought more home to her senses, and it is indeed\n shocking to lose five of one family in so short a time. I am\n sitting up, while a woman, who has been with me through this\n dreadful day, gets a little rest by the side of my aunt; but as\n I was up last night, I am in such an agitated state that I am\n not fit to write. To have seen four human beings die in the\n short space of eight weeks is enough of itself to solemnize\n one's mind; but with all the additional circumstances which\n have attended these, no wonder that my heart is full to\n overflowing. This was a fine boy, and you know that the\n endearing ways of a sick child are most engaging under any\n circumstances, and when that child is an orphan, and dependent\n upon one's self entirely, the interest is indeed intense. I\n never met with so violent a case of fever, and the poor\n sufferer was sensible to the last of all its horrors. One\n cannot indeed lament for him, for he would have probably had\n but a hard life. Little James is now indeed alone in the world,\n happily too young to be conscious of his loss; but it is very\n affecting to think of his being deprived of father, mother, and\n two brothers in eight weeks, and left so perfectly alone.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_November 2._ I add a line to say that I am quite well,\n therefore do not feel anxious about me. There are very many\n cases of the fever in the village, and as I am almost the only\n person in it who is not afraid of infection, I still have full\n employment in assisting the poor sufferers. My cousin's little\n niece is still very ill. I have indeed been wonderfully\n preserved and strengthened. Heaven save me from presumption,\n but I cannot help feeling that I could not have lived through\n all that I have, unless God had protected me.\n\n \"Yours affectionately,\n\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\nWe need not attempt to add any thing to this simple and affecting\nnarrative of events that seem to belong to a more remote place and\nperiod than England and our own day. With all their naturalness and the\nstamp of reality, it would not be difficult--as indeed has been done--to\nclothe them with the drapery of fiction, and weave them into a romantic,\nimprobable tale.\n\nBut the tale is not all told. The scene shifts at this point, only to be\nsucceeded by another not unlike, nor far apart. Near the end of\nNovember, Mary was released from present duty at Osmotherly, took a\nreluctant leave--yes, with her generous and clinging affections, a\n_reluctant_ leave--of the family in which she had closed the eyes of\nfive members, and was carried by eager, anxious friends to Penrith.\nThere, in the bosom of a charming household already known and dear to\nher, every thing within and without presented as strong a contrast to\nthe situation she had just left, as words could express. Her own words\ngive us some idea of it, in the first letter she wrote after leaving a\nplace associated \"with images of danger and death,\" and leaving it, as\nshe supposed, for ever. But the very next letter after that surprises us\nwith the old date of \"Osmotherly\"; and we find that hardly a month had\npassed before she was recalled to the same spot, the same painful\nresponsibilities, and far greater danger than before, as the result\nproved. But again we leave her to tell her own story.\n\n \"_Penrith, Cumberland, November 29, 1825._\n\n \"MY DEAR COUSIN:--\n\n \"After all my melancholy letters from Osmotherly, you will be\n glad to receive one of another date, and under happier\n circumstances. My last letter was just after the death of the\n dear little boy, and I then thought I should be able to leave\n there very shortly; but it was not until the 26th, (after I had\n been there twelve weeks instead of the three which I intended\n when I went,) that I could arrange matters so that I could give\n up my charge conscientiously; and, after all my efforts, I\n could not succeed in settling the business for my poor,\n unfortunate cousin. I left it, however, in a fair way for\n completion, clothed the dear little orphan for the winter, and\n placed him with his aunt, making all the arrangements which my\n limited means allowed for his future support; and\n notwithstanding the incessant trial which I had there, I assure\n you it was not without many painful feelings that I took leave\n of the place, for ever. I had been for the last five weeks\n constantly with my aunt, and could not bear to leave her in the\n solitary situation to which she was reduced by the death of so\n many of her family. My dear little Jamie had become an object\n of affection to me, heightened to an extreme degree, since he\n was, like myself, left without parents or brother or sister. I\n longed to take him as my own, for he is a child of very\n uncommon capacity, and I fear will not have the education which\n he deserves. But I could only commit him in faith to Him who is\n the Father of the fatherless, who will not suffer even the\n least of his creatures to want his care. I think I never shall\n forget his screams of agony when he saw me drive away; I\n thought his little heart would burst. But childish sorrow is\n soon over, and he will forget me long before I shall cease to\n love him.\n\n \"According to an arrangement previously made, my cousin S----\n met me at Greta Bridge, in her grandfather's carriage. I came\n to that place on Thursday in a postchaise, passed the night,\n and came on hither the next day, so that I had only about\n thirty miles to ride alone, and as I got a postboy from the\n neighborhood to drive me all the way, I felt perfectly safe,\n and found no inconvenience whatever. Nothing can exceed the\n kindness of this family to me; indeed, I am made to feel that I\n am at home with them as if I had always belonged to them. After\n all I have had to suffer, it is almost like the rest of the\n Sabbath to the weary laborer, and if kindness and petting will\n cure one, I shall soon recover all I may have lost during my\n dreadful siege at Osmotherly. To be sure, I am almost\n bewildered at the change from constant anxiety and labor to a\n state of perfect idleness and indulgence, but I will try and\n make a good use of it; and I feel so entirely convinced that\n this most amazing preservation of my life must be for some\n useful end, that I think I never can fall into an insensible or\n cold state again. I was almost glad to stay from here, until I\n was quite sure I had not suffered from infection, for although\n I cannot feel much faith in the doctrine of contagion, I would\n not run any risk of communicating the disease to others. It is\n the opinion of many physicians here, (and my little doctor\n among the number,) that change of air may bring out the fever\n which would lie dormant in the system for a long time without\n it, and he warned me not to feel too secure until I had tried\n it. But I do not yet feel any symptoms; weak and weary I am,\n but not feverish, and having no fear am the more safe.\n\n \"But do not think I am so much occupied by the distresses I\n have experienced here, as to be unmindful of those which have\n visited my friends at home. Your letter of the 20th of October,\n and Ann's of the 18th, reached me on the 16th of November. The\n account of poor Maria's death shocked me very much, and made me\n long to fly home, that I might, if possible, do something for\n her dear little children. I wish I could assist them, and feel\n that there is no one of the family to whom the duty of doing it\n is so great. I beg you will use my name in any case in which\n you think I could act with usefulness, and if God spare me to\n return to you, I promise you I will fulfil all you may engage\n for me to the best of my powers.... It tires me so much, that I\n can scarcely write intelligibly. God bless you!\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Osmotherly, December 31, 1825._\n\n \"MY DEAREST FRIEND:--\n\n \"I have often welcomed this anniversary with delight; but under\n all the various circumstances in which it has found me, I think\n I never felt the value of the privilege which it gives me of\n writing to you more deeply than I do at this moment.\n\n \"But I will first account to you for my being again at this\n place, the very name of which is no doubt by this time\n associated in your mind, as it is in mine, with images of\n danger and death. Of the events which took place during my\n former visit here, you have no doubt been informed by my\n letters to Boston, and of my departure from it, as I thought\n for ever, for the hospitable abode of my kind friends at\n Penrith, where I was enjoying much when I last wrote home. I\n intended staying with them until the middle of January, when\n Mr. McAdam's appointed journey south would secure me an escort\n to Birmingham, and I was, among other things, anticipating\n writing this under the influence of the same most delightful\n society which was operating upon my mind on this night last\n year. But I was doomed in this, as in many more important\n concerns, to feel the uncertainty of all calculations for the\n future; for on the 23d of December I received a letter from the\n physician of this place, written at the request of my aunt, who\n was apparently dying of typhus fever, begging me if possible to\n let her see me once more. I knew there were many reasons which\n made it important that I should come, if that were indeed her\n situation; and at the advanced age of sixty-eight, with a most\n feeble frame, I could not dare to expect a favorable\n termination. The risk of returning to such an infected region\n was, of course, much greater than my former residence there,\n but thus summoned I could not hesitate, and my good friends,\n even more fearful and anxious than I was, could not attempt to\n dissuade me. It was indeed an appalling undertaking, knowing so\n fully the evils to which I was coming which could not be\n avoided, and all that might ensue could not be kept out of\n sight.\n\n \"It was, I assure you, with many solemn thoughts, though hid by\n cheerful looks, that I took my leave, probably for ever, of\n that good family, and got into the mail alone on the morning of\n the 26th. My route lay across the dreary hill Stanmoor, and, as\n I had not even a single companion the whole eighty miles\n hither, you may be sure my cogitations were many and various.\n Among other things, I was struck by the singular coincidence\n which has always given to Christmas week a peculiar interest;\n neither could I fail to consider, on recollecting the various\n circumstances that had occurred in it, how deep was my debt of\n gratitude to that Being who had guided me through them all in\n safety. Dear N----, this is an overwhelming thought, and one\n which every day's experience forces upon my mind with\n increasing power, a power of which, it seems to me, it would\n have been impossible to conceive under any other than the very\n peculiar circumstances in which I have been, and, it would\n seem, am still doomed to live, while in this country. Imagine\n me, at this distance from all to whom I have been accustomed to\n look for dependence, a being alone in creation almost,\n literally alone in this strange land, making an excursion of\n eighty miles across the country, partly in coaches, partly in\n postchaises, without a being to protect me or appeal to, and\n upon such an errand,--and yet as safe as if a host were\n escorting me, calm, quiet, and perfectly easy as if I were\n taking a ride to Hingham; and then tell me, if the confiding\n spirit which our sacred religion creates in our souls is not\n worth all that we could possess besides.\n\n \"I arrived here in eight hours after I left Penrith, and found\n the poor old lady rather better, and not a little delighted\n that I had cared enough for her to come. She has had many and\n severe trials through life, to which those of the last summer\n were but a sequel. I was the only one of her own relations with\n whom she had come in contact for many years, and the poor\n soul's heart warmed towards me with the whole force of her long\n shut up affections. I at once installed myself as sole nurse in\n the very room in which I had watched the progress of disease\n and death upon that poor child, whose case I mentioned in my\n letter to Emma; and here am I now writing you by the light of a\n rush candle, with my little work-box for a desk, almost afraid\n to breathe lest I should disturb my aunt's slumbers. We two are\n the only beings in this little cottage, for I have sent her\n sons out to sleep, as a precaution against the fever, and put a\n bed into the corner of the room for myself. Could you see me\n acting in the fourfold capacity which I adopt in this humble\n cottage, you would hardly believe me to be the same being, who,\n a week ago, was installed in all the honors of a privileged\n visitor, amid the luxuries of Cockel House, acting 'lady'\n solely, to the utmost of my ability. It amuses me to find how\n easily it all sits upon me, and how readily we may adapt\n ourselves to varieties of situation and find something to enjoy\n in all. Aunty is much better, and I think there is a good\n chance for her recovery, at least to as good a state of health\n as she was in before this illness. I feel little evil in the\n contrast, great as it is to myself, except a slight cold, which\n the very sudden change in the weather, from warm and damp to\n excessive cold, has brought me. The fields to-day are covered\n with snow, the first time I have seen them so in this country,\n and it looked so homeish, and so much like your happy home the\n last time I saw it, that I have been enjoying the sight highly\n to-day, while every one beside was looking blank at it. I am in\n one respect more comfortable than when I was here before, for\n I have one companion. The 'little doctor' has his only sister\n to keep his house, and she has already made herself most\n important and agreeable to me; she has only been here a week,\n and being as much a stranger as myself, we have some feelings\n in common. She is a very lovely little creature, twenty-one\n only in years, but older in experience. Her manner is suited to\n the style of her face,--gentle, winning, and at the same time\n indicating cultivation and elegance of mind. Without the\n slightest shade of affectation or consciousness of beauty, she\n not only gives me a new study of character, but is a most\n convenient and pleasant associate; living in the next house but\n one, I can call upon her at any moment. Something always comes\n to me in all situations to prove to me the care which is taken\n even of the most insignificant; and surely the whole of my\n experience in this place has been but a continued lesson of it.\n Indeed, I certainly have great cause of thankfulness, for that\n only dark passage in my progress since I left home, trying as\n it was, was full of admonition. It showed me a part of the\n great plan of creation of which I knew little or nothing\n before, a class of beings whose characters, duties, motives,\n and views I had never before understood; and above all, it\n showed me how perfectly the various links in the great chain of\n existences are adapted to aid, and strengthen, and apply to\n each other, adding another to the many proofs of the Supreme\n Wisdom which formed and governs all.\n\n \"The only remnant of my poor cousin Bessy's family is a boy of\n just William's age; he was ill at the time his mother died, and\n became my immediate charge until his brother was taken sick,\n and grew so fond of me that it was long before even his aunt,\n whom he had been used to seeing, could make him content to be\n separated from me. He is a very engaging child, bright, and of\n a noble disposition and temper. The similarity of our\n situations was enough to make me feel more than common\n tenderness for him, his dependence upon me increased it, and\n his strong attachment to me completed it. I think I never felt\n so much for a little creature before, and were it not for the\n great distance I should have to take him, I never would leave\n him behind. I thought he would have broken his little heart\n when I drove away, and when I came back his ecstasy was really\n affecting; he ran round me, jumped up in my lap, stroked and\n kissed my face, as if he could not trust to the evidence of one\n sense, and at last burst out a crying, 'Uncle Mady wont go away\n again; Uncle Mady live with Jamie every day, wont you, Uncle\n Mady?' He had always a trick of calling me 'Uncle.' Do not\n think I am made melancholy by all this. I have no recollection\n of ever having the same degree of good spirits as I have been\n blessed with for the last six months,--I may say nine; and save\n my longing for home, I have had no cause to wish any one thing\n relating to me different from what it has been. God grant that\n I may not be tempted to great presumption! I hope my wishes are\n humble, though my confidence may be great.\n\n \"May God be with you, my dear friend, and guide and guard, and\n bless you, through the year on which we have now entered, and\n for ever,--is the earnest prayer of your sincere\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nBut with all her cheerfulness, and self-forgetting, heroic courage, Mary\nwas not proof against danger and disease. It is well for us to learn\nthat the laws of nature are not suspended nor diverted from their\ncourse, even by the strongest faith, or for the sake of the most noble\nand useful laborer. Such a laborer there was here; but it was hardly to\nbe expected that she would pass unharmed, the second time, through such\nexposure, fatigue, and painful anxiety. If the transition was great, at\nfirst, from that barren and comfortless place to the luxuries of\nPenrith, the change back again must have been peculiarly trying. She\nspeaks of the difference between the two places as equal to that between\nthe most sumptuous dwelling in Boston and the farm-house at Brush Hill.\nNay, the contrast there was yet greater; for the common cottages in\nYorkshire had no floors for the first story, except of clay and sand.\nSuch was the house in which all that previous sickness and death had\noccurred, and in which the nurse and servant of all now found herself\nagain. Sending away to another house the melancholy and moaning young\nman, and fixing up a bed for herself in a corner of her aunt's small\nroom, she endeavored to keep herself from the night air, particularly as\nthe weather, after a long course of warm rains, became intensely cold.\nBut in vain did she shun exposure. There was work to be done out of\ndoors as well as in, and no one but herself to do it. A sudden and\nsevere cramp seized her, and she at last fell upon the floor, when alone\nin the night, and there lay a long time, utterly helpless, striving to\nmake her groans heard by some one in or out of the house. This left her\nin a state of extreme debility, from which nothing could for a long time\nraise her. She would make it appear a light matter when it was over, but\nit is evident, from her own expressions and other facts, that she was in\ngreat danger.\n\n \"_Penrith, February 10, 1826._\n\n \"MY DEAR EMMA:--\n\n \"Your last letter was a cordial to me, and came at a time when\n I greatly needed it; for I was actually suffering under all the\n evil which you were fearing for me when you wrote it,--confined\n to the chamber of that little cottage which I have described to\n you, weak and languid, the mere shadow of what I was when I\n parted from you. But for the cause and effect of my last visit\n to Osmotherly I must refer you to my letters to N. C. P. and\n Mrs. B----; you know I cannot bear to tell the same tale twice,\n more especially if it be a melancholy tale.\n\n \"But do not imagine me to have been in a very forlorn and\n disconsolate predicament, for I had many blessings to rejoice\n in all the while. The sun shone brightly all the day full upon\n the windows of our comfortable, neat apartment, furnished with\n what, in her former prosperous days, had been the furniture of\n the 'spare chamber' (the museum of precious articles, you know)\n of Aunty's 'bien house'; Aunty sitting by the fire in her easy\n chair, her bright eyes glistening with the exhilaration of\n returning health; and my ladyship lying on the bed, thin and\n pale enough I grant, but in as high glee as strength would\n permit, and not for one minute depressed; if any change came,\n it was for the better, and my nurses remarked that my worst\n days were my gayest ones. Then I had two visits each day from\n the 'little doctor,' the very essence of good-humor and\n cheerfulness, and as I had in reality but little pain, I could\n manage to enjoy a good deal. Besides, I had the comfort of a\n female companion, with whom I could associate with something\n like equality of feeling. This was the sister of the 'little\n doctor,' who had just come to Osmotherly to keep house for him.\n My dear little Jemmy, too, was a source of great amusement and\n delight to me; he had improved even in the short time I had\n been from him, and showed some new and interesting trait every\n time I saw him. I left all behind me, however, on the 30th of\n January, not without many regrets as you may believe, for I\n felt it was now certainly for ever; and no one can part from\n those who have been kind to the utmost of their power, however\n small that power may be, without sad feelings. This is\n certainly a great drawback upon the pleasure one takes in\n travelling, and I sometimes think, when the time comes that I\n must do the same to all I have known here, I shall wish I had\n never come. But I do not like to think of it.\n\n \"I am indeed much better than I could have dared to hope, but I\n always gain fast if at all, and this week of eating has made a\n great change in me. I cannot tell you how I rejoice at this,\n for I began to be heartily tired of my fictitious character; I\n did not realize my identity when toddling about, catching hold\n of chairs and tables like a child just going alone, as I did\n last week; I longed to shake myself of the encumbrance, or that\n the scene would drop, and let me scamper away, Mary Pickard\n again.\n\n \"I am glad you have seen this house, for it will aid your\n imagination a little; but you can scarcely conceive of the\n appearance of comfort which pervades this room as it is now\n arranged. The gentlemen have all deserted us, and just now\n Aunty George, Selina, and I are seated in true spinster style\n round a large fire in the drawing-room up stairs, (which by the\n way was any thing but comfortable when you saw it,) Aunty at\n full length upon the sofa reading on one side, Selina on the\n other writing, and I in the front doing the same, at the same\n table with her. Around us are arranged, in the most convenient\n places, piano, flowers, tables covered with books,\n writing-desks, &c., ottomans ditto, all sorts of comfortable\n chairs,--easy, rocking, &c.; in the corners, shelves with\n collections of shells, minerals, and other odd things, to say\n nothing of the living ornaments. It is the very picture of\n comfort, and I could tell you of certain sensual luxuries which\n make their appearance upon the centre-table, some three, four,\n five, or perhaps six times a day, now that I am prohibited from\n descending to the dining-room; but that would destroy the\n intellectual charm which must hang round the image of Aunty\n George. Mrs. McAdam writes me that she received your letter,\n and really begins to imagine herself a 'monstrously agreeable\n woman.' You must have given her a good dose, I think. She has\n been in a fine taking about this illness of mine, but is\n cooling a little, now she finds I am not satisfied with less\n than four meals per day. How shamefully I have treated Emma's\n kind letter; but there is no end to my wickedness of this sort.\n I must not begin with confessions, but end them by confessing\n myself very tired, and ever your sincere friend,\n\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Erdington, near Birmingham, March 3, 1826._\n\n \"MY DEAR COUSIN:--\n\n \"I have continued to gain strength daily since I last wrote.\n Miss McAdam passed a week in Liverpool, during which time\n Selina and I kept house at Cockel; and after passing my last\n few days there in the most delightful manner, with all the good\n inmates, I left them on the 26th. Mr. McAdam kindly insisted on\n coming by the way of Erdington, that I might not be obliged to\n travel all the way alone. We found a great change on this side\n the hills of Westmoreland; the grass is green, and every thing\n putting forth, the lambs bleating and the birds singing as if\n it were May.\n\n \"... I had given Mr. B---- notice of my intention to come to\n him at this time, and found him looking out for me even at the\n gate, with characteristic impatience, on Tuesday about noon,\n and not a little delighted to see me at last. You know how\n strongly attached he was to my father and mother, and indeed to\n the whole family; his enthusiastic feelings have fully retained\n the remembrance of what he enjoyed with them, and any one who\n belonged to them would have been most welcome to him. Besides\n this, he used to pet me, and took a great deal of pains to\n teach me, and I thought the little body would have lost his\n wits when he saw me; he is a kind-hearted man, and with all his\n peculiarities one cannot but respect and love him. You may\n remember what a little oddity he was in appearance when he was\n in Boston, and I assure you increasing years have not at all\n lessened his peculiarity. His face is not, I think, altered in\n the least; his hair is still a bright brown, cut as short as\n scissors can do it, upon which he usually mounts a small\n sailor's wove hat, from beneath the narrow rim of which his\n little bright, gray eyes twinkle in a most animated manner. His\n common dress is a pepper-and-salt frock-coat, which has been\n apparently in the service many long years, the waist of which\n just divides his height, coming down to the chair when he sits;\n a straight, long waistcoat of the same materials, and a colored\n neckerchief tied as tightly as possible round his little neck;\n breeches of purple-corded velvet, fastened at the knee with a\n little steel buckle, white worsted stockings, and a pair of\n what have been long leather gaiters, pushed down over the\n ankles _a la negligee_. Fancy this little odd figure moving\n about as briskly as if he were a boy just loose from school,\n the vivacity of his manner and looks corresponding exactly with\n the quickness of his motions, and you have my little friend Mr.\n B----. You would think all this must be ludicrous, but it is\n not. There is so much good sense and kind feeling about him,\n and so much real benevolence in his manner towards every one,\n that all his peculiarity is forgotten in a very short time. He\n is one of the most intelligent, entertaining men I ever met\n with, and certainly one of the most warm-hearted. He has passed\n a very unsettled life since he left America, and is now living\n in a poor cottage, quite out of the way of all society, with no\n amusement but his little garden, which he cultivates entirely\n himself, and a fine library of most valuable books. This is\n quite enough for him, and he seems as happy and contented as\n possible, because he is independent. His _sanctum_ is more like\n grandpa's than any I ever saw; he reminds me of him in many\n things, and we have talked over old times until I have fancied\n myself young again.\n\n \"You may form some idea of my strength, when I tell you I was\n yesterday tempted by the pleasure of my own company to a walk\n of eight miles, and did not suspect I had done half of it. I\n have indeed recovered my strength rapidly, and do not care\n about the flesh. I believe I am as well as I ever was, and\n should forget that I had been ill, were it not for certain\n feelings of inefficiency and reluctance to move,--the\n consequence of the indulgences I have had, I presume. I have\n indeed had enough to make a spoiled child of me, had I not been\n one before. It is no light burden upon my mind, that I can do\n nothing to show my gratitude for all the kindness I have\n received here. I do begin to dread parting for ever from all\n these good friends; but do not think that _any thing_ can\n efface the remembrance of what I owe my dearest friends at\n home.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_London, May 26, 1826._\n\n \"MY DEAR MRS. BARNARD:--\n\n \"Mr. Bond had a letter yesterday from Mrs. B. of April 21st,\n in which she says you had heard of my illness at Osmotherly. I\n am glad to remember that you would at the same time hear of my\n entire recovery, and I hope before this you have received other\n letters to tell you how complete was that recovery. It is\n indeed overpowering to me, when I look back upon the events\n which have taken place since I came to England. How many and\n great have been the blessings which have attended me!\n\n \"I staid here with Mrs. Bates from the 4th to the 30th of\n April, seeing and doing very diligently, and, with Mr. Paine's\n assistance, examining many of the wonders and curiosities of\n this great place, which I had not before seen. I then went to\n Chatham to make my farewell visit to my cousin, Mrs. Stokes,\n intending to stay only a fortnight; for I did not then know at\n what time precisely Mr. Palfrey intended to embark for home,\n and was making my arrangements to be ready the latter part of\n June at the farthest. I was not, however, able to return at the\n time I intended, for I was attacked very violently with spasms\n from being very bilious, and the heavy doses administered by\n the physician kept me housed for more than a week. I returned\n to town on Monday last, the 22d, and came again to Mrs. Bates,\n as she begged me to make her house my home in London, as long\n as I staid. I was very much wearied with the journey, and Mr.\n Palfrey and Mr. Bond, who came in soon after, thought I must be\n ill, and may say so, but I assure you I am not. I gain strength\n very fast, and, as a proof of it, I was nearly seven hours on\n my feet yesterday, without food, and not fatigued by it. I\n shall stay here only just long enough to see the friends I have\n about London, and pack up my duds for the voyage, and then go\n to Ash and Uncle Ben for a few days, and thence to Burcombe to\n stay as long as I can.\n\n \"I feel now that my work here is finished (that is, all the\n most important part,--I could find enough to do were I to stay\n ever so long,) and I assure you I should feel most impatient of\n delay beyond the time appointed. Mr. Bond brought me Mr.\n Channing's Review _from himself_; you may believe I was not a\n little pleased that he should think of me. I beg you will thank\n him for me. How I shall enjoy hearing him, if such a blessing\n is in store for me! Love to you and the household.\n\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\nDuring the progress of events recorded in these different letters,\ncovering the space of a whole winter, we can imagine that some anxiety\nwas felt by friends on both sides of the water. Communication with\nremote towns and obscure hamlets, even in England, was not frequent or\neasy; and across the ocean we all know how different was the\ncorrespondence then and now. Accordingly, we find the deepest solicitude\nexpressed, and painful suspense, in both lands. The manner in which the\nEnglish friends write shows the extent of Mary's danger, as well as the\namount of her services and their exalted and tender estimate of her\nworth. We are not in possession of as many letters from England,\nrelating to any period, as we have wished to obtain; and the few we have\nwe hesitate to use freely, because of their allusions to domestic\nincidents and persons who may be still living. But abundant is the\ntestimony, if we need it, to their appreciation of Mary's character,\nwarm and enthusiastic their love and admiration. A few sentences we take\nfrom the letters of Mrs. McAdam, the 'Aunt Jane' so often named, to a\nfriend here.\n\n _October, 1825._ \"I have a letter this morning from our blessed\n Mary, dated the 3d of October. She has laid her poor cousin in\n the grave, after a fortnight's illness, during which time she\n appears to have been her sole nurse. I dread she is doing far\n more than she can bear. The younger of the two boys left is\n taken ill, and she talks of taking him home to nurse him; but I\n shall by this post write Miss McAdam to send for her and insist\n on her removal. Her life is of so much more consequence than\n any which are now left, that I can no longer hesitate. You, who\n love her as well as I do, can imagine my uneasiness. Rest\n assured, however, that I will keep you informed of every thing.\n When she wrote, she said she had so much to do she could not\n write home, and begged me to write. Now, my dear friend, all we\n have to do is to rely on that God who orders all things for the\n best, and to whom I constantly and ardently pray that He would\n spare and reward our and His own Mary, to guide more of us to\n Him; and I feel comforted when I rely with confidence on His\n love and wisdom. She is such a blessing, that I would fain hope\n the rest of my days may be influenced by her.\"\n\nFrom the same:--\n\n _November, 1825._ \"Since I last wrote you, my dear Emma, I have\n had various accounts from our incomparable Mary. I feel much\n anxiety on her account, for which I have been frequently\n reproved by her, whose higher feelings and better regulated\n judgment give her such wonderful advantage over me, and so\n constantly produce in her the tranquil security of inward\n peace. She is so excellent, and so truly set in the midst of\n difficulties, that it sometimes appears to me as if she had\n been graciously lent to us for our guide to that heaven which\n we _all_ pretend to seek. When she wrote, she was perfectly\n well; but though our friends went for her, she would not leave\n for several days, lest she should take the disease with her to\n Penrith. I dare not say I wish she were removed, for all is\n assuredly for the best, however it may appear to our imperfect\n minds. I feel confident she is the peculiar care of the God she\n loves and serves; but when she gets to Penrith, I know I shall\n be almost too happy. Her mind has taken such complete\n possession of my affections, that I appear to myself a new\n creature; I have totally changed since I became actually\n acquainted with her.... Our correspondence will not drop here,\n I hope; and I may at some future period give you a faint idea\n of the interest she has excited for every thing that lives and\n breathes her atmosphere.\"\n\nFrom the letters written in America at this time, to Mary or her friends\nin England, many touching passages might be borrowed. How much is\nconveyed in a single fact communicated to her, at the moment of the\ngreatest anxiety! \"With all their desire for your return, nobody\nmurmurs; every body says it is much better for you to stay. And Mrs.\nBarnard says, when she expressed her sorrow about it to Dr. Channing, he\ngave her for the only time in his life almost an angry look!\" The writer\nof this passage, when at last assured of Mary's perfect safety after all\nher labors and perils, sent her such a full, hearty outpouring of joy\nand love, that we must be pardoned for citing a part of it, as showing\nthe depth of the interest she awakened and the affection she secured.\n\n \"MY DEAREST _LIVE_ MARY!--\n\n \"The pleasure and gratitude I feel in the confidence I now have\n that I am writing to an inhabitant of this world, you can\n scarcely imagine. The dread I felt about your fate weighed upon\n me so heavily, in spite of all the reasoning and hope about\n which I sedulously employed myself, that it was a great effort\n to write; and I fear our letters of late have not served to\n animate you. I shall not enter upon the long history of my\n anxiety, which was inwardly greater than any body's, I believe,\n because I knew more about it. I will only tell you, that a\n question about you was sure to damp the best spirits I could be\n in; and if people I visited undertook to talk about you, it was\n a signal for my call to terminate. At one time, I determined\n not to go to town till I heard from you, but was induced to\n alter my plans, and did go and pass a month, doing all I could\n to be at ease, and acting just as if I knew you were\n _safe_;--how you want to scold me for using that word! as if\n you could be any thing but safe in the hands of your God, and\n when you were serving him to the utmost of your power.... On\n Monday night, the 13th of this month, M----, E---- B----, and I\n found our way to Milton Hill in the 'evening coach.' The next\n day, that most valued of couriers, the milkman, brought us a\n bundle from Pearl Street; two letters fell out on opening\n it,--one from Exeter, the other from the Sandwich Isles,--a\n long one from B----, which I employed all the daylight in\n reading. Would you believe me so insatiable, when one such\n blessing as hearing from that distant spot of earth had been\n allowed? I was not yet satisfied, although we had left town but\n the day before; presentiment drove me to the pile of clean\n clothes on the floor, when my hand made its way through the\n chaos to a letter! Mother says it was the sense of feeling that\n discovered it to be yours, for the room was quite dark. I\n needed but half a glimmer of fire-light to show me the\n characters I had so longed and prayed to see once more. I\n screeched, 'Mary Pickard!' and flew to the kitchen fire to\n assure myself still farther; and never, dearest Mary, did I\n feel a warmer flood of joy and gratitude than when 'Penrith,\n 8th December,' convinced me you were alive and well, and in\n just the hands you ought to be! And when I came to know, too,\n that my fears had not been unfounded, that you had so narrowly\n escaped, had passed through such trying scenes, and done more,\n much more, than almost any body ever did before, I was too\n happy! Though you don't tell me so, I know under such\n circumstances what efforts you made. But you have earned the\n privilege of being an instrument, in the hands of the\n All-powerful, of good to every human being you come in contact\n with. And when I knew this, why did I feel so forlornly\n whenever I thought of you in that remote place, alone, and\n exposed to fatigue and illness? If it had been you, how much\n higher views would you have taken!\n\n \"EMMA.\"\n\nSo ended the visit to England. How unlike most visits there! It is not\noften that two years are spent abroad chiefly in confinement with the\nsick and devotion to the dying. We wonder not that Mary Pickard thought\nthat such employment was her \"destiny.\" More appropriate does the word\nseem than the common term, \"mission\"; for that expresses too much of\ndesign and consciousness to be associated with her. She projected no\nlarge plans, or distant enterprises. She simply held herself ready for\nthe work to which she might be summoned, abroad as well as at home, and\nwith an ambition as easily satisfied at home as abroad. All her\nministrations might seem to have been accidental, if any thing were\naccidental;--the occasions sought her, more than they were sought by\nher. Yet in some way or other the occasions were sure to appear, and\nequally sure to be used. Nor were her charities merely those of the\nhand, or of time and toil alone. There was benevolence, as well as\ndiligence. No one knew, no one will ever know, the amount of her direct\ngifts at Osmotherly. But we know, from various sources, that they were\nfree and large. And by no means were they restricted to her kindred.\nThere is reason to believe that the whole village shared her bounty; in\nmoderate measure, of necessity, but in decided liberality. From the\nnature and power of the disorder, a general panic prevailed, aggravated\nby ignorance and superstition, and followed by improvidence and want. We\nhave seen the statement, that a large proportion of the inhabitants\neither perished or became helpless and a burden. And when the sufferings\nof her own connections ceased, by death or recovery, Mary went out to do\nwhat she could among the diseased and destitute generally. She toiled\ntill the alarm abated, and aimed particularly to remove from the minds\nand dwellings of the people those fruitful feeders, if not sources, of\nthe calamity,--superstition and uncleanness. Is it too much to believe,\nthat Osmotherly will always feel the blessing of that Providence which\nsent there the \"good lady\"?\n\nIt was a beautiful termination of her whole experience among that\npeople,--whose very dialect differed so much from hers, that they could\nscarcely understand her words, but easily read her actions,--that, when\nshe recovered her own strength sufficiently to take a final leave of\nthem, the whole village came out in a body, young and old, and escorted\nher on her way.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\nNEW RELATIONS.\n\n\nMary Pickard returned from England in the summer of 1826, and was warmly\nwelcomed by her many friends in Boston. Her last home before going\nabroad had been at Miss Bent's in Washington Street, where she now went,\nand stayed through the fall and winter with the exception of short\nvisits to friends in the vicinity. Thronged with visitors, and occupied\nwith business of her own which she never left to others if she could do\nit herself, she had no time for large correspondence, and we find few\nletters for some months. But there are brief notes which show the\nfulness of her enjoyment and gratitude, enhanced by the recollection of\nthe trying scenes through which she had passed, but which she rarely\nnamed and never magnified, as we are assured by some who were constantly\nwith her. The mercies of the past, more than the trials, filled her\nthoughts. \"My whole absence has been but a succession of mercies, for\nwhich I could not in a long life show the gratitude I feel; and this the\ngreatest of all, the safe restoration to my beloved home and blessed\nfriends,--it is indeed overwhelming. I have been borne through\nafflictive trials by that Power which alone can enable us to bear them;\nmay I also find the same strength sufficient to keep me firm and\nuninjured, amid the greater trial of prosperity and joy.\" This was said\nto one of her former instructors in Hingham, with whom she spent a week\nin November, reviving the memory of the \"first awaking of the mind to\nhigh and holy thoughts and resolves.\"\n\nTo the trial of prosperity of which she speaks, she may have been\nexposed at this time, if at any. She had returned after a long absence,\nin which she had accomplished all that she proposed, and more than to\nmost minds would have seemed possible. She was again in the midst of\nendeared and delighted friends, more free from care and solicitude for\nothers than she had ever been before; her society sought by a larger\ncircle of devoted and admiring acquaintance, paying her marked\nattention. There was every thing to gratify, and much to flatter. And\nshe was happy, very happy,--\"more lively and joyous, I think, than at\nany time of her life,\" writes an intimate friend. But she did not remain\nlong unemployed, or live for herself. She sought other objects of\ninterest, places and ways of laboring for those in need. She took\nclasses of poor children in more than one Sunday school, and visited the\nhouses of the poor during the week; of several families in Sea Street\nshe is said to have taken particular care through that first season,\nthough a season crowded with engagements of friendship and society, and\noccupied before its close with an unexpected and absorbing interest.\n\nThe last night of the year, Mary made one of that great congregation\nwho listened to that discourse of HENRY WARE on the \"Duty of\nImprovement,\" which few who heard have forgotten, and of which one\nhearer has said, \"No words from mortal lips ever affected me like\nthose.\" We may conceive the emotions with which they were heard by her,\nin whose mind religious concerns were always paramount, and who already,\nas we have reason to believe, was compelled to feel a personal interest\nin the preacher. For we now approach that event which is considered the\ncrisis of a woman's life, and which was certainly to change the whole\naspect of a life that was felt to be peculiarly insulated. But we may be\nanticipating. No engagement yet existed, and in the letter written after\nthe services of the \"last night\" to one who was never forgotten on that\noccasion, there is no allusion to new events, unless in the close.\n\n \"_Boston, December 31, 1826._\n\n \"Were I by your side, dearest N----, I might be able to satisfy\n myself by talking; but when I think of committing to paper what\n I wish to say to you, I am almost discouraged, and have a great\n mind to give up the attempt. I do verily believe I should for\n once play truant, and shut up my desk, did I not fear, should I\n do so, that the ghost of the departing year would start up in\n visible form before me and pronounce a fearful malediction upon\n me for my apostasy. Indeed, so wedded am I to old customs, and\n really superstitious about the fulfilment of certain vows, that\n I should not dare to hope for peace or prosperity for the year\n to come, if I allowed myself to yield to the tempter.\n\n \"When I look back only upon the past month, I feel as if it\n were the work of an age to give you any idea of its interest;\n and when the year, nay, years, of which I wish to speak come in\n array before my mind's eye, it is not strange that I know not\n how to begin, or how to confine myself to the limits of a sheet\n of paper. You know, however, enough of the circumstances of the\n past year to understand something of the feelings which this\n period has brought with it. Perhaps I am inclined to exaggerate\n the peculiarity of the events of my life, which, after all, may\n have been no more exciting than every body meets with; but be\n that as it may, there can be no harm in magnifying the\n blessings. And as there is more hope of attaining a high degree\n of excellence, if our standard of comparison be high (even if\n it be beyond our reach), so I will hope that the more enlarged\n is our estimate of our subjects for gratitude, the more deep\n and heartfelt will our gratitude be. It does seem to me, that\n no being can have _more_ for which to give thanks, than I have\n in past and present blessings; and that no one can fall as far\n short as I do of the effect that should follow such a belief.\n\n \"I have been reading the letter I was writing you at this time\n last year, and it does make me tremble to the very soul, when I\n contrast my situation now with what it then was, to think how\n much is required of one, who has been saved from such peril,\n and brought back to so much good. But it is in vain to attempt\n to tell you what I think or feel at this hour. One idea above\n all the rest will rise, and this you will join me in,--that the\n proofs which the experience of the past year gives of the\n never-ceasing, all-sufficient care of God should make us look\n forward with perfect trust to whatever the future may bring,\n without a doubt that all will be well that He directs,--that\n our weakness will be strengthened, our fear removed, and our\n spirits sustained and soothed under all trials, if we will but\n rest in faith upon his almighty arm. I have felt this so much,\n that I had begun to be presumptuous, and almost thought that no\n possible temptation could make me doubt its sufficiency. But I\n dare not hope so much. I find there are temptations of which I\n have hitherto known nothing, and under the influence of which I\n may have to learn a new lesson. It is said of Bishop Sewell,\n who once most strangely departed from his faith, that his fall\n was necessary to teach him humility, and improve his character.\n Perhaps it may be so with me. If I do fall, I hope it may have\n the same good effect.\n\n \"I have wished to-day, as I often do, that you could have an\n ear where mine was. Mr. Channing gave us a most useful sermon\n this morning upon the office of Christ, from the words, 'I am\n the way, the truth, and the life.' Mr. Gannett this afternoon\n upon the retrospect of the past,--good and solemn. And this\n eve, notwithstanding the violence of the snow-storm, Mr. Ware's\n house has been filled to overflowing, to hear his usual\n address. It was one of the most eloquent and impressive I ever\n heard from him; a powerful exhortation on the necessity of\n Progress, delivered with an energy which gave it great effect.\n I have heard but one of those discourses before this, but I\n should think it a most profitable service. The occasion is\n certainly one by which all who are capable of feeling seriously\n must be solemnly impressed; and the great interest which is\n generally felt in Mr. Ware gives him the power of making a good\n use of such a predisposition. And now that it is _possible_\n that he may accept the call to New York, his influence is\n greater than ever.\n\n \"I have passed a quiet, delightful week at Hingham, made my\n long talked of visit to Mrs. P----, and returned on Christmas\n day to be quiet at home (if possible) until I go to you; and\n yet I ought to be stationary for a time for business' sake. I\n need not tell you how much you have been in my thoughts during\n the past week, so strongly are all the singular events which\n have taken place in it associated with you. It has not been\n suffered to pass without its own special interest; to me it has\n indeed been _full_.\n\n \"Most heartily yours, with best wishes for the coming year.\n\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\nThe year 1827 opened upon Mary differently from any previous year of her\nlife. Its first month was to witness the consummation of a purpose,\nwhich could not be lightly regarded by a mind like hers. Strange that it\ncan be by any! Yet we have such reason to fear it, that we deem it a\nsufficient apology, if any be needed, for disclosing her own thoughts at\nthis time more fully than might otherwise seem right. Sure we are of\n_her_ permission, whose conversations on the forming of a connection so\noften made the subject of trivial jesting were as free as they were\nserious. By nothing earthly is the social or moral community more deeply\naffected than by the prevalent views of Marriage, and the feelings with\nwhich its momentous obligations are assumed. And when there are revealed\nto us by death, under that seal of sacredness which deepens our\nconviction of their sincerity, such sentiments as those which Mary\nPickard brought to this relation, our view of duty, and even of\ndelicacy, moves us to impart rather than withhold them. Not that we\nsuppose them peculiar to her, or that she has given them any remarkable\nexpression. They may be common to every right and earnest mind. But\nvarious considerations prevent their being publicly presented with that\npersonal reality which adds so much to their power. Thankful would all\nbe, and none more than those perfected spirits of which we now speak, if\nthe young and the mature would take exalted and sober views of the\nholiest and happiest relation in life.\n\nMary's views were expressed to her two most intimate female friends, the\nsame night; to one in a short note, to the other more at length.\n\n \"_January 30, 1827._ Dearest Emma, I am not willing that any\n other than my own pen should communicate to you the events of\n this day. I would not that you should think it possible for me,\n under any circumstances, so far to lose my identity as to be\n unmindful of the feelings of one whom I so love; and though it\n requires some effort, I will do the thing with my own hand.\n Know, then, dear E., that a change has passed over the spirit\n of my earthly dreams, and, instead of the self-dependent,\n self-governed being you have known me, I have learned to look\n to another for guidance and happiness; and, more than that,\n have bound myself, by an irrevocable vow, to live for the\n future in the exercise of the great and responsible duties\n which such a connection inevitably brings with it.... You need\n no explanation, nor have I time to give any; it would require\n one of our long nights to trace the rise and progress of the\n influences that have thus terminated. At present, the idea of\n the change I am making is so solemn, so appalling, that my\n faculties are almost paralyzed.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Boston, January 30, 1827._\n\n \"MY DEAR N----:\n\n \"I have been sitting with this sheet before me for the last\n half-hour, trying to find out in what way to begin the long and\n eventful story which I wish to convey to your mind as clearly\n as I see it in my own. I am in truth hardly able to write at\n all, from absolute exhaustion of body and mind, and therefore\n am driven to the necessity of beginning at the end of the\n chapter, lest I should not have time to tell the whole. Will it\n be an entire surprise to you to hear that this day has been to\n me the most important of my whole life, the turning-point of\n existence, the witness of my solemn and irrevocable promise to\n unite for the future my fate with that being, who, when we last\n met, I thought was doomed to be a stranger to me for ever? It\n seems, indeed, like a dream, and yet it is true, dreadfully\n true, that I have taken upon myself great and unknown duties\n for which I feel incompetent,--true that I have gained the best\n blessing life can give.\n\n \"You need no explanation to teach you the progress of this in\n my own mind, for you know me well enough to read it without\n book, and you may easily imagine how I feel at such a crisis.\n O, it is solemn, it is awful, thus to bind one's self for life!\n and yet I am conscious my whole heart is with the act, and my\n happiness intimately dependent upon it. This feeling of\n distrust and fearfulness will soon pass away. I have not been\n used to its interference in any case where I have known it was\n my _duty_ to act; it is only when we seem to have the direction\n of events in our own hands, that the feeling of doubt as to\n what _is_ duty weakens our confidence in our success. You will\n say, feeling must be the guide; and so it must so far as this,\n that we may be sure that that path is not the right one to\n which it does _not_ impel; but there is danger of its tempting\n to the wrong one notwithstanding, and it cannot be safe\n unhesitatingly to follow its impulses.\n\n \"Mr. Ware goes to New York on Thursday, for four weeks, to\n preach; he will, I suppose, return by the way of Northampton,\n and I hope you will not object to a visit from him on the way.\n But I must put an end to this. I am in truth unable to write\n more.\n\n \"Yours most truly,\n\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\nThe relation thus viewed by a Christian woman has often one aspect, as\nin the present instance, which is thought more delicate and\nunapproachable than any other. Mary was to take the place, not only of a\nwife, but of a \"step-mother,\"--a name that should be redeemed from the\ninconsiderate and unjust odium to which it is commonly subjected. Why\nshould that odium attach to this, more than to all _unfaithful_ use of\nthe conjugal relation? Does not this, the more difficult office, exhibit\nproportionably as many noble wives and true mothers as the other?\nAccording to the difficulty and the delicacy, is the greatness of the\ntrust and the merit of fidelity. Let honor be rendered where honor is\ndue; and let no vulgar prejudice or unkind prediction hide a beauty and\nexcellence of woman that are less rare than may be supposed.\n\nIn aid of these thoughts, as well as in illustration of the character we\nare delineating, we are glad to be allowed to quote from two letters of\nHenry Ware himself; the first bearing the same date as Mary's just\ngiven, the other written after a more intimate acquaintance. They are\nboth addressed to his sister at Northampton, to whom he had confided the\ncare of his children while they were without a mother. The mother whom\nthey had lost three years before had left a void not easily filled. A\nwoman of more than common qualities and powers, doomed for several years\nto more than ordinary suffering from an insidious and fatal disease, she\nhad still given much time to the parish, and discharged to the last the\nduties of a wife and mother, with a fidelity and affection whose loss\nwas very grievous, and was felt more and more by Mr. Ware from the\nnecessity of separation from his children, and their own growing years\nand needs. We can understand, therefore, the feelings with which he\nformed another connection, and made it known to one who was now to\nresign her charge to other hands.\n\n \"_Boston, January 30, 1827._\n\n \"DEAR SISTER:--\n\n \"There is no one who will have more sincere and hearty pleasure\n in the tidings I am going to communicate than you, or from whom\n I shall receive more sincere and affectionate congratulations.\n I therefore lose not a moment in telling you that I am to build\n up again my family hearth, and bring my children to their\n father's side, and have a home once more. With whom, I need not\n tell you. Providence has thrown in my way one woman, whose\n character is all that man can ask, of a singular and exalted\n excellence. You know how admirable she is, and how well suited\n to fill the vacant place by my side. She consents to do it; and\n that I feel grateful and happy, a privileged man, you will not\n doubt.... Write me at New York. Love to you all.\n Affectionately,\n\n \"HENRY WARE, JR.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Saturday Evening, March 3, 1827._\n\n \"MY DEAR HARRIET:--\n\n \"You will not be troubled, I hope, if I pour out from my mind\n a little of the satisfaction which I feel, and in which I am\n rejoicing more and more every day. Since my return, the\n congratulations of my friends have been absolutely\n overpowering; and from seeing more and more of Miss Pickard, I\n am made to feel more and more grateful for the kind providence\n which has led me to this result. You know all my feelings and\n views, and the process of my mind, and I shall therefore be\n understood by you as by nobody else. It is not a common feeling\n which fills me; it is something peculiar, sacred, as if I had\n been under a supernatural guidance, and been made to act from\n pure and elevated and disinterested motives, for the purpose of\n accomplishing some great good. Every thing is connected with\n the memory of the past and with my former happiness, in such a\n way as not to sadden the present, but to give to it a singular\n spirituality, if I may so say; and I feel that, if the departed\n know what is transacting here, my own Elizabeth would\n congratulate me as sincerely as any of my friends. I have\n sought for the best mother to her children, and the best I have\n found. I have desired a pattern and blessing for my parish, and\n I have found one. I have wished some one to bear my load with\n me, and to help, confirm, and strengthen my principle by her\n own high and experienced piety, and such I have found. All\n these things, meeting in one person,--I might have looked for\n each alone, but where else are they to be all found in such\n excellent proportions united? I surveyed them with cool\n judgment, and I shall by and by love them ardently.\n\n Dear Harriet, I must have somebody to pour out myself to; so\n bear the infliction charitably. Good by. Yours ever lovingly.\n\n \"HENRY.\"\n\nThe character of Mary Pickard would not be drawn, but one of her noblest\ntraits be left out of view, if we failed to speak frankly of the former\naffection to which Mr. Ware refers, and the memory of which she herself\ncherished, at first and always. She had no sympathy, and little respect,\nfor that narrow view which insists that one affection must crowd out\nanother; that the departed and the living cannot share the same pure\nlove of the same true heart. The happiness of husband and wife and\nhousehold has sometimes been impaired by a mistaken apprehension on this\nsubject, and a suspicion of feelings in each other which had no real\nexistence, or existed only from the want of mutual and free expression.\nWe have even known cruel attempts made by others to prejudice the minds\nof those most concerned, and especially the children of a former mother.\nFor such attempts, and all thoughts of the kind, we cannot repress our\nindignant reproof. No false delicacy should prevent the utterance of\ntruth, where the best affections and dearest interests are involved.\nInstead of avoiding the subject, we are grateful for the opportunity\nwhich such characters as Henry and Mary Ware give us, of presenting the\njust, generous, and Christian view. One of her own children has said of\nher: \"Perhaps no one thing in her character and conduct has oftener\nstruck common minds with surprise, and superior ones with admiration,\nthan this entire freedom and frankness in regard to the first wife? 'She\nwas the nearest and dearest to _him_,' she would say, 'how, then, can I\ndo otherwise than love her and cherish her memory?' And her children she\nreceived as a precious legacy; they were to her from the first moment\nlike her own; neither she nor they knew any distinction.\"\n\nWe are permitted to add one other letter of Henry Ware, beautifully\nillustrating the character of Mary, and showing his own large and holy\nview of this particular relation. It was addressed to Mrs. William Ware,\nsister of that first wife the memory of whose excellence and love he so\nblended with the new affection.\n\n \"_May 15, 1827._\n\n \"MY DEAR MARY:--\n\n \"I believe that I have said to you, two or three times, how\n much I had calculated on your long visit, as a means of making\n you and Miss Pickard well acquainted.... And I am not sure that\n I should have said even as much as this, were it not for one\n circumstance, which has given me a satisfaction that I never\n had hoped to enjoy, and which will be increased by imparting it\n to you. I have known so much of the selfishness of human love,\n and heard so much of the sensitiveness with which women are apt\n to regard a former affection, that I had not dared to hope that\n I ever should be able to speak as I feel of former days, and\n the memory of my earliest love. Yet, as I longed to cherish it,\n and as all my present plans and feelings are interwoven with\n the thoughts and images of the past, it would have been an\n exceeding pain to me to feel that there was any reserve, or any\n of that--I don't know what to call it--which would compel me to\n hide such feelings, and seem not to have them. I cannot tell\n you, then, how happy I have been in finding Miss Pickard\n entirely above all mean and selfish feelings, which I have\n supposed to be so common. She enters into my views, and we have\n talked freely of other days; and she helps to keep me right by\n speaking of the pleasant impressions she used to receive from\n Elizabeth's character, and what she has heard of her. I wish I\n could go into particulars. So unexpected a communication\n between us has been a source of gratification to me unspeakably\n great; and I do not know when I have felt more truly exalted\n and spiritualized, than when, after such a conversation which\n has freed us from every selfish and earthly feeling, we have\n knelt down together and prayed for blessing from that world,\n where, I feel sure, if the departed regard those whom they left\n behind, there is no sorrow or displeasure at the course I am\n pursuing. I take pleasure in telling you this, because nothing\n can or shall divide me from you, or lessen that feeling in\n which I have so long regarded you as one of the nearest, the\n very nearest, to me; and I long that all who are near to me\n should be so to you. Best love to you, and all happiness with\n you and yours. Till I see you, adieu.\n\n \"Yours,\n \"HENRY.\"\n\nImmediately after her engagement, Mary visited her friend in Worcester;\nand from that place we find a very long letter, relating more to others\nthan to herself, written in a cheerful mood, but showing how deep and\nsober had been her meditations on the change that was before her, of\nwhich she writes more fully in the first letter after her return to\nBoston.\n\n \"_Worcester, February 18, 1827._\n\n \"DEAR EMMA:--\n\n \"I have been hunting round the room to find a small sheet of\n paper upon which to do the pretty thing, and pay a troublesome\n debt. But my search has been in vain, so I have e'en changed\n the object of my pen, and determined to let it follow the\n dictates of my inclination, in covering a sheet of Grandpa\n McAdam's 'Bristol-best' with such lines and scratches as it\n may be impelled to make; nothing doubting but its impulses will\n give you some satisfaction, if they go no further than the\n expression of the sincere sympathy felt with you by your\n friends here, in your present state of joyful excitement. I do\n indeed rejoice with you in your happiness at the return of your\n brother; and you may be assured I am joined in this by the\n whole household. Although I have never known from experience\n what are the precise feelings you may have, I think I can enter\n into them at all times. And now, whether it is that my mind is\n more than usually attuned to joy, or whether it is more\n interested for you than it ever has been in similar cases with\n respect to others, I know not; but sure I am, that I never felt\n so much before, or seemed to myself so wholly awake to the\n feelings and interests of my friends, as at this moment. You\n must enjoy a great deal in the next few months, and I know you\n will not let so much cause for gratitude pass without its full\n effect. It has always seemed to me a most humiliating fact,\n that so much _suffering_ should be necessary to teach us our\n dependence. Why should we not be equally taught by the\n blessings which are bestowed upon us, that we are and have\n nothing but as He wills it to be; and does it not seem a\n natural effect of such testimonies of love, to draw our hearts\n towards a Being who is so good to us? Let us at least, dear\n Emma, prove that it may have this influence.\n\n \"Nancy is very well, and bright and happy; and could I drive\n away from her a foolish feeling of a parting visit which hangs\n upon her mind, and fills her eyes whenever she speaks to me, we\n should be in a very merry key. As it is, however, we enjoy\n much, for I have much to tell her of the adventures of the last\n three years, which takes her away from the present; and she is\n at heart so truly satisfied and happy, that we cannot get up\n any thing like real melancholy.\n\n \"I wish indeed, with you, that I could attain something of your\n animation, and for a longer period than that you prescribe; for\n I do not hold it in such contempt as you do. It might not,\n perhaps, add to my individual happiness, for it seems to me I\n am as happy as mortal can be; but I do feel sure it would give\n me the means of communicating more pleasure to others, and this\n could not fail to increase my own. I have always considered\n that buoyancy of spirit of which you speak as a great and\n valuable gift; perhaps I have exaggerated its power, as we are\n apt to do every thing in which we are deficient. But its\n effects in chasing away the vapors which will sometimes gather,\n almost without cause, around the feelings of even the best and\n happiest, are not to be questioned, and are in my view of great\n worth. My happiest moments have always been my quietest, and\n this does little for others' comfort. I have in a great measure\n overcome the solemnity which oppressed me when I saw you; and\n were you only here, I think I could join with you in one of\n your merry laughs, as gayly as you could desire. I do indeed\n wish you were here.\n\n \"You were right in thinking that one of my letters was from\n cousin Jane; the other was from Aunty, quite a happy one, not\n one complaint, and directed by the 'little Doctor,'--so I\n conclude he is in the land of the living. Jane writes in good\n spirits; all things there in a better state than usual.\n\n \"Yours truly,\n\n \"M. L. P.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Boston, March 20, 1827._\n\n \"MY DEAR N----:\n\n \"Were I near you, it would be an unspeakable relief to pour\n forth to you, for every moment is so filled with constantly\n increasing interest, that at times I am oppressed and\n overpowered as I do not like to be; and there are moments when\n doubt and distrust of myself so entirely possess me, that I\n feel almost tempted to doubt my _right_ to undertake what I\n have. My mind is slow in all its processes, you know, and in\n this matter it seems to me more slow than is common, it may be\n from the magnitude of the change; but certain it is, I have\n suffered more, and labored more to bring myself into the right\n state, than I ever did in my life in the same time. My cause\n for happiness is increasing every day, and this tempts me to\n dwell too exclusively upon concerns connected with self. I am\n seeing daily more and more of the immense responsibility under\n which I am placing myself, and feeling more and more my own\n incapacity, and this tempts me to be anxious and doubtful. I am\n understanding more of what _might_ be done in the station I am\n to fill, and this makes me ambitious to satisfy all who will\n look to me with hope. O, if I could feel as I should, that if I\n do my utmost with my whole heart, from the right motive, I\n shall gain that approbation which should be the first object of\n my desire, be my efforts successful or not! But I am getting to\n depend too much upon the approbation of those I love.\n\n \"In one respect, this new and strong and satisfying interest is\n not having the influence I feared; instead of engrossing,\n absorbing, and making me selfish, excluding all other\n interests, it seems to enlarge the capacity of affection. I\n feel warmed more than ever towards every living being whom I\n ever loved. And it has done much towards exalting and\n enlightening my mind upon the point which has been a greater\n trial to me than any thing I ever met with. I mean, it has made\n me more willing to leave the world, and enjoy the happiness of\n heaven, than I ever thought I should be. Strange that the thing\n from which, of all others, I should have expected the very\n opposite effect, should have done this!\n\n \"I have been through all the forms and ceremonies of\n 'introduction,' very quietly. I have been to Cambridge, and the\n family have been here; and, better than that, I have laid siege\n to the venerable Doctor in his study, and had a most delightful\n conversation of nearly two hours in length; which made me feel\n that I was not a little privileged, to have any claim, however\n small, upon his interest.... I wish you could have heard Mr.\n Channing this morning on the 'Glory of Jesus Christ'; it was\n one of his highest flights. We have great preaching now-a-days\n from many quarters.\n\n \"Yours ever the same,\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nThe marriage of the Rev. HENRY WARE, Jr. and MARY L. PICKARD took place\nat the house of Miss Bent in Boston, on the 11th of June, 1827, Dr.\nGannett uniting and blessing them. They were absent a fortnight,\njourneying to New York and Northampton; and then returned to Boston with\nthe two children, and entered upon their new home in Sheafe Street, at\nthe North End. And there began a new life,--to Mary wholly new, and\nintensely busy. She gave herself up to all its duties, at once and\nunreservedly. Of her standard of duty we know something already; and\nthey who also know the demands of a large parish upon a minister's wife,\nwho resolves not only to make her house free and pleasant to all who\nwill enter it, but also to share all of her husband's labors for which\nshe is competent, can form an idea of what Mary found to do. \"Mrs. Ware,\nat home and abroad, was the _busiest_ woman of my acquaintance,\" is the\nreason given by one of her female friends for not seeking her society\nas much as she desired. It will be remembered that she began with a\nfamily, as well as parish, and that the duty of a \"mother\" was one which\nshe held very sacred, and would never slight for any other. But we will\nlet her tell the story of her first labors, as she does in a letter to\nMrs. Hall, at Northampton, who had had the care of the children, and\nanother to Mrs. Paine. We ought to say of these, and all the letters to\nbe offered, that they are not given as recording great events or rare\nqualities, but simply for what they are,--expressions of the daily\nthought and domestic life of a conscientious woman, in common relations\nand quiet duty.\n\n \"_Boston, July 20, 1827._\n\n \"DEAR HARRIET:--\n\n \"You will be glad, I know, to hear from my own pen how we all\n prosper, and I sincerely wish I had time enough to tell you all\n I wish you to know of my various arrangements and avocations,\n hopes and fears, wishes and successes. Of the latter I cannot\n boast much; I am, however, much delighted to find that many\n things which I expected would perplex me, and take more time\n and thought than I should be willing to give them, do not\n trouble me in the least degree,--such as household affairs,\n eating, drinking, and keeping matters moving methodically. I\n did not, to be sure, indulge anxiety about it, as from my utter\n ignorance I had some reason to do; but I did not suppose it\n possible that such a _young novice_ could be inducted into the\n important station of housekeeper without suffering for a time a\n degree of martyrdom. But thus far I get on easily, and hope to\n learn by experience sufficient to meet future wants. My parish\n matters have gone on so far just as I wished. I gave up all\n last week to receiving visitors, and they came in just the\n manner I wished, morning, noon, or evening, as might be most\n convenient to themselves. It was the best way for me, for it\n gave me a better opportunity of getting acquainted with their\n looks, and they seemed to like it very much themselves. I am at\n liberty now, but prefer staying at home, and still have enough\n to do to say 'Welcome' to my friends.\n\n \"But this is all play-work in comparison with the other duties\n that belong to my lot. They are just what I knew they would\n be,--most delicate, most difficult, for one so utterly\n ignorant; but I see the difficulties, and do not find them\n greater than I have always known they would be; am neither\n discouraged nor faint-hearted, but hope and trust that power\n will yet be granted for all exigencies. I do not find myself as\n much discomposed by the task as I expected, considering I have\n had so little to do with children. But I do feel the importance\n of the relation in which I stand to them more deeply, more\n oppressively, than I could have conceived, and I am more than\n ever certain that I have a great deal to learn, and a long work\n before me. Do let me hear from you sometimes; we may not have\n much communication at present, but, as the Quaker said, 'we can\n meditate on each other.' I beg you to understand that I\n consider myself one whose lot has more than a common share of\n blessing, and daily and hourly do I thank God for guiding me to\n this pleasant path. I find I shall realize all you promised me\n of comfort, and much more too.\n\n \"Yours in sincerity.\n\n \"M. L. W.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Boston, July 22, 1827._\n\n \"DEAR NANCY:--\n\n \"Your letter was given me this morning in meeting, and has just\n been read in one of the few quiet moments which fall to my\n lot, and one of the most peaceful and refreshing; and I am\n rejoiced to add to its pleasure, by turning to my little table\n and writing to you. I have indeed longed to give you a peep\n into my almost too delightful _home_; but it has been entirely\n beyond possibility to find an opportunity to write. How much I\n wish you could look in upon us, and see the whole detail of\n affairs from Monday morning to Saturday night, and that still\n more delightful season, the holy Sabbath, I need not tell you.\n But I fear you will never fully understand it, unless you can\n make yourself invisible and come among us....\n\n \"We came on in the same stage, next day, and found all in\n readiness, perfect readiness, for us; and made so, too, by the\n efforts of our friends, which added not a little to the\n comfort. The ladies of the parish would not let Miss B---- hire\n workwomen, but came and did things with their own hands. All\n looked more comfortable and neat and appropriate than I\n expected, as I had picked matters up with no small degree of\n carelessness. Miss B---- and Mrs. B---- were on the spot to\n receive us; and oh! Nancy, to enter _one's own home_, in which\n was to be known all of experience which might be hid in the\n future,--to come to it, too, as I did, after so long floating\n on a changeful sea,--and to come to it under all the\n interesting circumstances of grateful joy and fearful\n responsibilities,--it was a moment not to be described or\n forgotten.\n\n \"H---- told you of our Sunday. The transfer to a new place of\n worship was trying and affecting; but I forgot the people, and\n did not suffer because every eye in the house might be directed\n towards me. I need not add, that the excitement in church is\n much more than it ever was to me, though not what it will be\n when I am more at home there. Sunday gave me truly the rest of\n the soul. I arranged that it should be a quiet day. We prepared\n dinner on Saturday, and locked up the house; Mr. Ware in his\n study after breakfast, and the children with me, reading and\n studying. They were easily interested, and, the excitement of\n common days being removed, they were more as I wished, and gave\n me much pleasure. So it was at noon; and at night they go to\n their father, and I have my own hour of peaceful thought. And\n then in the evening we are all together, talking or reading or\n singing. It is realizing so exactly what I have always wished\n to have the day, and what I never before knew, that I enjoy it\n doubly. A friend, perhaps, drops in and joins our singing.\n\n \"... All classes have come to see me, even the poorest, and\n seem quite disposed to be pleased. I have said distinctly that\n I wish ours to be entirely a social intercourse, and they take\n me at my word. I have not told you of my own private joys, nor\n can I in this little space. That they are great, immensely\n great, you can believe; and even with the ----. _August 16._\n Here I was interrupted more than a fortnight ago, and do not\n now remember what was to have been the close of the sentence. I\n might add, that I feel it happy for me, that, with all these\n blessings and pleasant circumstances, I have so much of\n responsibility and anxiety as will effectually prevent my head\n being turned by it. But I have not room for further detail.\n Yours ever.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nThe sense of \"responsibility\" just referred to might be called one of\nMary's characteristics. And it had this peculiarity, if no other, that\nshe felt it to be a blessing rather than a burden. Indeed, in cases\nwhere others would speak, as almost all do speak, of \"the _burden_ of\nresponsibility,\" she used the other and brighter word. As, at this time,\nshe said, in a note to a friend,--\"My fate is a singular one in this\nrespect,--that, whatever may be the variety of the scene, it is always\nfilled with the extremes of blessing and responsibility; and I know not\nthat I ever felt more fully the _blessing_ of responsibility than now.\nHad I not great and almost overpowering duties and cares, my head would\nalmost of necessity be dizzy with the bright prospect before me. As it\nis, I rejoice with a serious, but most grateful spirit,--a _sober_ bliss\ncertainly, but not the less valuable.\" There was one utterance of her\n\"sober bliss\" of which we have not spoken as we might, for it was\nhabitual with her through life. We refer to her love of singing, and her\nuse of sacred hymns in the family, which began, as we have seen, with\nthe first Sabbath in her new home, and, as we are to see, ended only\nwith life. One who lived with her just before her marriage tells us how\nmuch she indulged and enjoyed in this devotional, but cheerful melody,\nfor \"it seemed in her to be truly singing hymns of _praise_.\" She would\nsing after withdrawing for the night, at the close of the busiest and\nmost distracting days; and sometimes, \"after having actually retired,\nshe would think of a charming tune, always selecting the most beautiful\nwords, and joined by Miss K----, they would enjoy an hour in this way.\"\nDistinct are the echoes which linger in many hearts still, from her soft\nand expressive voice,--the voice of the soul!\n\nThe biographer of Henry Ware says that the year of which we are\nspeaking, that which followed this second marriage, \"was one of the most\nactive, and also, to all human appearance, one of the most successful,\nof his ministry.\" It was marked by the efficiency of his labors,\nincreased attention to his preaching, a growing congregation, and many\nproofs of favor with the community in general. He repeated, that winter,\nand enlarged, his Lectures on the Geography of Palestine; and, beside\nhis Bible class and vestry service, his house was open to his parish\nevery Tuesday evening for social intercourse and religious conversation.\nIn this last, as in other parochial ways, Mrs. Ware was an efficient\nhelper. Nothing could be more to her taste, or in unison with her best\npowers, nothing certainly could contribute more to her deepest joys,\nthan this whole manner of life. If we may not believe that she was\nreserved for this very position, we may confidently say that she could\nhave filled no other with more ease, more energy, or happier results. We\nattempt no enumeration of the relations and offices in which she\nendeavored to serve her husband's society, or the larger community.\nBoston is not more remarkable for its noble charities, than for the\nnoble women who find sphere and activity enough in devising or directing\nso many of those charities. Mrs. Ware sought no publicity or distinction\nin these movements, and was less prominent, perhaps less efficient, than\nmany others. Comparisons she seldom attempted, and never made them a\nrule of conduct. Her rule seems to have been, to refuse no service asked\nof her for which she was competent, if it interfered not with any duty\nto her family or parish. From the opportunities she had enjoyed and\nimproved, when abroad, of visiting various charitable institutions, she\nwas frequently consulted in regard to them, and she sent to England for\nplans and hints. She was a directress of a Charity Sewing School; and\nalways regretted that sewing was not taught in the public schools, and\nmade essential to a complete education with every class. In all her\nviews and efforts there was that practical good sense, which is better\nthan the best theories or brightest abstractions. Yet she did not\ndespise theory and abstraction, nor suppose that either she or her own\ngeneration had learned all there was to be learned. Indeed, we use no\ngreat boldness in saying, that, without the slightest tendency to\nreckless innovation or foolish experiment, there never was man or woman\nmore interested in reform, or anxious for progress, or fearless for\ntruth, than Henry and Mary Ware.\n\nOf Mary's ideas of the _reward_ which the benevolent and the good should\ndesire, an amusing illustration has been given us by one who heard the\nremark at the time. A motion being made in a charitable Society for a\n\"vote of thanks for the minister's prayer,\" Mrs. Ware said to a lady\nnear her, \"While I was secretary of the Society for the Employment of\nFemale Poor, I never recorded votes of thanks. I thought members should\ndo _all they could_, and when that was done, they might make their\ncourtesy to each other!\"\n\nIn March, 1828, Mrs. Ware, after the labors and anxieties of the first\nwinter, made a visit to Mrs. Hall in Northampton, where she wrote her\nfirst letter to her husband, containing expressions whose full import we\ncannot know, but whose intimations of self-distrust and increasing sense\nof responsibility many will understand.\n\n \"_Northampton, March 19, 1828._\n\n \"DEAR HENRY:--\n\n \"No letter from you yesterday; but I did not expect one,\n knowing that Saturday and Sunday are busy days. I feel sure of\n one to-day, however, and while waiting its arrival with all the\n patience I can summon, I cannot please myself better than by\n talking a little to you; and if I am willing to believe that in\n this, as in many other matters, our tastes may correspond, pity\n my delusion, but do not destroy it,--it is the brightest dream\n of life to me.\n\n \"I find it is a very different thing to be lone Polly Pickard,\n beating about the world, conscious that it could not interfere\n with any one's comfort or convenience if she were out of it,\n and to call myself Mary Ware, with all the appendages which\n belong to her,--the cares and comforts, the duties and\n privileges, from which she cannot disconnect herself. It is\n almost incredible to me that a short year should have made one\n who was before utterly reckless of danger so careful and\n cautious,--I had almost said, anxious. And, oh! what a lesson\n it has taught me! I thought I was deeply sensible of my danger;\n I thought I realized fully the strength of the temptation which\n assailed me to rest satisfied with my earthly blessings, and to\n depend upon them entirely for my happiness. But this little\n separation has shown me the state of my mind in a truer light\n than I ever saw it before, and compelled me to confess, with\n deep sorrow, that my trial was greater than I could bear. I had\n borne sorrow and deprivation, loneliness and calumny, unmoved,\n erect, fearless,--but had sunk before the greater trial of\n satisfied affection. May this knowledge do me real good! And if\n it should please our kind Father to restore us to each other,\n let us strive with greater zeal to conquer this enemy. While we\n rejoice, as we must, in the blessings of His providence in\n calling us together, may we use our comforts without so\n abusing them as shall make them instruments of evil instead of\n good to our souls.\n\n \"Do not think I am nervous or inclined to croak. I am perfectly\n well, and while I look at these things seriously, I feel a\n cheerful courage to contend manfully, nothing doubting that\n strength will be given in aid of all right effort, and that all\n these trials, if rightly used, will be so many additional aids\n in attaining that heavenly-mindedness which alone can satisfy.\n\n \"All blessings attend you, dearest Henry. All send love. Your\n own\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nExpressions of self-distrust and extreme discouragement seem strangely\nunintelligible to many minds, when they come from those who are thought\nbetter than others, and are always striving and advancing. Yet these are\nthe very persons to feel discouraged, because of the high mark they set\nfor themselves. And the fact that they are thought better than others,\nwith their keen insight of their own failings, is more apt to mortify\nand depress than to exalt the humble and earnest spirit. Never, perhaps,\nwas Henry Ware doing more for others or himself than in the winter and\nspring of the year we are reviewing. Yet in a letter to his wife,\nwritten a few weeks after that which we just gave from her, we find the\nexpression of a dissatisfaction with himself, even greater than hers. It\nwas written on his birthday, and shows also his sense of the great\nblessing which the last year had brought him. \"I never yet was satisfied\nwith my mode of life for one year,--perhaps I may except one. But since\nthat I have been growing worse and worse. I did think soberly, that,\nwhen I was settled down with you, I should turn over a new leaf; and I\nbegan; but, by foolish degrees, I have got back to all my accustomed\ncarelessness and waste of powers, and am doing nothing in proportion to\nwhat I ought to do. Yet other people tell me I do a great deal, and I am\nstupid enough to take their judgment instead of my own.... These, dear\nMary, are the morning reflections with which I open my thirty-fifth\nyear. \"Will the year be any better for them? I hope so, but I fear not;\nfor I do not _feel_ the weight and solemnity of these considerations as\nthey ought to be felt.\"\n\nDifferent, indeed, from the anticipations of either did the opening year\nprove. The season which had been the first of Mary's cooperation with\nMr. Ware, was the last of his active service as a pastor. He had\novertasked his energies, and that change was impending which affected\nthe whole of their remaining work in life. On his return from\nNorthampton, where he had been preaching, in the month of May, 1828, he\nwas arrested at Ware by a violent fever, which was followed by extreme\nprostration, and confined him there several weeks. His wife was in\nBoston, and in a state of health that made travelling neither easy nor\nwholly safe. But she wrote so persuasively to the physician for leave to\njoin her husband, that it could not be refused, and she was soon at his\nside. Under date of June 16th, she writes from Ware: \"How grateful and\nhappy I am, to be here! All the few feelings of doubt about the\nexpediency of the jaunt, which others' fears forced upon my notice,\nhave vanished, and my own strong convictions that it was best have\nbecome perfect certainty. With the unspeakable satisfaction of being\nwith my husband, so unexpected to him, and scarcely hoped for by me,\nwhat can there be to dread which can be a balance for such blessings?\"\n\nAs soon as Mr. Ware was well enough, they went on to Worcester, where\nthey remained six weeks. And there, on the 13th of July, Mrs. Ware's\nfirst child was born; a son, who lived but few years, yet long enough to\nleave a deep impression of beauty and promise. Toward the last of\nAugust, Mr. Ware set out alone on a horseback journey for his health,\nriding through New Hampshire and Vermont to Montreal and Quebec, and\nreturning in October. During the first part of this interval, his wife\nand infant child were at lodgings in Newton, where her next letter is\ndated, referring in the opening to a poetical epistle which she had\nreceived from her husband. That epistle, as published at length in the\nMemoir of Mr. Ware,[3] many will remember; but its tenderness, and its\nallusions to their common experience at this period, will furnish an\nexcuse, if we insert a part of it, as a preface to the letter which\nfollows.\n\n \"Dear Mary, 't is the fourteenth day\n Since I was parted from your side;\n And still upon my lengthening way\n In solitude I ride;\n But not a word has come to tell\n If those I left at home are well.\n\n \"I am not of an anxious mind,\n Nor prone to cherish useless fear;\n Yet oft methinks the very wind\n Is whispering in my ear,\n That many an evil may take place\n Within a fortnight's narrow space.\n\n \"But no,--a happier thought is mine;\n The absent, like the present scene,\n Is guided by a Friend Divine,\n Who bids us wait, serene,\n The issues of that gracious will,\n Which mingles good with every ill.\n\n \"And who should feel this tranquil trust\n In that Benignant One above--\n Who ne'er forgets that we are dust,\n And rules with pitying love--\n Like us, who both have just been led\n Back from the confines of the dead?\n\n \"Then, dearest, present or apart,\n An equal calmness let us wear;\n Let steadfast Faith control the heart,\n And still its throbs of care.\n We may not lean on things of dust,--\n But Heaven is worthy all our trust.\"\n\n[Footnote 3: Memoir of Henry Ware, p. 220.]\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Newton, September 13, 1828._\n\n \"Thank you, dearest, for the pleasure your good long letters\n have given me; and if I am the more pleased that you called\n your Muse to aid you in my behalf, I hope it is one of the\n pardonable weaknesses of womankind, and trust your vanity will\n not take the alarm lest I should undervalue your own unassisted\n powers of pleasing. It is indeed a great and unceasing source\n of delight to me, that, although separated externally in our\n way, our thoughts, our spirits, are pursuing the same course,\n and we may meet in meditation and prayer, sure that the same\n feelings of gratitude and trust are ever present to us both. I\n thought much of this, last Sunday, when I made my first attempt\n to attend public worship. I had felt a great desire to go to\n meeting upon that day, being the eighth week from the birth of\n my child; and, moreover, because the first Sunday in September\n has been a memorable day to me every year since 1813. I did not\n attempt it in the morning, but in the afternoon rode over to\n hear Mr. Wallcut at the Upper Falls. I had felt well and strong\n at home, but it was quite too much for me; my mind was too weak\n to bear it quietly. The reflection upon all that had passed\n since I last entered the house of God, which was forced upon me\n at one view, was indeed overwhelming. I could scarcely control\n myself sufficiently to join in the services. I longed to put\n every one out of the house, that I might prostrate myself\n bodily, and I did mentally, before that Being whose goodness\n had brought me to that hour. I did indeed think much of _you_;\n and there was a high and holy satisfaction in the idea that you\n were at the same time employed in the same way; and although\n all was uncertainty with regard to you, I doubted not, that,\n whether on earth or in heaven, I might safely rely upon this.\n How did I rejoice in that faith which could remove from me all\n anxiety and fear concerning you, which could enable me so\n calmly to suffer you to go from me for such a length of time,\n notwithstanding the very many uncertainties which must belong\n to your situation. I sometimes wonder at the peace which\n pervades my mind, but I know I have a right to feel it; it has\n its basis upon an immovable foundation. Mr. Wallcut gave us a\n very useful, solemn discourse, and I was strengthened by the\n service, and not injured by the excitement.\n\n \"Heaven bless you! Your own\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nIn September, Mrs. Ware returned to their own house in Boston,--that\nhouse in which she had been so happy, and to which she hoped soon to\nwelcome her husband back again, in restored health. She writes at once.\n\n \"_Sheafe Street, September 26, 1828._\n\n \"Here we are, dear Henry, as comfortable as you could wish, in\n our own dear house, more grateful and happy than I could easily\n describe, every thing looking just as if we had not been away.\n Never did the place look more comfortable,--I had almost said,\n beautiful;--I will say so, for there were so many delightful\n associations with it that it possessed a moral beauty, if I may\n say so, exceeding any other it _could_ have had. I feel finely,\n and am sure I am as able to do all that is necessary as I ever\n was. It is not necessary just now that I should make any\n violent efforts; there is no call for it. Elizabeth is with me,\n as happy as a child can be; and the 'young rogue' likes his\n home so well that he has turned over a new leaf at once, and I\n believe means to behave well. All we want now is your presence,\n and that I trust we shall have in the right time. O, how\n willing does all this experience make one to leave all things\n in His hands, who has brought us through such troubled waters\n so safely, so joyfully! I have gained since Sunday; at least, I\n have none of the confused feeling I then had, which made me\n fear my head was too light for Boston. It is getting _home_, I\n believe; home and its peacefulness are the best restoratives. I\n trust you will find it so. I shall walk a little every day, and\n call first on those in affliction and the sick; there are but\n few, astonishingly few, for the time; none that you have not\n heard of, I believe. Peace be with you, dearest! Your\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nMr. Ware did return to Sheafe Street in October, but not to remain. His\nhealth was not restored; he could not resume his pastoral duties, and he\nwas not willing to remain in Boston and among his people unemployed. A\nfriend's house in Brookline was kindly offered them, and early in\nNovember they took leave--as it proved, a final leave--of their parish,\nand of that house where they had passed but a single year, yet one of\nthe happiest of their lives. In the mind and memory of both of them,\nthat abode seems to have been invested with peculiar interest. They have\nbeen heard to speak of the \"Eden of Sheafe Street.\" Their children\nalways revert to it with a tender fondness; and, beside theirs, there\nare many eyes that fill with tears even now, as they look back upon the\nhappy hours and blessed influences enjoyed there, in their pastor's\nhome. And she who helped to make that home what it was to pastor and\npeople, loved to the last to live over again that precious season,\nthough to her crowded with peculiar cares and trembling\nresponsibilities.\n\nThey remained in Brookline that winter. In the spring of 1829, Mr. Ware\nvirtually resigned his pastoral charge, and a colleague pastor was\nchosen, while a new professorship was planned for him in the Divinity\nSchool at Cambridge. At the same time, he was urged by generous friends,\nwho offered the means, to go first with his wife to Europe, for entire\nrest and the recovery of his health. This unexpected opportunity he felt\nit right to use. And his wife, who was herself not well, thus speaks of\nit to Mrs. Paine, in a letter of several dates:--\n\n \"_Brookline, December 31, 1828._\n\n \"MY DEAR, KIND FRIEND:--\n\n \"I have been for a long time prohibited from using my eyes, or\n should ere this have despatched to you the epistle which for\n many a weary week has been prepared in my brain for you; and\n now being still under the same interdict, I can only venture to\n remind you that there is still in existence the same old\n friend, who has been wont upon this eve to pour forth to you a\n copious stream of egotism, who never longed for the time to\n come when she might do so, more than at this present; but who,\n for the trial of her patience, must lay aside her pen, and,\n wishing you every blessing, wait until she is at liberty to use\n her eyes to say more.\n\n \"_January 23._ Although still unable to use my eyes without\n suffering, I am strongly tempted, by an empty house and an\n unoccupied hour, to renew, in some small measure, the\n intercourse which has so long ceased between us, and cannot\n help seating myself, pen in hand, to give you a few moments. I\n have----\n\n \"_March 30._ I was interrupted by company at the above pauses;\n and since then, dear N----, what a revolution in the state of\n things around me! It seems like a dream that I am again on the\n eve of departure for Europe. It is indeed a dream from which I\n should like to awake; and yet I am so sure that it is right to\n do just what we are doing, that the spirit faints not, nor even\n falters. I do not, indeed, dare to think, but have busied\n myself in visiting my parish, and do not fear but that power\n will be given. Yet, dear N----, what a lot is mine! Surely I\n ought to be better for all this various blessing.\n\n \"Ever yours.\n\n \"M. L. W.\"\n\nIn closing the first and only year of Mary Ware's \"parish life,\" we\nremember that it was also the first year of her married life, and an\nimmediate entrance upon the office of a mother. To her views of this\noffice we have already referred, but have feared to say all we know to\nbe true of her discharge of its duties. There is a veil which we may not\nraise, a sanctuary which none can enter. Yet it is due to her and to her\nchildren,--it is due to the greatness of a trust whose difficulties all\nsee, but few estimate kindly,--to speak of the glowing filial love, the\nreverent and grateful obligation, expressed by those who were permitted\nto call her \"mother,\" and whose sense of indebtedness grows with their\ndays. By the exercise of a sound discretion in exigencies unavoidable\nand seldom allowed for,--by freedom of intercourse through the day, and\nprayer and blessing at night,--by a tenderness that made counsel always\nkind and discipline never disheartening,--in a word, by a yearning\naffection which has caused a start and regret at any allusion to her not\nbeing \"their own mother,\" she took possession of their hearts for life;\nand her death called forth, in the simple words of one, the unutterable\nsentiment of both,--\"Surely God never gave a boy such a mother, or a man\nsuch a friend.\"\n\n\n\n\nIX.\n\nEUROPEAN TOUR.\n\n\nOn the 1st of April, 1829, Mrs. Ware sailed from Boston, with her\nhusband, in the ship Dover, for Liverpool. One of the older children was\nleft at board and in school, the other in Mr. William Ware's family, in\nNew York; while the infant was confided to Mr. Ware's sister, Mrs.\nLincoln,--an arrangement that relieved the mother of anxiety, as far as\nwas possible with any separation. But no parent will need to be told\nwhat she must have suffered, at best, in leaving behind her her first\nbabe, not a year old, to cross the ocean and go into distant lands for\nan indefinite time, with a sick husband on whose restoration or return\nno calculation could be made. Yet we see in her not a moment's\nhesitation, we hear from her no expression of doubt or the least\ndespondence. Physicians and judicious friends advised the step, her\nhusband's health and power of usefulness, if not his life, might depend\nupon it; and this was enough, even if her own judgment had differed, as\nwe have no reason to think it did. It was a feature of her mind very\nprominent, as it must be of every well-balanced mind, that she never\nsuffered herself to be tortured with doubts or fears for the future when\nthe present duty was clear, and never lamented that she had done that\nwhich seemed right and best, whatever the issue. As she writes, on one\noccasion, of her own habits of mind and long experience:--\"There is no\none thing that has been more important to my comfort, under any result\nof my plans, than the consciousness that they were decided upon after a\nfull and careful deliberation of all other possible plans, and a calm\njudgment concerning them all. Then I felt I had done all that poor human\nnature could do; the rest was in God's hands,--it was all in God's\nhands. I was satisfied that this decision was in the order of his\nprovidence, and, come what might, I could never regret it, or spend one\nvain, impious _wish_ that I had taken another course. But, in order to\nmake this decision satisfactory, I have always desired to know the whole\ntruth, and be convinced that I had a perfect view of the whole case in\nhand; and have sought suggestions from others, not for my guidance, but\nthat I might be sure I had deliberated upon all the varieties of plan\nwhich could be thought of.\"\n\nThis principle was now to be put to a severe test, the severest,\nperhaps, of her whole life. We have seen what she did, and what she\nsuffered, in her former visit abroad. Totally different were the\ncircumstances now, but none of them such as to make the trial less. Then\nshe had been alone as a traveller, and also alone as to all exposure and\nperil. Now she was to feel and fear for the one most dear to her in\nlife, one who was ill able to bear the fatigues and discomforts to which\nhe must be subjected, and whom neither his own faith nor her serenity\ncould keep from depression and discouragement. Through the whole period\nof their absence, which proved to be a year and a half, Mr. Ware could\nnot be said to be well for a single day. Much of the time, he yielded to\ndejection and apprehension, as she had never known him before. He\nenjoyed much, but suffered more. Not bodily suffering wholly, or\nchiefly; but that which is much harder to bear,--the hardest of all,--a\nsense of helplessness and the increasing fear of uselessness; the\nconviction, in the very prime of life, that life's work must be left\nundone, a calling which he dearly loved be relinquished, and he either\nremain abroad a wanderer in search of health, or return home with only\nthe capacity of projecting numerous plans and labors, not one of which\nwould be ever accomplished. All this his wife shared, at least in its\neffect; against all this she had constantly to contend, bearing most of\nthe responsibility of measures and results, her own health not strong,\nand soon subjected to peculiar and most anxious trials.\n\nWe have no desire to magnify these trials. We only wish to set them in\ntheir true light, as making an unusual--not an unprecedented, but an\nunusual--demand upon the trust, endurance, and energy of a wife and\nmother. She herself has been heard to say, that this was the most trying\nperiod of her life; that no other experience equalled it. Yet this would\nhardly be inferred from her letters at the time. They were necessarily\nfew, but written with her usual cheerfulness and unfailing hopefulness.\nNot all of them, however. One or two we have seen, such as cannot be\nused, that intimate, rather than express, peculiar suffering and\nsolicitude. But this was in confidence, and for counsel; it being one of\nthe peculiarities of the case that it presented many points where it was\nvery difficult to decide whether wisdom and duty should carry them\nfarther on, or turn them instantly back,--and the decision was with her.\n\nWe will not attempt to follow them closely in their foreign tour. Those\nwho wish to trace its progress, and note the dates and incidents, will\nfind them in the Memoir of Henry Ware by his brother. They visited\nEngland, Scotland, Ireland, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and France,\nspending the winter in Italy. The first summer they passed over much of\nthe ground and sought the spots, in England, so familiar and memorable\nto Mary from her former experience. They visited Wordsworth, Southey,\nMrs. Hemans, Miss Edgeworth; and passed much time with Unitarian\nministers, whom Mr. Ware wished particularly to see, that he might learn\nall he could of their position, cultivate a fraternal feeling, and open\nthe way for a more frequent and friendly correspondence between those of\nthe same household of faith in England and America. About the last of\nAugust they went to the Continent, taking Holland first, and thence\nthrough Switzerland into Italy, reaching Rome in December, and remaining\nthere until April.\n\nThe few letters that Mrs. Ware wrote home will be given in the order of\ntheir dates, with little explanation or comment. Some are in the form of\na journal; and here and there we see the hand of Mr. Ware, taking up\nthe thread which his wife had dropped, and then leaving her to resume.\n\n \"_Greta Bridge, July 8, 1829._\n\n \"MY DEAR EMMA:--\n\n \"I slept last night in the very same room, at Barnard Castle,\n which you and I occupied four years ago. And having been in\n many places lately where we had been together, such as Studley,\n Ripon, and the George Inn at York, where we parted, and\n moreover, as you have visited me in my dreams, night after\n night, for a long time past, I feel that I must yield to the\n desire of writing to you, although it may be but a few lines of\n uninteresting matter. This place will, however, insure to the\n letter some value, for I remember well how you wished that the\n rain would abate, that you might see something of its beauties.\n I wished it also then, but I wish it much more now, that I have\n had an opportunity of----\n\n \"Here the arrival of the coach which was to take us from this\n paradise cut short Mary's opportunity, and I dare say she will\n not remember what she was going to write; so that I, her\n substitute and lieutenant, go on to tell you how much we have\n mentioned your name while on these romantic grounds, and how\n glad we should have been to trace with you the paths of Rokeby\n and Greta in memory----\n\n \"My lieutenant seems to have been cut off in his march rather\n abruptly also; so I must beg you to imagine what beautiful\n associations of persons or things he was about to recall, and\n proceed with my own plain story,--just to tell you that we were\n more than satisfied with our walk; it quite meets Scott's\n description. We trod the same path by which Bertram and\n Wycliffe wound their way from Barnard Castle to Mortham, and a\n wilder or more witching scene could scarcely be imagined. We\n had walked from Stockton to the Castle by the side of the\n Tees, sixteen miles, stopping for refreshment and rest at the\n little, humble inns which alone are to be found on this\n unfrequented route; and truly, after the parade and luxury of\n large hotels, it was a delightful change to see something of\n simple country life. You would have enjoyed it, too,\n notwithstanding the novelty of carrying the equipments of one's\n toilet in our pockets.\n\n \"At Penrith we found our letters by the May packet, and yours,\n dear Emma, was most welcome, not only for the news you gave me\n of my darling children, but for the kind feelings which\n dictated it, and the great entertainment it gave us. It was\n just such a letter as we wanted just at that time; it was the\n latest account, too, that we had had, for though one from Mrs.\n Barnard, and another from Dr. John and William, reached us at\n the same time, they were of earlier date. You brought my little\n Robert more vividly before my eyes than any thing I have heard\n of him. I could see his little hand resting on Clarissa's\n shoulder, looking half coaxingly at you; and if the picture\n made me long to try if he would notice me any better, I was\n amply compensated for my inability to do so by the knowledge\n that he was doing so well, and under such kind care. At Penrith\n I had an attack similar to that which I had when you were at\n Brookline with me, which detained us a day; but, as it rained,\n it was not of much consequence. We had projected a drive round\n the lakes in a gig, and this plan we entered upon the next day\n (Saturday, 11th),--just such a day as we should have asked for.\n We went to Ambleside, via Ullswater and Patterdale, where we\n spent Sunday; heard Wordsworth's son preach, and looked at\n Windermere. Monday we breakfasted with Wordsworth at that\n lovely place, which I doubt not is still visible to your mind's\n eye, as we saw it that beautiful morning. It looked just as\n beautiful without, and as perfectly in keeping within, as we\n had imagined it. I confessed our theft, to the no small\n amusement of Mrs. Wordsworth, who did not, however, seem\n surprised at our feelings. Wordsworth, his wife, son, and\n daughter, composed the party. I wished I could have seen him\n again.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_July 16._ Dear me, what a careless child! I have just\n discovered that I began my letter on a sheet which Mr. Ware had\n one quarter filled to another person; and, having no time to\n rewrite, I must send it piecemeal. I was going to say, that I\n wished I could have seen Wordsworth again, because he did not\n meet my expectation; and therefore I felt disappointed, in\n spite of all my reasoning with myself that my imagination\n should not be the standard in such a case. Besides, such a man\n could not be seen at one view; that which is most delightful in\n him would not be delightful if it were external.\n\n \"The ride to Keswick you will remember well. It lost nothing by\n being seen a second time. We were at the same inn at which we\n formerly stopped; and I could hear, perhaps, the same horses\n tramping along the same pavement over which our nags paced\n their way for us that memorable morning.\n\n \"We drank tea at Southey's, whose residence is much more like a\n poet's than it appeared at a distance, having a fine view of\n the lake between the trees with which it is almost enveloped. I\n heard him talk but little, as there was a party at the house;\n but was more pleased with that little than I expected to be.\n His study is just the most enviable one that I ever have seen.\n The next day we went upon an expedition to Crummock and\n Buttermere, which, though fatiguing, we enjoyed highly, having\n a fine row upon the lake. We returned to Keswick by a road\n which gigs seldom pass over, the Crag through Borrowdale. It\n was just such an expedition as you would have enjoyed on\n horseback, perhaps on foot, as we took it for three of the\n worst miles I ever passed over for roughness and wildness. The\n last part amply repaid us for our toil. We rode by the side of\n the Keswick lake for the whole length, just as the sun was\n setting, yesterday.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_July 17._ O, what would you not give for the sight which is\n before me now!--'fair Melrose,' not by the 'pale moonlight,'\n but by the light of as beautiful a sunset as you could ask for\n upon such a scene. I have not been out of the house yet, having\n contented myself with looking at it from my window, and am now,\n with all diligence, scribbling for the next Boston packet,\n while Mr. Ware has gone to see Mrs. Hemans, who wrote us that\n we should find her in this neighborhood. This is no small\n addition to the attractions of Melrose. I feel very much as if\n I were going to see an old friend, so near does sympathy with a\n person's writings bring one to the writer himself, in soul at\n least, if not in the outward expression. On our way hither from\n Selkirk, we passed Abbotsford. A motley group of towers and\n chimneys did it appear; and it verily made me hold up my head,\n and feel stronger, at the thought of breathing the same\n atmosphere with its mighty inhabitant. We passed Branksome also\n to-day, and came through Teviotdale,--classic ground every inch\n of it. But it will not answer for me to run on at this rate; I\n shall scarcely complete one letter beside, when I wish to write\n fifty.\n\n \"Just at this point Henry returned from his call, with the\n original 'Dominie Sampson,' and the intelligence that Mrs.\n Hemans would join us in our intended visit to the Abbey. The\n moon is just now in full-orbed splendor. Thither, therefore, we\n repaired; and I met Mrs. Hemans for the first time on the top\n of one of the towers, in such a scene as beggars all powers of\n description. Never were mortals more favored by the heavens and\n the earth for such an expedition. The air was very mild; not a\n sound disturbed the midnight stillness but the chirping of\n the ---- (I cannot remember its Scotch name; its sound is somewhat\n like a cricket's). There were just clouds enough to give us all\n the varieties of light and shade. We did enjoy it highly. And\n yet we almost wished we had been alone. One did not want to\n have the interest divided; and the Dominie's dry sayings and\n droll manner had such an effect upon our risibles, that we had,\n in spite of ourselves, a little too much of the ridiculous with\n the sublime. This Dominie, whose real name is Thomson, junior\n minister of the kirk of Melrose, is unique, not _exactly_ such\n as Sir Walter has described, but quite as original.\n\n But I have come to the end of my letter, that is, my time. Love\n to all, at Canton, Milton, Brookline, Nahant, Roxbury,\n Boston,--a goodly company truly. We have just had a ride to\n Dryburgh Abbey, on the Tweed, a fine ruin beautifully situated.\n The river here answers Scott's description better than at\n Berwick. There are very many lovely situations upon its banks.\n But I _must_ close. With Mr. Ware's united love, and sincere\n wishes that you were with us, yours most affectionately,\n\n \"MARY L. WARE.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"TO MRS. LUCY ALLEN AND MRS. HARRIET HALL.\n\n \"_Geneva, October 11, 1829._\n\n \"MY DEAR GOOD SISTERS:--\n\n \"Wishing to say very much the same things to you both, and\n finding that the expense and trouble of transporting letters\n from this place across the Atlantic are _pretty considerable_,\n I am induced to address you both at once; hoping that the\n question of title to the possession of this valuable document\n will not give rise to a more severe litigation than the lawyers\n of Massachusetts will be able to settle. Your letters reached\n us in the course of time; yours, Lucy, while we were in London,\n and Harriet's just three months after its last date; both most\n welcome. It is a pleasure which none but a pilgrim can\n understand, to see the veritable handwriting of a friend when\n separated by such a space. You say much of the pleasure we\n shall receive in these foreign parts from the novelty, &c. of\n what we may encounter. So it is; and I trust that I shall enjoy\n all that we should do from the privilege allowed us. But I can\n tell you, under the rose, that there is no pleasure in all this\n wide creation like that of sitting down in a quiet corner, no\n matter what may be around us, holding communion with _home_;\n and I fully believe that all travellers would tell you the\n same, if their pride would let them.\n\n \"We have, as you may have learned, fulfilled in part your first\n wish, Harriet,--we have seen Miss Edgeworth, but not Sir\n Walter. She is a short, rather fat, extremely homely, perhaps I\n might say ugly woman, without a spark of intellectual\n expression in her still face, and not overmuch in her most\n animated moments; but as full of animation, kind feeling, good\n sense, and intelligence, in her conversation, as one could\n desire; a great talker, and a very good listener; not an item\n of pedantry or self-sufficiency, or indeed any thing of what\n one would fear to find in her father's daughter, or in any\n woman who had been so celebrated; easy, playful, natural. We\n forgot it was the renowned Miss Edgeworth, and felt only that\n it was somebody who must be loved and admired. We found her in\n the old family mansion at Edgeworthstown, whither we went fifty\n miles only out of our way to see her; but all the awkwardness\n of such a lion-seeking visit was entirely taken off by the\n reception we met with from the whole family, and we should have\n felt quite at our ease to have passed a week there. We could\n stay only a part of three days; that is, part of two, and the\n whole of the intermediate one. The only impediment to our\n comfort was, that, being constantly in the family circle, which\n is a large one, we could not talk with the lady herself upon\n many points which would have been most interesting. Perhaps we\n saw her to peculiar advantage, but we certainly do feel that\n she has been greatly scandalized in having the reputation of\n acting the pedantic authoress, and partaking of her father's\n scepticism. So much for Miss Edgeworth.\n\n \"I wish I could tell you half as much of Sir Walter from\n personal observation, but he was out when Henry called with his\n friend, Mr. Hamilton; and he is so overpowered with visitors,\n that we were not willing to add ourselves to the list of the\n curious who persecute him. We were delighted with all that we\n heard of him; indeed, the nearer we viewed his character,\n through the medium of those who knew him, the more our\n admiration and desire to see him increased. It would really\n seem that his vast intellect is his least remarkable feature.\n We saw many of his familiar letters to Miss Edgeworth, and that\n was next best to hearing him talk, for they are just like\n conversation. Mrs. Hemans, too, we have seen, and Bowring a\n great deal, and some others of the noted of the present day;\n and we shall treasure the remembrance of the few, for they have\n been but few.\n\n \"It has been truly tantalizing to pass through Switzerland in\n clouds and darkness, now and then catching a glimpse of its\n beauties to show us what we were losing, but the far greater\n part of the time passing through the very finest portions of\n the Alpine scenery without any visible indications that we were\n not in a level country. But we have proceeded thus far free\n from sickness, danger, or even difficulty, and have therefore\n too much reason to be grateful to find it possible to complain.\n\n \"We find a great deal to amuse us in the various habits and\n customs of the countries through which we pass, particularly\n since we left England; and the eating and drinking part of the\n business is not the least entertaining. We, however, manage to\n please ourselves, and our entertainers, too, pretty well. Henry\n eats his bread and milk as comfortably as he would at home, and\n I do what justice I can to the various dishes which are set\n before me, though, when they amount, as they have done, to\n twenty in number, in spite of all the 'J'ai fini's' I could\n utter, I have excited a smile of contempt from the waiter, who\n wondered at the barbarism of dining from one dish. We have not\n seen a carpet since we left Holland, except upon the\n sitting-room of an English lady here, and we have been in some\n handsomely furnished houses.... O this pen, ink, and paper! I\n will have no more to do with them, but leave them to Henry.\n Your sister\n\n MARY\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"Dear girls, women, or wives: My loquacious helpmate has merely\n left me a place to send my love, and to say I wish I had room\n to write to you and your husbands. By way of supplement, I will\n just say of myself, that I am now able to talk while riding,\n without pain, which I never could do before we left England;\n and can also read loud a little while. This is something worth\n telling of. My visit to Geneva, owing to circumstances, is the\n least satisfactory that I have made. You will perhaps hear\n again from the land of the Caesars, whence I will dictate a\n letter full of 'ettas,' and 'inas,' and 'issimas,' and\n 'ulinas,' and other satin euphonisms. Meanwhile, peace be with\n you! Your brother\n\n \"HENRY.\"\n\nWe have added Mr. Ware's pleasant little postscript to the last letter,\nchiefly to show, by his own confession, how very feeble he must have\nbeen, and how great her anxiety and care. Indeed, she says of him at\nthis time, \"His system requires rest; it will be long before it is fit\nfor use again.\" She herself was far from well, and had the depressing\nprospect of a more serious sickness, in a foreign land, with added\ncares. And yet neither of them was idle, during any period of that\ntrial. They accomplished a great deal in various ways, and prepared one\ndistinct work for publication. We say, _they_ did it; for Mrs. Ware\nseems to have joined in that labor which afterward gave us one of the\nmost useful of Henry Ware's works. We refer to his treatise on the\n\"Formation of the Christian Character.\" It is probably known that this\nbook was written almost entirely in travelling; first in this country,\nduring the horseback jaunt which Mr. Ware took alone through New England\nto Canada, in 1828, and then abroad, at various stages of this European\ntour. And here it was in Mrs. Ware's power to be of essential service to\nher husband, in a way which she explains in a letter written late in\nlife, half jestingly taking to herself a part of the credit for the work\nto which we refer. To Dr. John Ware she writes, in 1844, in reference to\nher husband's labors in this and other ways, at the time of which we are\nspeaking:--\n\n \"You will gather from the letters of European friends in what\n estimate he was held by them. That is of little import; but it\n shows how faithfully he preserved his identity as a minister\n of the Gospel. In looking back upon the jaunt, as a whole,\n nothing is so prominent to my mind as the perpetual indications\n of his ruling passion, if I may call it so,--his love of his\n profession,--the eagerness with which he sought out his\n ministerial brethren wherever he heard of them, stopping by the\n way-side to introduce himself and extend to them the hand of\n fellowship, often going out of the way many miles for that\n purpose, and making all other objects subservient to that of\n increasing his knowledge of men and things pertaining to the\n ministerial life. I _know_ his visit was a useful one to his\n brethren in many respects....\n\n \"You know, I believe, that the greater part of his work upon\n the 'Christian Character' was written on that tour. Its pages\n are to my memory a sort of diary of our progress, associated as\n they are with the pleasant evenings, when, after our autumnal\n day's journey, having despatched our supper, we settled\n ourselves at a little table before a cheerful wood-fire in our\n inn, and he with his writing materials, and I with my work, or\n writing or reading, could almost imagine ourselves at home.\n Thus were my evenings spent in alternate writing, reading, and\n criticism, until I almost felt as if I had written the book\n myself!\"\n\nThe end of the year 1829 found Mr. and Mrs. Ware travelling from Rome to\nNaples; and on the \"last night,\" faithful to her friendships everywhere,\nshe began the regular \"annual\" to Mrs. Paine, which she did not finish\ntill after their return to Rome, thus giving some account of their\ncondition in both places.\n\n \"_St. Agatha,[4] December 31, 1829._\n\n \"MY DEAR NANCY:--\n\n \"This is not the first annual which you have received with a\n foreign date; neither can you be surprised at any aberration in\n my orbit. And yet methinks you will have to consider twice\n before you can quite realize that it is 'Pearl Street Mary\n Pickard,' who is writing you from this region of ancient glory\n and far-famed beauty. But so it is; and could you look in upon\n me, you would wonder, as I do, that the very peculiar changes\n of the eighteen years you have known me should leave me so\n precisely the same. I begin to think that I am made of most\n invulnerable materials; for here I sit--surrounded by as\n singular and trying circumstances as any which I have ever\n known--as easy and happy, I had almost said as indifferent, as\n if the world were jogging on with me in the tamest way\n imaginable. At no period of my life have I had more for which\n to be thankful in reviewing the year which has passed,--that we\n should have travelled so far without the slightest accident,\n leaving our dearest interests so well provided for, finding so\n much kindness wherever we have been, and so many facilities for\n our enjoyment; and above all, that my husband, though not much\n better, should not have been made much worse by all the\n disadvantages under which he has labored of climate and\n weather. If I were at your elbow, how I should love to give you\n a detail of some of our experiences during the year. You know\n enough of the outlines to guess at the minutiae in many\n instances, and enough of us both to imagine the internal\n effects produced by them.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Rome, March 2d._ Back in Rome again, after a five weeks'\n sojourn in Naples, from which place I should have despatched\n this, but that I did not think it quite worth while to send\n such a piece of egotism so far by mail. We had almost incessant\n rain while at Naples, which prevented our doing and seeing as\n much as we wished; but the few fine days we had, we enjoyed and\n employed to the utmost. Although in January, they were like our\n June days. A shawl was too warm a garment to be borne in the\n sun, and upon our out-of-town expeditions we took our lunch in\n the open air. These were rare days, to be sure, but they gave\n us some idea of what the climate would have been had the season\n been a common one, for so much rain at that time, they told us,\n was almost unprecedented. We went of course to Pompeii, where I\n had many and pleasant recollections of your husband, tell him;\n for the explanations which he gave me, when we saw the panorama\n of that place together in London, had made it all so familiar\n to my mind that I could not easily overcome the impression that\n I had been there before. Vesuvius we were content to admire at\n a distance, fearing the ascent would be injurious to my\n husband. But the classical regions of Avernus and the Elysian\n fields, the abode of the Cumaean Sibyl, and the beautiful\n temples of Baiae, we explored at our leisure.\n\n \"I can scarcely fancy any locality more beautiful for a city\n than that of Naples, and, viewed at a distance, it has a very\n imposing appearance; but in itself it is noisy, dirty, and\n disagreeable, with the exception of the modern part of the\n street which borders upon the bay. We had rooms in that street,\n within forty feet of the water, and in rain or sunshine enjoyed\n the beauty of the bay with equal delight. We returned hither in\n company with Mr. and Mrs. Grinnell, and Mr. and Mrs. Rollins,\n with whom we have been the greater part of the time since we\n arrived in Florence in November. We are at lodgings with them\n here, and, as you may suppose, very much enjoy our quiet\n family party. We have also Dr. and Mrs. Kirkland, and Mr. and\n Mrs. Gould, from our part of the country, and many from New\n York.\n\n \"There is so much to be done here, and my husband is obliged to\n do things so leisurely, that I know not that we shall ever see\n half that is to be seen. There is a great difference between\n travelling for health and mere pleasure. Almost all our friends\n will be on the wing before us, but I trust we shall find our\n way home in good time, and be the better for having come. Mr.\n Ware's is just such an uncertain case, that it is impossible to\n have any very decided opinion about it,--he sometimes seeming\n almost as well as ever, then again prostrated by some very\n trifle. On the whole, there is still much to hope from time and\n care, but nothing to flatter one into the hope of speedy\n restoration. May we have patience to wait with cheerfulness the\n full development of the designs of Heaven with regard to us,\n hoping for good, and willing to submit to trial!\n\n \"This is the season of Lent, which makes no apparent change in\n the state of things, and before we leave Rome we shall have the\n famous solemnities of Holy Week, when, if the Pope does not die\n (which it is reported he is about doing), I hope to witness the\n illumination of St. Peter's, and to listen to the _Miserere_.\n So far, I have not heard any music in Italy which satisfied me,\n except once the vespers of the nuns in one of the churches\n here; it is all too loud, rapid, and theatrical. But it is time\n to despatch my letter, so good by.\n\n \"Yours, most affectionately,\n\n \"M. L. WARE.\"\n\n[Footnote 4: \"A little village, or rather almost solitary inn, between\nRome and Naples.\"]\n\nThe last date of the above letter is the 2d of March; and before the\nclose of that month Mrs. Ware's second child was born,--a daughter, who\nstill lives. Mr. Ware's letter, announcing the event to his brother in\nBoston, expresses his gratitude for the many mercies that surrounded\nthem, among excellent friends, making \"as pretty a little, quiet\ndomestic circle as ever Rome has seen since the days of the twin\nfounders.\" At the same time, he confesses his entire discouragement in\nregard to his own health, and their great embarrassment at what course\nto pursue. \"I am weary of this miserably idle life, and yet I am fit for\nno other. I am afraid to go home, because I know I shall only be able to\ndo half the requisite work, and to do that not more than half; yet to\nstay away is altogether out of the question.\" As usual, Mary was ready\nto do any thing that seemed best, even to go home alone with her new\ncharge, if her husband would be benefited by remaining longer and acting\nfreely. Some prompt and decided course she advised, at whatever\nsacrifice. \"We have talked over this matter together, and the only\nrelief which Mary is able to suggest is, that I should state my case\nexactly, resign the professorship, so as not to be a burden or hindrance\nto those for whom I care more than for myself, send her home from Havre,\nand spend a year in travelling Europe on foot and on horseback. This\nmight be done at a very small expense, an expense which we could meet\nwithout taxing College or friends.\"\n\nWe can easily conceive of the anxiety of a high-minded woman, a devoted\nwife and mother, at such a crisis. We have said that Mrs. Ware has been\nknown to refer to this experience as the great trial of her life, and\nwe suppose the period of which we are speaking was the most trying of\nall; especially if we comprise in it the few months that preceded the\nbirth of her child,--a season of which she has written more freely than\nof any other of her trials. Nor can we show the full power of her\nendurance at that time, and her wonderful energy,--such as is common\nonly to woman,--unless by giving part of a letter written to her\nphysician, describing this experience.\n\n\"Not for a single day free from positive pain, I felt determined to keep\nout of sight all physical as well as mental distress. In this I believe\nI succeeded, excepting when occasionally nature was overpowered, and I\nlost for a time my consciousness. But the effort to keep a cheerful\noutside, when the body was undergoing so great suffering, and the mind\nfully awake to all the uncertainties and possibilities which lay before\nus, can only be appreciated or known by one similarly situated. My faith\nnever failed me, nor my confidence that the course I had adopted was the\nright one. But the degree of tension to which every faculty was\nstretched, all the time, was just as much as my reason could bear\nunshaken; and more than it could have borne, I believe, had not my\nnerves found relief in hours of tearful prostration, when Henry was\nasleep, or so far out of the way as not to detect it.\"\n\nWe have no further particulars to give of the sojourn in Rome. The\ntravellers gladly turned their faces toward home the moment the season\nand their strength would permit. Early in May we hear of them in Geneva,\nand at the end of that month in Paris. From both those places Mr. Ware\nwrites home, in a disheartened, yet decided tone, as to his return,\nshowing what a burden of anxiety they were still bearing. \"I have only\nspoken out more plainly what has for some time been my conviction, that\nI am gaining nothing; and I simply wish to have you prepared for a\nproper reception of my _miserability_ when I shall return.\" \"I am sure I\nneed not stay away; I am sure I am not fit to do any hard work; I do not\nthink I could edit the Examiner. But I will come home by the packet of\nJuly 20th, and you shall judge. It will be the hardest of all I have yet\ndone, to abstain from Cambridge, especially as Mr. Norton vacates his\nplace, and there is the more need of other laborers.\"\n\nIn June, Mr. and Mrs. Ware were separated for a time, she taking\nlodgings with her infant at Waltham Abbey, and he making an excursion\nalone for his health. Soon after he left her, Mary wrote to him\nthus:--\"I am quite sure it was best for you to go, though there was some\nrisk in it. If you only keep a sharp watch upon your 'excitables,' not\nmistaking the effect of them for strength, and so do not overdo, you\nwill, I doubt not, be better for the jaunt; you will be gaining much\nmental satisfaction, and I am sure that will help the body.... Yours to\n'Miss Pickard' is just received. The dear little Miss is as good as\npossible; she knows how much I wish I were with you, and coos and smiles\nall the time to make me contented. I am thankful you are so well, and\nthough I should have richly enjoyed being with you, I am sure it is\nbetter for you to be alone. I want to go to Chatham next week, if I feel\nbetter, but it is such a luxury to be at rest! O, dearest, how we shall\nenjoy it! I have had time to think a little, and collect my scattered\nwits, and I could pour out volumes of the result of my cogitations--but\n_voila_! the end of my paper! Do all you can, see all you can without\ninjury, gain all that is possible to gain, and above all, _feel_ that\nyou have time enough; that is, don't feel 'hurried'; it is destructive\nto comfort and profit.\"\n\nIn this letter we find also a hint, which tells something of Mary's\ncontinued thoughtfulness and generous provision for that poor old aunt\nwhom she left at Osmotherly five years before. On first arriving in\nEngland, she had again visited, with her husband, that scene of singular\ninterest and mingled recollections. And now that Mr. Ware is journeying\nalone in that direction, she writes to him: \"Should you go to Osmotherly\n(which is not quite worth while, as it would take you two days), give\nAunty her yearly allowance, if you can,--ten pounds. But no, I remember\nyou did not take enough with you. Write her a word,--it will please her;\nand pay the postage.\" This was said at the very time that Mrs. Ware had\ndenied herself the pleasure of going with her husband, on account of the\nadded expense of travelling with an infant. She continued that annuity\nto her aunt as long as she lived, and a friend thinks it was doubled\npart of the time. We bring the fact to notice, because, from a delicacy\nwhich ought not, perhaps, to suppress facts so illustrative of\ncharacter, we have forborne to give half the proof we found, in letters\nand in conversation with friends, of her noble generosity in connection\nwith the strictest domestic economy, and withal a personal self-denial\nand simplicity that caused remark, if not censure. Could all the facts\nbe given of her early surrender of property to a considerable amount,\nwhen she might have held it, and the rigid restriction of her personal\nexpenditure, through life, within the limits of bare comfort and\nrespectability, while there were times when she could have done much\nmore for herself, and no time when her hospitalities were not without\nstint,--were it right, or were it desirable, to refer to facts and\ninstances confirming this general statement,--we are sure it would be\nseen to be at the least worthy of honor and imitation. But the very\nthought of her disinterestedness, and _secret_ charities, checks and\nrebukes us.\n\nBefore leaving England, she wrote the following letter to the two\nchildren in America.\n\n \"_Waltham Abbey, June 19, 1830._\n\n \"MY DEAR CHILDREN:--\n\n \"It is a long time since I wrote to either of you, for I was\n ill for some weeks, and since I got well, I have been\n travelling almost every day, and have not had time to sit down\n quietly. But all this while I have thought much of you,\n particularly when I was lying on the bed sick. When I\n remembered how great was the distance which separated us from\n you, and how uncertain it was if we ever saw you again, I\n wished that I could be sure that you would always be good,\n doing that which would please God, that I might hope to be\n united to you again in heaven. You do not know how often your\n father and I have talked about you since we left you, or how\n anxious we have felt that you should improve; we hope to find\n that you have made a good use of the time of our absence, if we\n are ever permitted to see our home again; and how happy we\n shall be to have you with us, not to be separated again, I\n trust, for a long time!\n\n \"You will be glad to know that your dear father is better than\n when he left home. He has gone now to Manchester for a few\n days, and I have come with little Baby from London to stay with\n a cousin while he is absent. Baby will have been a great\n traveller by the time she gets home, but she will not be any\n the wiser for it; when she knows how many wonderful things she\n has passed by, she will wish she had been old enough to observe\n them. I have seen a great many grown-up people in our travels,\n who, I think, will not know much more than she does of what\n they have passed by, because they have not the habit of\n observing and thinking about what they see; they remind me of\n the story in 'Evenings at Home,' entitled 'Eyes and no-Eyes.' I\n dare say you recollect it. Others are not wiser for their\n travels, because they have not prepared themselves to\n understand what they see, by reading; they care nothing about\n the antiquities of a country, because they know nothing about\n its history; or the works of art which they meet with, because\n they do not know how they are made, or their uses. You will be\n surprised to find, as you grow older and know more, how much\n every thing which you have learned will add to your pleasure. I\n dare say you have many lessons given you, of which you do not\n see the use at present, but you will by and by, and if you fix\n them well in your memory you will be very glad then.\n\n \"It is now the 26th of June, and we have just heard that the\n king of England died this morning, and his brother, the Duke of\n Clarence, was proclaimed king, at twelve o'clock, at\n Westminster. On Monday he will be proclaimed at three places in\n London, by heralds dressed in very gay costume, such as has\n always been worn on like occasions for many centuries, of\n course very different from modern dresses. They will use\n trumpets in order to be heard by as many people as possible,\n who will no doubt collect in great crowds to hear them. The new\n king is called William the Fourth. There will be a great parade\n at the king's funeral, and the new king's coronation, but we\n shall not see either. I hope we shall be on the water before\n they take place, for the preparations are to be so great, that\n it is said three weeks at least will be necessary for the\n funeral, and perhaps months for the coronation. The next heir\n to the crown is a little girl, only a year older than you,\n Elizabeth.\n\n \"Good by, my dear children.\n\n \"Your loving Mother.\"\n\nOn the passage home, in August, Mrs. Ware had another severe trial of\nher physical and mental energies,--a trial that is supposed to have\nessentially impaired the vigor of a remarkably strong and enduring\nframe. Mr. Ware, who had gained little if any strength during their\nwhole absence, became severely ill from a painful and alarming attack of\nacute disease. His wife was his only nurse, and, if we recollect right,\nthe only physician. And there, amid all the deprivations and discomforts\nof the _sea_, confined to the narrow range of a small state-room,\ncarrying in her arms a restless infant, of which those most willing\ncould but seldom relieve her, and with the whole weight of the\nresponsibility upon her saddened heart, that wife and mother performed\noffices and made exertions, which, by some acquainted with all the\ncircumstances, have been called \"almost superhuman.\" One fearful night\nespecially, the night which was to determine the result, she watched\nover the flickering and apparently expiring light of the life most dear\nto her, in anxious and most arduous services, until the crisis had\npassed. Her husband recovered from this attack almost entirely, before\nthe end of the voyage; but the effect upon herself, of all she had done\nand endured in the last seventeen months, was a prostrating and\nprotracted sickness soon after her return. Up to this time, we suppose\nMrs. Ware to have possessed a power of action and endurance seldom\nequalled in her own sex or in the same walk of life. Yet she used to say\nthat her natural temperament was sluggish rather than active, and that\nher activity was an exertion. Recurring, some years later, to this same\nseason, she writes: \"You do not know me as well as you might, or you\nwould not talk of my _activity_. Naturally I am essentially indolent;\nand to this day no one knows the effort it often costs me to rouse\nmyself from my lethargy. Still I have had a pride in my physical\nability, which has sometimes impelled me when better motives ought to\nhave operated. But that pride had a fall, when I went to Europe with Mr.\nWare, from which, it seems to me, it can never rise again. Yet it may\ninfluence me when I do not suspect it, and I shall look out sharp for\nit.\"\n\nIt was in this connection also that Mrs. Ware repelled the idea of\n\"sacrifice\" in such relations. \"The phrase 'sacrifice for those we\nlove,' I do not quite understand. I should think the thing intended was\nmore nearly allied to the germ of selfish gratification, and therefore\nas little entitled to the appellation of a virtue as any other selfish\npropensity.\" Just before leaving America for this European tour, when\nnot strong herself, she had written to her husband, \"I am very much\nafraid of becoming too thoughtful of this poor body of mine.\" And now,\non her return, she was compelled to think of it more than ever before.\n\n\n\n\nX.\n\nLIFE IN CAMBRIDGE.\n\n\nMr. Ware's connection with his parish in Boston had been continued, at\nthe earnest request of the people, in the hope, that, if he removed to\nCambridge, he might still retain the pastoral office, and perform such\nof the duties as should be perfectly easy. A connection which had\nexisted thirteen years, in perfect harmony and mutual attachment, could\nnot be sundered without mutual pain. To no man living did permanence in\nthe pastoral office seem more desirable or more important than to Henry\nWare; and the time had not then quite come when pastor and people could\nseparate in a day, with or without cause. Nor could Mrs. Ware be\nindifferent to such a change. It was the extinguishment of many hopes\nwhich she had fondly cherished, in becoming the wife of one whose\nearliest choice and highest ambition had been for the ministry and a\nparish life,--a life which had attractions hardly less strong for\nherself. But now they had no choice. Whatever the sacrifice required,\nneither of them was willing to remain in an office, whose duties they\ncould not perform with vigor and entire devotion. A dissolution of the\nconnection was therefore asked, immediately after their return from\nEurope. And the society, in yielding to the obvious duty of granting the\nrequest, expressed earnestly their sense of obligation and gratitude,\nnot only to their pastor, but also to her who had been his co-laborer in\ntheir service. In their final letter, they say: \"We should do injustice\nto our feelings if we failed, on this occasion, to make mention of her\nalso, who has laid us under such obligations by her devotedness to you\nwhen we looked upon you as belonging to ourselves, and who, though not\nlong with us, had already taught us how highly to value and how deeply\nto regret her.\"\n\nIn October, 1830, Mr. and Mrs. Ware took up their abode in Cambridge;\nwhere he entered at once, in improved, but still feeble health, upon the\nduties of the new Professorship of \"Pulpit Eloquence and Pastoral Care.\"\nAnd except the place which they had been compelled to resign, for which\nthey both retained, we think, as long as they lived, a strong preference\nand lingering desire, no situation could have been found more acceptable\nthan this at Cambridge. A post of great responsibility, calling for all\nthe strength and labor that any could bestow, it was yet a position of\npeculiar privilege and opportunity, in the midst of family connections,\nnear to all their friends, and having close relations to the ministry\nwhich they so loved. In many ways, too, would these relations afford to\nMrs. Ware herself facilities for action, and the exercise of her\npeculiar powers and affections.\n\nYet there were two great anxieties which Mrs. Ware brought to this new\nsituation; one, relating to the health of her husband; the other, to\ntheir straitened pecuniary means. The first of these was known, and\ncould be understood by all. The last will never be understood, except by\nthose similarly situated, and as high-minded, generous, and desirous of\nusefulness. We speak of this as a general truth. There is more mental\nsuffering, more physical feebleness, and greater loss to the community\nin regard to the energy and activity of those who would serve it,\nresulting from this one cause, than perhaps from any other. We say it in\nno temper of complaint, much less of censure; for we know not where the\nfault lies, if there be any. But we do know the fact, and there can be\nfew who have not seen it in some of every calling,--that the necessity\nof incessant thoughtfulness and extreme carefulness for the things of\nthis world, with the dread of debt or dependence of any kind, in the\nmidst, too, of sickness and the utmost uncertainty, is a weight upon the\nheart, and an obstacle to the energies, such as no faith, or fortitude,\nor philosophy can wholly overcome; no, nor even the experience, as in\nthis instance, of ceaseless kindness, and a liberality ready to do all\nthat delicacy would permit. The fact remains,--better known than\nexplained, and inseparable, it may be, from the constitution of society,\npossibly from the nature of man,--aggravated, as the trial often is, by\nthe infirmity and helplessness which God himself appoints.\n\nThe beginning of their life in Cambridge was made memorable by one of\nthe longest and most serious sicknesses that Mrs. Ware had ever known.\nWe have already referred to it, as probably caused by the uncommon\ndemands of their journey abroad and the voyage home. We did not refer,\nin its place, to a severe illness which she had in Geneva, of which she\ngives an account in a note some years later, and speaks of it as very\nserious. Many causes thus conspired to predispose her to this attack,\nwhich, for the first time in her life, so far as we know, was of a\npulmonary character, and shut her up for the whole winter,--a severe\ntrial, where so much was waiting to be done, and after so long a period\nof absence from home and active duty. There was greater prostration, and\nmore imminent peril, than all were aware of, and more, we suppose, than\never before. Her sickness must have begun almost immediately after they\nwent to Cambridge; for in the same month Mr. Ware writes to Rev. Mr.\nAllen of Northborough, as if he had for some time been very anxious, and\nwas then only beginning to hope. \"I am happy to be able to say, that\nMary does seem to be doing better,--the first day that I have thought\nso. Her disorder has had transient intermissions, but never before\nseemed to yield. I think now she has fairly begun to mend. But she is\nwretchedly weak, and a little talking makes her hoarse. We have kept her\nas quiet as possible, and forbidden all visitors; yet she has not been\nas quiet as most persons, because she does not know how to take thought\nfor herself, and continues her interest for all about her. She has\nsuffered a great deal of severe pain, and her cough has been kept from\ndistressing her only by opiates. You rightly guess how great a\ndisappointment of our hopes this has been. I have not been without very\nserious apprehensions as to the result; and you may judge what must be\nfelt, when we are apprehensive for one so perfectly invaluable as she.\nYou know her in part, but one must know her intimately as I do, to\nunderstand half her worth.\" And, again, as late as November, Mr. Ware\nwrites to Miss Forbes that Mary is not yet able to bear any visitor, not\neven one as intimate as she, whose society and sympathy they so much\ndesired. And he adds, in concluding his letter to that excellent friend,\n\"Emma,\" whom they had not seen since their return from Europe: \"Since we\nmet, we have all seen changes and trials, and are at least more\nexperienced in the discipline of Providence. I esteem myself quite well;\nand if my cup were not dashed with the bitterness of Mary's ill health,\nI should have more sources of happiness than I could perhaps bear\nrightly.\"\n\nIn a few weeks, Miss F---- went to Mrs. Ware, and devoted herself\nentirely to the care of her for two months or more. The communion of\nthese congenial minds was very beautiful, and will help at various\npoints to illustrate the character of Mary. Their intimacy began early,\nand was never interrupted. How true they were to each other, how\nsocially and spiritually confiding, how much they mutually imparted and\nreceived, through life and in death, can be known only to those who know\nall; for both their natures, even in their present exaltation, might\nshrink from the disclosure of some of the evidences of their tender and\ngenerous love. Their intercourse at this time, softened by the sickness\nfrom which Mary was very slowly rising, and which, we have seen,\nawakened many apprehensions, must have been peculiarly grateful. It was\na season of precious experience to Mrs. Ware, as will be seen in the\nfirst letter she wrote,--her faithful annual to the friend in Worcester.\n\n \"_Cambridge, December 31, 1830._\n\n \"Another year has passed away, dearest Nancy, since I last\n spread before me a fair white page, on which to tell you that I\n was still in existence; and instead of 'St. Agatha' and the\n disagreeables belonging to it, behold me in my own blessed\n home, scribbling at the same old desk. A change, indeed, and\n what a change, for one short year! You know it all, and I need\n not, if I could, recount the various causes for deep, fervent\n gratitude which rise to my memory in the retrospect. You can\n understand, without explanation, why it is that the thought of\n them so entirely overwhelms me that I cannot touch upon them\n with sufficient calmness even to write about them. I shall be\n less tired to-morrow morning, and will resume; but I could not\n let this eve, so long sacred to _you_, pass without marking it.\n Farewell, then, for this time.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_January 16._ I have suffered a longer period to pass away\n without continuing this than I intended. I know not how it is,\n but I find that year after year passes off, and still the same\n errors are to be mourned over; and for one I begin to fear that\n the habit of procrastination will adhere to me through life. I\n was weak, and my nerves so excitable, when I began this, that I\n could not even recur in thought to the events of the past year,\n and retain decent composure. But the impression of their review\n has not passed away, and I trust never will; and I feel that it\n would do my heart good to go over the ground with you (were\n you only by my side), not of their external character, that you\n know already, but of the effect of such discipline upon the\n mind. Constant exposure to the weather hardens the skin, and\n the habit of living under circumstances of trial deadens one's\n sensibilities; and I could not now, if I would, be as strongly\n affected by them as I used to be during my novitiate. Still, I\n have not quite ceased to feel, and consequently to suffer and\n to enjoy; and I trust that the joys and sorrows of the past\n year have not been experienced without some beneficial result.\n\n \"I have long thought one of the greatest blessings of my life\n to be that singular preparation which each event has given me\n for that which was to succeed it; and I never realized this so\n fully as during my late wanderings. Habit had given me the\n power of sustaining easily and cheerfully circumstances which,\n to one less experienced, would have brought labor and sorrow;\n thus enabling me to pursue the one great object for which we\n were striving, unclogged (if I may so say) by any\n considerations for self, and thus lessening my trials, not only\n to myself, but to those around me. Now that all is over, I am\n conscious that the mental as well as the physical effort has\n been great; and I consider this 'lying by' as advantageous to\n my mind as to my body. I was beginning wrong, had for some time\n felt that trifles were a burden to me; and although by the\n application of strong stimulants, such as the joy of getting\n home, I could keep alive my courage to act, I am persuaded that\n it was something of the excitement which frequently precedes\n entire failure, rather than any substantial good. In the\n delightful quiet of my own snug chamber, I have had time to\n look a little more into myself than I have been able to do for\n a long, long time. The outward exigencies of the moment had so\n long occupied every faculty, that it was not singular that I\n had become almost a stranger to that void within, which is to\n be known only in the 'secret silence' of tranquil thought. I\n have felt grateful for this repose; and, so far from pitying me\n for having been arrested in the pursuit of my domestic duties,\n just as I was so happily restored to them, my friends would\n rejoice for me, if they knew how much I needed, and how much I\n have enjoyed, this rest. Don't think me quite insensible to the\n trouble it has caused my friends, or the loss it has been to my\n husband's comfort. I am not; but neither am I sure that in the\n end both will not be gainers by it. I have not been very\n sick,--not so sick as to require a suspension of any of the\n daily operations of the household in my behalf. I could always\n have my children about me, and except now and then could do\n very well without any aid out of my family. I needed rest and\n quiet more than any thing; and that did not interfere with\n others' pursuits. Emma has been with me six weeks; and enacted\n Mrs. Gerry, Queen's jester, Cerberus, and a 'thorn in the\n flesh,' as she styles herself, with the perfection that belongs\n to such an actress. She has been a real comfort and delight to\n us both; for she has the faculty of _fitting in_ so exactly to\n the circumstances of the case, that she does more good than she\n intends to do, good as her intentions are.\n\n But Emma says, 'Hold! enough!' I forget which of her characters\n she appears under now; but I'll punish her by making her fill\n this page with the bulletin of health of every man, woman, and\n child belonging to the establishment, which I was just going to\n give you myself.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nIn February, we find Mrs. Ware still a prisoner in that chamber of\nsickness; though not exactly a prisoner, for we have heard her speak of\nthe reluctance with which she left that long confinement, to return to\nthe glare and tumult of the world. And from the manner in which she\nwrote to Emma, soon after she had left her, it would seem that she had\nnot expected to return at all. Indeed, some of her language indicates a\nserious apprehension on her part, of which few were aware. In refusing\nto let Emma come again merely to read to her, as she had proposed, Mary\nsays: \"I allow that it would be an especial comfort to be read to sleep\nsometimes, when my opium-fed imagination is conjuring up fancies that\nmar my rest for that night; and it would be a great pleasure to have my\nthoughts a little more diverted from self than I can divert them\nunaided. If my disease were rapidly gaining ground, the case would be\naltered. I know too well the luxury of having done 'the last' for a\nfriend, to debar any one from it. But although I am aware that there are\nmany _probabilities_ in favor of the idea that the disease never will be\novercome, I see no reason to nourish the feeling which a state of\nuncertainty cannot but create. It may be that my days are to be few. And\nif the 'wearin' awa of snow-wreaths in the thaw' is to be the signal of\nlike decay in myself, I shall surely need you more than now. At all\nevents, the spring must be a season of lassitude and bodily trial to me;\nand if you will give me the promised visit then, you will have no reason\nto be dissatisfied with the degree of good you will do me.\" Two months\nlater than this, Mrs. Ware wrote to the same friend, more at length.\n\n \"_Cambridge, April 20, 1831._\n\n \"DEAR EMMA:--\n\n \"I have watched you from my working-chair 'out of sight,' as\n some of my Dublin friends would say; and now I have taken my\n desk into my lap for sundry purposes, but the first that\n suggests itself is, to commence an _omnium gatherum_ for you. I\n shall want to say five hundred things at least every day for a\n month to come; and I don't know why I should not indulge you\n with one of the five hundred daily. What time so good to\n commence, as that in which my heart is full of twice that\n number of feelings of gratitude and love towards you? But no,\n this is not a good time either, for they come rushing forward\n with such a spirit of rivalry, each wishing to be represented\n first, that they blind my eyes and make my pen tremble; so I\n will teach them what a good disciplinarian I am, and make them\n all keep silence until they have learned better manners.\n\n \"To-day I am as weak as possible, but free from pain. The truth\n is, that I am feeling, just as I told you I should, the trial\n of weakness much more, now that I can move about, than when I\n was shut up. When I knew it was my part to give up trying to do\n any thing, and turn my mind to the improvement which belonged\n to such a state of things, I had not a wish to step over my\n threshold, or an anxious thought about any thing beyond it. It\n would be time enough when I could go among people and things, I\n thought, and I would enjoy the luxury of idleness to the full.\n I did; but now the case is changing. I am able to use my bodily\n powers, and feel that I ought to exert my mental energies also;\n but my strength fails me, mental and bodily, and this brings to\n me a feeling of discouragement and dissatisfaction with myself,\n that I find it hard to struggle against as I ought. In fact, it\n carries me back to old Mary Pickard's spring feelings of\n nothingness, which I fight with in vain. I fear that I have\n been so long indulged in idleness, that I have lost my energy\n of mind, or become selfish, and a thousand other wrong things\n which do sometimes creep upon one without leave. You will tell\n me this is merely the effect, the inevitable effect, of\n weakness, as my husband does. I hope it is, and that I shall\n rise in time to my wished-for energy.\n\n \"I was glad to find you had made so good a beginning of your\n summer life. It is delightful to me to be able to think of you\n enjoying so much, and doing so much, as I am sure you will. I\n think it was very well to strike into the plan at once. May I\n ask you, too, to take one half-hour daily, with your door\n locked, for some little sentence and the thoughts which will\n grow out of it, for the cultivation of that internal treasure\n which you value so much, and in which you wish to feel more\n vital, exciting interest? I know by my own experience that we\n lose much of what we long to keep, by an unacknowledged but\n constantly operating contempt for small means, hourly\n attentions to the details of spiritual discipline. Having\n calmly, thoroughly, may I add, prayerfully, viewed one\n Christian virtue in the day, are we not almost secure of acting\n in conformity to that one, for at least twenty-four hours? And\n if every day we thus gain one victory, shall we not have reason\n to hope we may in time be wholly conquerors? But more of this\n in _our_ pretty book, which will contain preaching enough for\n my share of your ear upon such matters.\n\n \"All send love, with that of your\n\n \"M. L. WARE.\"\n\nIn the spring, Mrs. Ware recovered, as to all apparent disease; but she\ncontinued feeble through the summer, and suffered much from her sense\nof inefficiency, in body and mind,--\"literally unable,\" as she says,\n\"to write a letter.\" Nor do we find any letters before October, when she\nwrote in full her own impressions of this important portion of her\nexperience, with an account of its termination in the alarming illness\nof her husband, to whom she was summoned at a distance. His health had\nbeen constantly improving through the winter, and he had performed all\nthe duties of his office, except preaching, which he had ventured upon\nbut once for nearly three years, and then only on account of the death\nof Mrs. Emerson, the wife of his colleague and successor in Boston. In\nthe summer vacation of the present year, 1831, Mr. Ware made a\npedestrian tour, with a friend, to the White Hills; and, feeling strong\nenough, engaged to preach on his return at Concord, N. H. But before he\ncould reach that place, he was prostrated with fever, and became\nseverely, and he himself believed fatally ill. Under this full\nconviction, he made a great effort to write a few last words to his\nwife; and did write a note, which we wish we were at liberty to use, so\nmoving as it is in itself and its circumstances, so characteristic of\nhim who wrote it, and so touching and beautiful a tribute to her whom he\nloved, and whom he thought to see no more on earth.\n\nIt need not be told that Mrs. Ware went to her husband as soon as she\nknew of his sickness, though she had not entirely regained her own\nstrength. He had been removed to Concord, where she joined him, and\nstayed till they could come home together. She seems not to have been\nsurprised by this summons; it being one of her principles, and a fixed\nhabit, to anticipate all probable, even possible events, as far as she\ncould, and make them familiar to her thoughts; not to sadden or weaken,\nbut to strengthen and prepare her mind for the duties and emergencies to\nwhich she might be called. If the events did not occur, nothing was\nlost. If they came, the shock was less, and there was greater\npreparation and fortitude to encounter it. This is not the common\ncourse, and will not commend itself to all. Not all would be capable of\nit; and it may not be necessary or desirable for all. The common habit\nis the very opposite, and the counsel usually given, from the pulpit and\nin private, is to anticipate nothing,--least of all, to anticipate evil;\nor, as the phrase is, never to \"borrow trouble.\" This is not the place\nto discuss the subject. We wish only to record our vivid impression of\nthe delight and instruction with which we have listened to that\nunpretending woman, as she argued the matter with those who differed\nwith her; not asking them to do as she did, or assuming the smallest\nmerit for the habit, but only showing them how completely the uniform\nexperience of a life of trial had satisfied her that this course was\nbest for _her_. And all who have seen her in trial and sickness will\ntestify to the reality and power of this persuasion.\n\nThe account, to which we have already adverted, of their experiences\nduring this first year at Cambridge, through her own illness and that of\nher husband, is contained in a letter written on the evening of the\nfirst Sabbath that Mr. Ware was able to preach in the College Chapel,\nwhen she also was able to hear him.\n\n \"_Cambridge, October 2, 1831._\n\n \"MY DEAR NANCY:--\n\n \"Were you ever so weak as to omit doing a thing which you\n strongly desired to do, entirely because you knew you could not\n do it thoroughly to your own satisfaction? If you have been,\n you can better understand than I can describe the many foolish\n feelings which have, from time to time, and a hundred times,\n made me throw down my pen and say to myself, 'I cannot write to\n her now; I have not time to say half I wish to say, or she to\n hear.' It is just so now; I knew all the time it was wrong to\n do so, and now I am determined to turn over a new leaf with\n myself, at the commencement of this new year of my life; and as\n your spirit has haunted my conscience more than any other, I\n begin by laying it with the spell of my fairy pen. But where\n shall I begin? I cannot remember where I left off, or rather do\n not know what you have heard from others since I left you a\n year ago.\n\n \"Of my winter's sickness I cannot write; it contained a long\n life of enjoyment, and what I hoped would prove profitable\n thought and reflection. I came out of my nest almost\n reluctantly, for I had a dread of the absorbing power of\n worldly cares and interests; and for a long time my head\n remained so weak that I suffered from the necessity of giving\n my whole mind to the trifling occupations of daily life in\n order to perform them with tolerable decency. This has been a\n bane to my comfort throughout the summer; and although I have\n had Harriet Hall and Mary Ware, and many of those I rejoiced to\n see, again around me, I have not profited much by the\n privilege, my mind having all its capacity more than employed\n by the care of our bodies. This was very humiliating for one to\n whom all the outward cares of life have been mere play-work;\n but I could contrive to keep externally quiet, and not appear\n fidgety; so I try to think this was conquest enough for me in\n my then state of weakness. The heat prostrated me very much. I\n began to fear I should never be able to do any two things at\n once again. But since my family has returned to its usual size,\n and the cool days of autumn have sent their invigorating\n influences to my bodily powers, my mind improves 'a little, not\n much' (as my Rob says fifty times a day). Literally, I could\n not write a letter through the whole summer; and now the task\n is so novel a one, that I cannot expect to be coherent, this\n being my first.\n\n \"In this state of things, my husband left me for a walk to the\n White Hills. I felt sure that, if pursued with due discretion,\n it would do him good. He was pretty well, but wanted something\n to give him a spring before beginning to preach. I had not the\n least objection to his going, but having watched him so long,\n so incessantly, I felt very much as a mother does the first\n night she weans her infant from her. In pursuance of my\n long-established habit, I set myself the task of preparing for\n any accident which might befall him, and I believe looked at\n all the possibilities of the case; so that when the summons\n actually came for me to attend him at Concord, where he was ill\n of a fever, it did not take me by surprise. I was, as it were,\n prepared for it, and could receive it calmly and act coolly. In\n two hours I was on my way to him, confident in my own strength,\n for no care of him present could be the weight on my mind which\n the thought of him absent had been; and the bodily exertion was\n not as great as I had been for some time making, having been\n nearly all summer without my _quantum_ of help. I found him\n very sick, but surrounded by kindness. He soon began to mend,\n and we jogged homewards. Harriet had been with me, so that I\n could leave my children without any anxiety; and the journey,\n and the happiness which accompanied it, did me good. I have\n been gaining ever since, and Mr. Ware too. I am now so well,\n that I can walk an hour before breakfast, and into Boston with\n ease; and to-day I have had the unspeakable joy of hearing my\n husband perform all the services of the pulpit. This is a point\n that I have so often thought of as the one blessing which I\n dared not hope for, and have believed that, if it could be\n granted, I should have nothing more to ask for, that I hardly\n know how I feel, now that it is actually granted. One thing\n more, however, I must ask,--that I may be truly grateful for\n it.\n\n \"Yours as ever.\n\n \"M. L. W.\"\n\nHappy was it for Mrs. Ware if she _could_ be always prepared for change\nand trial. For while her life was a favored one, and so regarded by her,\nfew enjoying more in any condition, she was equally alive to all\nsuffering, and seldom knew a long exemption. So far, however, she had\nbeen spared all trial in regard to her children. Not that they had been\nfree from sickness, or had caused no solicitude, for there had been much\nof both; but their lives had been continued, and at this time she was\nrejoicing in their health. Three of them she had just taken to Milton,\nto enjoy a week with them at Brush Hill, where she had spent so much of\nher early life, but where she had not been at all since her children\nwere born. Pleasantly does she contrast her present with her former\nenjoyment there. Writing to her husband from this place, she says:--\"I\nam enjoying myself much, but find I was quite mistaken in thinking I\ncould turn into Mary Pickard again by the power of association. I do\nvery well under that character through the day, but with nightfall the\nremembrance of _home_ comes over me; the idea of the husband and child I\nhave left there, and the three chickens who are asleep up stairs, rises\nbefore my mind's eye, as so many more blessings than poor Polly could\nboast, that I resign my pretensions with a very grateful heart. I am\nsorry, dear Henry, that you could not be a little longer with me here,\n(among other very disinterested reasons,) that I might read you sundry\nchapters in the life of that interesting personage just named,--chapters\nwhich are written about upon these trees and stone walls, and which no\nother place could recall. It is very delightful for me to live over\nthose days again, and I am sure my mind will be refreshed by this visit,\nif my body is not. As to this latter concern, it does as well as I could\nexpect.\"\n\nThis visit was made just before her summons to Mr. Ware's bedside at\nConcord. After their return to Cambridge, they took possession of a new\nhouse just built for them; and one of the first events that occurred in\nthat house was the _death_ of Mrs. Ware's first-born, Robert, then three\nand a half years of age. It was a sore trial, and well do we remember\nthe spirit in which it was met; for it was our privilege to be staying\nwith them at the time, and to be present at the parting. The little\nsufferer had endeared himself to us all by his patience and sweetness of\ndisposition. Separated from his parents in early infancy, and remaining\napart until he was two years old, they had taken him back, when they\nreturned, as a fresh gift from God; and though another had been granted\nthem, there was a peculiar feeling connected with _him_, which every\nparent will understand. Movingly now does the scene return to us, of the\nmother sitting silently and reverently at the side of her expiring boy;\nand when the gentle breathing wholly ceased, asking--still silently--the\nhusband and father, who knelt by her, to _pray_. Faintly, tremulously,\nmore and more distinctly, and then most fervently, did that voice of\nsubmission and supplication fall upon our ears, and fill our eyes, and\nlift the heart into a region which death never enters! As the voice\nceased, the mother fainted; but soon she rose, stronger rather than\nweaker, and ready for every duty. In referring to this bereavement\nafterward, she says, in the thought of her husband's constant danger:\n\"Having had so long the greatest possible trial hanging over my head,\nevery thing else seems comparatively easy to bear; and I sometimes\ndoubt, whether any thing but that _one_ will ever wean me from the\nworld, as I think a Christian should be.\" How much she felt, and how\nmuch she trusted, may be seen in her first letter after this trial.\n\n \"_Cambridge, December 31, 1831._\n\n \"MY DEAR FRIEND:--\n\n \"Again does this anniversary find us inhabitants of this world,\n and again, as usual, does it present in my lot something of\n solemn and interesting import, upon which we may dwell with\n profit for a time. It is a privileged hour, and I shall use it\n as I have been wont to do, in the full indulgence of selfish\n egotism, trusting that some good may result to us both from\n it. What does the retrospect of the year present to me? My\n husband and myself have been again raised from the bed of\n sickness and threatened death, and I have been called upon to\n restore to Him who gave one of the dearest treasures which His\n providence had bestowed upon me. These are great events for one\n short year, designed to produce great effects, involving great\n responsibility, bestowing great privileges. My own sickness\n brought with it many pleasures, many pure and elevating views\n and feelings; and although it did not bring me to that cheerful\n willingness to resign my life after which I strove and hoped to\n attain, it thereby threw light upon the weakness of my\n religious character, calculated to subdue presumptuous\n self-dependence, and teach a lesson of humility which may\n perhaps be of more importance and advantage to my growth in\n holiness. My husband's danger renewed the so oft repeated\n testimony that strength is ever at hand for those who need it,\n gave me another exercise of trust in that mighty arm which can\n save to the uttermost, and in its result is a new cause for\n gratitude to Him who has so abundantly blessed me all the days\n of my life.\n\n \"And now has come this new trial of my faith, this new test of\n its reality, that there may be no hiding-place left for me, no\n light wanting by which to search into the hidden recesses of\n the spirit to 'see if there be any wicked way in it.' And\n whatever may be the result of this strict scrutiny, am I not to\n be thankful for it? Am I not to feel that it is indeed the\n kindest love that subjects me to it? We feel it a privilege\n that a child should have earthly parents to guide, counsel, and\n correct it; and shall we not be grateful to that Heavenly\n Parent who does the same in a far better manner? I would thank\n God that he has by his past dispensations taught me the duty\n and happiness of submission, so that I can bow to the rod, and\n desire only to see how its chastisement is to be used and\n improved. I have always looked upon the death of children\n rather as a subject for joy than sorrow, and have been\n perplexed at seeing so many, who would bear what seemed to me\n much harder trials with firmness, so completely overwhelmed by\n this, as is frequently the case. But I know that upon any point\n in which we have had no personal experience we cannot form a\n correct judgment, and therefore I have never had any definite\n anticipations of its effect upon myself. I am thankful to find\n that the general views upon which my former opinions have been\n founded are not obscured by the flood of new emotions which\n actual experience brings. I can resign my child into the hands\n of its Maker, with as strong a belief as I ever had, that it is\n a blessing to itself to be removed, 'untasked, untried,' from a\n world in which the result of labor and trial is so doubtful. It\n is a blessing to be taken from the care of ignorant, powerless\n human teachers, to the guidance of higher and holier and\n perfect instructors; so that its pure spirit will not now be\n sullied by the pollutions of this degraded world, but go on\n from glory to glory until it has attained the full measure of\n the stature of a child of God.\n\n \"You know too well what are the hopes and enjoyments belonging\n to the relation of parent and child, to require to be told how\n hard it is to lay them all aside; and there was something in\n the peculiar circumstances of the birth and life of this child,\n which could not but give a peculiar character to our connection\n with him. And so he has passed from us; but what a comfort to\n know that we have not lost him! We had a visit from Dr.\n Channing yesterday, in which he spoke so gloriously of the\n honor of having given a child to heaven, as to elevate me far\n above common considerations. But enough; think of us still as\n happy.\n\n \"M. L. WARE.\"\n\nOne of the traits of Mrs. Ware's character--not named for its\nsingularity or distinction, but simply as a fact, noticed by all who\nknew her--was the amount of time and strength which she devoted to her\nchildren. With all the sicknesses, which from this period came almost\nconstantly either to her or her husband, and which are apt to make such\nsad inroads upon our quiet and faithful intercourse with our\nchildren,--amid all her domestic cares, of which she took as large a\nshare, in every department, as perhaps any woman ever did in a similar\nposition, feeling and seeing, all the time, the painful need of a rigid\neconomy, in the midst of never-ceasing and never-limited\nhospitality,--her thoughtfulness and care for each child, in regard to\nthe body, the mind, and the soul, seemed literally uninterrupted. And\nthis care of her children reached them in their absence as well as their\npresence. In the summer after Robert's death, the oldest son, John, was\nplaced at school in Framingham, where he remained several years; and\nseldom did he fail to receive, not only faithful letters, but a journal\nof daily doings, from his mother's pen, though she long remained feeble,\nand was now the mother of another infant, which she was compelled to put\nout to nurse. Another term of severe illness ensued, causing a lameness\nof long duration. But as soon as possible, indeed all along, she was\ndoing something for the absent son.\n\n\"When you left home, my dear John,\" she writes in July, 1832, \"I thought\nI should soon be well enough to write you, and intended to keep a\njournal for you of what went on amongst us, to be sent to you every\nfortnight; but now you have been gone two months, and I have not been\nable to write to you once, so little can we calculate upon the future. I\nhave been obliged to keep my bed a great part of the time, and am not\nyet able to walk across the room without much pain. I have not been down\nstairs, excepting twice, when I was carried in arms to the front door,\nand rode about ten minutes, which hurt me so much that I shall not try\nit again very soon. I tell you all this, that you may understand how\nimpossible it has been for me to fulfil my promise to you. I have\nthought much of you, and rejoiced to hear so often from you that you\nwere happy and improving. When I have felt that I should never get well,\nand perhaps never see you again in this world, I have been very anxious\nabout you, and have prayed most fervently that God would guide you in\nthe right path, and hoped that you would live to be a comfort to your\nfather when I was gone....\n\n\"This is a busy week with us; yesterday being Exhibition, to-day\nValedictory, to-morrow the Theological Exhibition in the morning and a\npublic meeting of the Philanthropic Society in the afternoon. We shall\nhave an open house, and hope to have as many friends with us as we had\nlast year.\" An open house, filled with friends, all welcomed and in some\nway entertained by the lady of the house, who is not able to walk across\nthe room without pain! We doubt not there are hundreds of such cases,\nsome it may be, more trying and more remarkable; but it does not alter\nthe fact, nor make it less worthy of notice in a woman who did all that\nMrs. Ware did.\n\nIt was a feature of Mrs. Ware's domestic character, that the throng of\ncares and conflict of duties seldom _worried_ her. Many are they who are\nas diligent and faithful, but yet live in a perpetual hurry and fret.\nShe knew the danger, and brought all her power and principle to\nwithstand it, even in the smallest matters. Often have we heard her\nlamenting the necessity of spending so much of life in mere drudgery,\nministering to the perishing but never-satisfied _body_; a necessity and\nservice that devolve upon many women, and take from them the opportunity\nof high mental and spiritual culture, unless they carry into these daily\nduties and petty cares a calm spirit and a cheerful tone, with an\nelevated and steadfast purpose. Such was Mary's habitual endeavor. The\ndifficulty, and the frequent failure, none were more ready to own. She\nnever satisfied herself, but she never flagged. She never worried.\nSudden interruptions, culinary disappointments, \"shoals of visitors\"\nwith little of preparation, were not allowed to chill her welcome or\ncloud their enjoyment. There were no apologies at that table. If\nunexpected guests were not always filled, they were never annoyed, nor\nsuffered to think much about it. A clergyman, who visited the house\noften as a student, says of Mrs. Ware: \"I remember the wonder I felt at\nher humility and dignity in welcoming to her table on some occasion a\ntroop of accidental guests, when she had almost nothing to offer but\nher hospitality. The absence of all apologies and of all mortification,\nthe ease and cheerfulness of the conversation, which became the only\nfeast, gave me a lesson never forgotten, although never learned.\"\n\nAre these little things? They fill a large place in life, and have much\nto do with its solid comfort. They affect the temper, they enter into\nthe character, and may help or hinder our best power and improvement. We\nintroduce them here _because_ they are little. There was not much in the\nlife we are penning that was not little in some comparisons. It is the\nlife of a plain, retiring, domestic woman. It is an example not beyond\nthe reach of any who desire to reach it. We wish to show it just as it\nwas; and to show, that of nothing was it more clearly the result, in\nnothing does its value more clearly consist, than in the power of\nChristian faith and simple goodness.\n\nWe have sometimes thought it would be well if all parishioners, those\nespecially who are quick to discern the failings and slow to understand\nthe labors of their pastor, could spend a few weeks in his house, and\nget some idea of the variety, complexity, arduousness, and endlessness\nof his duties. But from the picture which Mrs. Ware gives of the life at\nCambridge, we should infer that the engagements and interruptions of\nmost parishes were light in the comparison. \"I used to think Boston life\na very busy and irregular one; but our life here is far more so. There,\nthere were some hours in the day in which, from conventional custom, one\nwas secure of being quiet. But here, neither early hours nor late,\nneither rain nor tempest, are any security against interruption; and\noften, very often, does a whole day pass without either my husband or\nmyself having one moment for our own occupations, or even a chance to\nexchange a single sentence of recognition. I do not complain of this,\nfor it is inevitable. I must believe it is our appointed duty. But it\nseems sometimes a most unprofitable mode of passing away life; at least\nit is very difficult to make progress in the things one most desires,\nwhen our time and our thoughts are so little at our own disposal.\"\n\nStill, amid all these calls and cares, the \"journal\" continues, and full\nsheets of companion-like narration or maternal counsel go to the\nschoolboy at Framingham, who is having some of the trials of\nschool-life, petty, but serious.\n\n\"Dear John, it is time you had another letter, and I am very glad to be\nable to write you one; it is the next best thing to sitting down by you\nand having a good chat. I should very much like to look in upon you, and\nknow exactly how you get along. I hope you will continue to bear any\nprovocation you may receive with perfect quietness and forbearance. Such\nconduct as you describe is not worthy of notice; and if you persevere in\ndoing right, and show no arrogance or pride about it, you will gain\ntheir respect in time, that is, of all who are worth gaining. I am very\nglad you have Mr. Abbot's book (The Young Christian). I thought of you\nwhen I was reading it, and felt as if it would be very useful to you.\nYou will find much in it which you never thought of, and much of which\nyou will see a counterpart within yourself, if you examine yourself\nfaithfully. It seemed to me, while reading it, that I was looking into a\nglass which reflected myself; for I have lived long enough to know more\nabout myself than I used to at your age, and I often wish that I had had\nsuch looking-glasses then; I should, I think, have been saved many a\nfeeling of self-reproach, and many a foolish and sinful action. You can\nhardly imagine now how great a blessing you possess in the watchful care\nwhich is extended over you by your dear father; may it never be\nwithdrawn from you until you have learned to guide yourself by the high\nand holy principles of Christian virtue!\"\n\nIt shows Mr. Ware's apprehensions in regard to his wife's health as well\nas his own, that, in a letter to the same son, he writes: \"I find that\nyour two parents are in very frail health, and probably destined to a\nshort life. You will perhaps, therefore, be left at an early age to take\ncare of yourself.\"\n\nWe learn still more of their mental and social life at this period from\ntwo letters which Mrs. Ware wrote at the end of the years 1832 and 1833;\nthere having been little variety between, except a journey south as far\nas Alexandria, which they took together, for recreation and health,\nearly in 1833, with a few later incidents referred to in the letters.\n\n \"_Cambridge, December 31, 1832._\n\n \"DEAR N----:\n\n \"F---- prophesied, ten years ago, that friendship between\n married women could not be of long continuance. He did not know\n that there is in woman's nature something which woman only can\n fully understand; or his knowledge of human nature in general\n would have shown him that the love of sympathy will triumph\n over many an obstacle, which would be a perfect barrier to a\n less powerful motive. Who but a woman, and one too who knows\n the exact mould in which one's soul is fashioned, would\n understand what it has been to me to stand on the verge of the\n grave, in full possession of the whole intellectual being, and\n prepare myself to leave such an assemblage of blessings as have\n fallen to my lot,--husband, children, friends, and the\n delightful duties which accompany these relations,--and then to\n be restored to them all, with an added gift! And all without\n one drawback, but my own want of sensibility, to make the\n blessing as great as it would be with a more sensitive heart.\n Perhaps no one can fully comprehend it who has not been placed\n in exactly the same situation. But you can come nearer to it\n than any one else, and you will not wonder that the past should\n seem to me one of the most valuable years of my life. I have\n often wished for just this experience, when I have felt how\n ineffectual were the monitors of Providence in awakening that\n deep sense of God's goodness, and that clear conviction of the\n reality of a future state, which are so important to the\n Christian life. I have almost envied those who were permitted\n to approach so nearly to the gates of death as to give up all\n expectation of a prolonged life. It has seemed as if this\n appeal must be irresistible; as if there could be no more\n deadness, or apathy, or indifference, after this. One _could_\n not come back to the world and be absorbed as before in its\n short-lived pursuits. But vain is the hope, I begin to fear, of\n our being raised by any thing so much above the world, as not\n to be subject to the power of the tempter while we live in it.\n The physical weakness which enables us to realize the uncertain\n tenure by which we are connected with this world is gradually\n changed into strength, and the power to act brings with it the\n desire;--and who shall easily set bounds to this desire? It is\n the all-consuming monster that cries, 'Give! give!' until we do\n give it every day, every hour, every thought,--until the\n present alone occupies us, and, alas! satisfies us too. Is this\n exaggeration, merely a dark picture drawn from my own sad\n experience? I hope it is.\n\n \"But I am going too far, filling all my paper with croaking,\n when I have so pleasant a picture of my 'outer man' to present\n to you. We are all well; that is, well enough to be free from\n anxiety on the subject;--neither Henry nor I good for much\n beyond a very narrow sphere, but free from disease. I keep very\n quietly at home. Indeed, I cannot do otherwise; a ride into\n Boston tires me so much, that I am not fit for any thing for a\n day after; a walk does the same. So I am fain to content myself\n with my home comforts; and to this end I have converted my\n chamber into a study, where Henry writes, I work, and Nanny\n plays all the livelong day. It is more like Sheafe Street\n comfort than any thing we have had since. My husband's social\n habits, and the fact of our having lived so much together for\n the last three years, make it particularly pleasant to him to\n be saved the trouble of going in search of me whenever he wants\n to read a sentence or say a word; and for the same reasons, it\n is very pleasant to me to have so much of his presence without\n feeling that he is taken off from his rightful pursuits by it.\n January 1, 1833! A happy new year to you all!\n\n \"Yours truly.\n\n \"M. L. W.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Cambridge, December 31, 1833._\n\n \"MY DEAR N----:\n\n \"I am inclined to think that it is our inordinate estimate of\n the happiness of this life, and our vague, half-sceptical\n notions of a future state, that make us grieve so much when\n such spirits as Elizabeth B---- are withdrawn from us. I don't\n know, but I sometimes greatly fear that we do not bring home\n the _reality_ of the future as we should do; we are so occupied\n with our theories of right principles of action and correct\n ideas of moral conduct in this life (all very good in their\n place), and so afraid of falling into the extravagant exercise\n of the imagination, which has betrayed so many of our opponents\n in doctrine into enthusiasm and folly, that we lose sight of\n the good influences which such contemplations might have upon\n our hearts. This year has been to me one of less variety than\n any of the last six. My husband's long sickness in the spring,\n and the efforts consequent upon it, were the source of much\n anxiety, and in some points a new experience. But I have had\n for so long a time only to bear and submit, that my mind has\n settled itself into that attitude, and it is no longer an\n effort. It is quite another thing, when it becomes my duty to\n exercise my energies in positive acts,--when others are looking\n to me for guidance, when my habitual influence is to form the\n character of this child and check the waywardness of that, with\n all the train of active duties which devolve upon a married\n woman,--then I am overpowered and powerless.\n\n \"I wished you had been by my side on Sunday, while I sat in my\n old corner in Federal Street meeting-house, listening to that\n voice which is to us both associated with some of our best\n religious impressions. I went to hear Dr. Channing, for the\n second time only since I returned home, as much for the sake of\n recalling old associations as from any expectation of new\n influences; for it does me good now and then to go back to what\n I was, the better to understand what I am. If he had known just\n what I was suffering, he could not have adapted himself more\n entirely to my case. He was upon some of the obstacles which\n may prevent our use of the present moment for improvement; and\n he enlarged upon the tendency to rest satisfied with past\n attainments. Because we had at one period of our lives been\n deeply moved and strongly influenced by religious motives,--had\n performed some great acts of benevolence, or sustained\n ourselves under great trial with fortitude and submission,--we\n deluded ourselves with the idea, that we had attained a height\n from which we could not fall. But no mistake could be more\n ruinous. The past was _nothing_, except as it influenced the\n present. We trust too much to future improvement, to a vague\n notion of gradual progress,--we know not exactly how, or by\n what means. But as we are not conscious of becoming worse, we\n think we must be growing better, and shall by and by be all\n that we ought to be. Or we hope for more favorable\n circumstances to influence us, and expect to be, we know not\n why, in a more fit state at some other time for our religious\n duties.\n\n \"Had I room, I could give you a long story about this, for my\n mind is full of it. But I have another word to say upon the\n fact of our giving so much time to the mere outside of life, to\n the employment of our fingers, the mere mechanical employments\n pertaining to the body. It is a question with me, whether it is\n not a duty to be satisfied with a less elegant, and even a less\n comfortable style of life, rather than take so much from the\n cultivation of the intellectual and spiritual, when, as is so\n often the case now-a-days, we must either do the drudgery\n ourselves or leave it undone. I don't know,--I am puzzled. I\n know that if we are doing our _duty_, however mean may be our\n employment, we are fulfilling our destiny, and doing God the\n best service. But the question is, What is our duty? And are we\n not in danger of mistaking the real nature of duty, from too\n great a love of this world and the things of it? This is one of\n the difficult questions, which my husband and I try to settle.\n I wish you would tell me what you think. And here comes my\n Willie, with an imploring look to be taken up,--a reproving\n one, too, that in all this long letter neither he nor his\n family are so much as noticed. All are well.\n\n \"Yours ever.\n\n \"M. L. WARE.\"\n\nUnusual freedom from sickness and apprehension was for a time enjoyed.\nMrs. Ware was full of happiness and thankfulness. \"It seems to me that\nnever had people so much reason for gratitude as we; and I think I never\nfelt this more than at this time, for I too am beginning to have the\nfirst feelings of health which I have known for a year and a half.\" But\na change came. And with the letter which explains it we close this\nportion of the Cambridge life.\n\n \"_Cambridge, May 4, 1834._\n\n \"MY DEAR N----:\n\n \"... We have had our usual variety of sickness and health since\n I wrote to you in January. Soon after that, I had a visit from\n my old, and I thought conquered, enemy, the cramp; not a very\n severe attack, but sufficient to make me very good for nothing\n for a week, in the course of which Nanny had a very severe\n fall, which for twenty-four hours made us apprehensive that we\n should have to part with her. But this trial was spared us, in\n much mercy; for two days after this, Elizabeth was very sick,\n though not dangerously. All this had its effect upon Mr. Ware\n and myself, and we have been the greater part of the time in\n the most disagreeable state of betwixity, neither sick enough\n to be excused from labor, nor well enough to do any thing\n profitable,--just good for nothing. In the vacation in April,\n Mr. Ware went to Portsmouth to collect materials for his Memoir\n of Dr. Parker, intending by the way to go to Exeter.\n\n \"The day after he went, my Willie, who had been the very\n perfection of health and happiness all winter, began to droop,\n and, notwithstanding pretty efficient measures, in a few days\n became the subject of decided lung fever; not very sick, but\n requiring constant watching and careful attention. A week from\n the day he was taken, he had a severe spasmodic attack, from\n which we thought he would never revive; and when, after various\n measures, he began to breathe again, we sat for four hours\n expecting that every moment would be his last. It was a season\n of severe trial, not a little increased by his father's\n absence, and the impossibility of his reaching home until this\n sweet child must be for ever removed from his sight. Yet it was\n not for me to learn then, for the first time, that He who sends\n trial always gives strength to bear it. I knew it would be so,\n and in that faith I rested in peace and tranquillity. But this\n blow, too, was averted. After a long struggle he revived, and I\n realized, what I had never known before, that this second\n birth, as it were, of a child is a far more affecting cause for\n gratitude and joy than the first gift ever can be. It was a\n great experience in many ways. It helped me to understand the\n feeling of those who were witnesses of miracles more than any\n thing I ever met with. For all human means were at an end;\n nothing could be done but to pray that the Almighty Power, to\n whom all things were possible, might yet interpose to save. And\n the fact of having been carried through such a trial with\n entire submission and calmness,--what confidence does it not\n give in the all-sufficient power of that religion which can\n alone succor one in such an hour of need! The kindness, too,\n which such an occasion calls forth from those around us, is not\n the least of its blessings. It makes us view human kind more\n justly than we are sometimes inclined to do, and sinks for ever\n some of those petty and contemptuous feelings which will\n sometimes rise towards those with whom we have but little\n sympathy.\n\n \"My husband returned after all this was over, quite sick; but\n he did return without the necessity of my going to him, and\n returned to be the better for being _at home_, gaining every\n moment after he entered his house. All this was during that\n bright, warm interval in April, when nature seemed buoyant with\n joy. We had just completed our summer arrangements, and\n altogether it seemed to me as if I had begun existence anew.\n Although somewhat exhausted by the struggle, I really am better\n than for months past.\n\n \"Yours ever.\n\n \"M. L. WARE.\"\n\n\n\n\nXI.\n\nLIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. (CONTINUED.)\n\n\nIt is the misfortune of those who are often sick to be blamed for their\nsicknesses in proportion as they are active and laborious when well.\nTheir energy is sure to be considered the _cause_ of subsequent and\nfrequent debility; and if not blamed, they find less compassion or kind\nconsideration than the indolent and self-indulgent. These last may be\nsick all the time, and it is ascribed only to nature or the providence\nof God. But the conscientious and energetic, who accomplish wonders for\nthemselves or others in their brief intervals of health, and possibly in\nsickness likewise, are accused of imprudence and a sinful disregard of\nself; while in truth it may be only by extreme care and unknown\nself-denials that they are able to accomplish any thing.\n\nIf Mary Ware was ever severely censured, we suppose it to have been in\nconnection with this matter of health. Few women have been blessed with\na better constitution, or greater power of action. With an almost\nmasculine frame, there was such a degree of firmness with her\ngentleness, as always gave the idea of more strength than was wanted. We\ndoubt if in early life she ever thought of saving her strength, so\naccustomed was she to do any thing that needed to be done, without\nsaying or thinking much about it. She who had been the sole nurse of a\nsick mother at the age of eleven or twelve, and, as another describes\nher then, \"going through all the offices of the sick-room with the\nfirmness of a woman, holding on leeches with her little hand, and\nperforming _all_ the necessary duties, not absolutely from necessity,\nbut from so much love and so much confidence that no one else was\nwanted,\"--she who had scarcely, from that period until middle life, been\nfree from care and toil for the sick and suffering,--might be pardoned\nif she became self-relying, or at least self-forgetting. And yet when at\nlast that vigorous frame was impaired, and the overwrought energies of\nbody and mind partially gave way, so that the remainder of her life was\nsubject to constant fluctuations of strength and weakness, powerful\nexertion and acute suffering, she does not seem to us to have been\npresumptuous or ever reckless. It is evident now, if it was not at the\ntime, that she made this as much a matter of sober calculation and\nconscientious questioning as any thing, and much more than is common.\nStill she tells us that she was blamed for her imprudence; and she\nbrings instances from her own experience to show the frequent error of\njudging of what one does, or forbears to do, by the apparent result,\nrather than from knowledge or by principle. \"People judge by\n_consequences_, or what seem to be consequences, rather than by\nreasoning upon premises.\"\n\nIt is partly to show how Mrs. Ware defended herself, and at the same\ntime submitted to counsel and was grateful for admonition, and partly\nto show how singularly insulated she must have been in her early\ntraining and her self-formed character, that we introduce the following\nnote, written to a lady who acted the part of a true friend. The date is\nnot given, but the note itself shows that it was written the year of the\njourney to the South already mentioned, when she accompanied her husband\nat some risk to herself.\n\n \"MY DEAR, GOOD FRIEND:--\n\n \"I cannot thank you as I would for your kind note. I have not\n words wherewith to picture to you the joy I feel, that there is\n any one human being in existence who is willing to admonish me\n freely. If you have told me nothing new, your words are none\n the less welcome, for one cannot have the truth too frequently\n presented to the mind and although we may have _all_ knowledge,\n it is not often that we can grasp it all at one glance, or even\n that we remember the points most useful to us at the time\n being.\n\n \"You will not think I boast, when I say that one and all the\n views you present have long formed part of the rule of action\n by which I have _tried_ to govern myself, because I know you\n will easily understand the deep-searching, Argus-eyed\n vigilance, which one wholly self-educated almost inevitably\n acquires. I never have had, since I can remember, a principle\n of action suggested to me, or a word said to show me _why_ one\n action was wrong and another right. For many years a whisper of\n blame never reached my ears; and when at last it came like a\n flood upon me, there was no friendly looking-glass near to\n point out to me the deformity from which my mistakes arose. At\n ten years of age I waked up to a sense of the danger of the\n state of indulgence in which I was living. At thirteen, by the\n death of my mother, I was left wholly to my own guidance,\n externally as well as internally; and from that time to this I\n have labored night and day to know, discipline, and govern\n myself, as I would a child for whose soul I was responsible.\n Dr. Channing's sermons and conversation are the only effectual\n human guide I ever had, until I was married. Having no one to\n whom to speak, and but one friend to whom I could write upon\n the subject, no wonder that my habits of thought should have\n been more cultivated than of conversation; no wonder the whole\n ground of self-deception, self-distrust, self-aggrandizement,\n should have been gone over again and again until every root was\n displaced and exposed to view; though, alas! not a hundredth\n part eradicated. Now this is not to my point, but you will\n still see that you have done me good by making me feel thus\n loquacious and unreserved with you.\n\n \"You remind me that I omitted one item in my defence, the mere\n mention of which will answer many of your queries. Who can tell\n how often a person, blamed for the disregard of many\n considerations which ought to influence the conduct, is\n inflamed by those very considerations, restrained by those very\n motives? We see what is done; we cannot see what is forborne.\n In proof of this, after I recovered from the long illness which\n followed immediately upon my arrival at home, three and a half\n years ago, it was five or six months before I felt any thing\n like elasticity of mind or body; the least effort fatigued me;\n I looked perfectly well, and every body was asking me why I did\n not go here, there, and everywhere. I knew from my feelings\n that I still needed rest, and I took it. Change of air,\n consequent upon the necessity of attending Mr. Ware in his\n sickness at Concord, produced a great change in my whole\n feelings. I seemed well again; but I knew my system had\n materially suffered while abroad, and I determined religiously\n to abstain from all effort of all kinds that did not seem\n perfectly safe. No one knew any thing about it, I was so well.\n Still I persevered. I literally did not walk across the room,\n or eat a meal, that winter, without deliberately arguing the\n case,--was it best or not? In this healthy state, I went to Dr.\n W.'s lecture, and was very prudent afterward; yet when my\n severe sickness commenced, it was all laid to that lecture; I\n was talked to, even in its worst stages, as if to be sick was a\n crime, and I have not to this day heard the last of it....\n Again, I never in my whole life did so _imprudent_ a thing as\n undertaking the journey I did last spring; there was no one\n reason against the probability, almost certainty, of its\n injuring me. I knew the risk; no one else did. I took the risk,\n because I thought the object authorized it. The result, after\n much suffering by the way, was favorable, and all was well. Had\n it been otherwise, there would have been voices enough to point\n out that it was wrong....\n\n \"There is one simple question which I wish to have\n answered,--How do other people attain infallible correctness of\n judgment? Is it by experience or intuition? If the former, have\n they not suffered from their experiments, sometimes erred in\n their calculations, and should they not have charity for others\n who are going over the same ground? If by the latter, should\n they not pity those less favored than themselves? I will not\n trouble you any more with my egotism. Remember, the best favor\n you can confer is, when you think I am doing wrong, to check\n me, ask me why, show me wherein I deceive myself; and never\n fear to speak plainly to your grateful friend,\n\n \"M. L. WARE.\"\n\nThere is another province into which the really high-minded and\nindependent will carry the same conscientiousness, with equal firmness.\nIt is a province often regarded as low and little. Nothing is little\nthat involves principles and affects character. And what does this more\nthan Dress? It is a matter to which few can be indifferent, even in a\npecuniary view; and that is by no means the highest view. Love of dress\nis admitted to be one of the earliest passions that appear in human\nnature, and may be said to be a universal passion. If it be stronger in\none sex than in the other,--a fact more easily assumed than\ndemonstrated,--she is the nobler woman, wife, and mother who gives it\nits proper place among the elements of education, and both deigns and\ndares to speak of it and act upon it as a Christian.\n\nSo did Mrs. Ware speak and act. The circumstances in which she had\nalways been placed, inducing the habit and the necessity of strict\nfrugality, as we have seen, would alone have prevented her from\noverlooking so large an item in the domestic and social economy. But\nbesides this, she had regard to the integrity of her principles, and the\ninfluence of example. She aimed evidently at two points, not easily\nattained together,--to make little of the whole matter of dress, and, at\nthe same time, bring it under the control of a high Christian rule. As\nto her own attire, we should say no one thought of it at all, because of\nits simplicity, and because of her ease of manners and dignity of\ncharacter. Yet this impression is qualified, though in one view\nconfirmed, by hearing that, in a new place of residence, so plain was\nher appearance on all occasions, the villagers suspected her of\nreserving her fine clothes for some better class,--a suspicion only\namusing to those who knew her, but sure to give pain to her benevolent\nheart. In another note to the female friend last addressed, she\nexpresses her thoughts and describes her practice on this subject, so\nsimply and sensibly, that we cannot hesitate to offer all of it except\nthe specific and personal applications; while these, if they could be\ngiven, would show yet more how consistent and thorough she was.\n\n \"_Saturday Evening, January 17, 1835._\n\n \"MY DEAR FRIEND:--\n\n \"I have such a poor faculty at expressing myself in speech,\n that I never feel that I have quite done myself justice in any\n delicate matter, when I have used only oral means. I have felt\n this peculiarly since I left you this afternoon, because some\n expressions of mine have recurred to my mind's ear, which I\n thought might possibly be construed by you into a very\n different meaning from their intended one. I do not, as you\n know, like to trouble my friends with the discussions of\n questions merely personal, and which I ought to be able to\n decide for myself unaided; and the whole subject of _dress_\n seems, at a first glance, so trifling, that most people would\n laugh at my having a serious thought about it. But to me, the\n least thing which can have an influence upon the character of\n my children becomes in my eyes a matter of deep importance; and\n for this reason I have really longed to enter upon this said\n subject with some one who could look at it in the same light,\n or who could disabuse me of my anxiety about it, if it was a\n foolish one. Accident has opened the door to your ear, and if\n you can have patience with me, and I can find words to tell you\n what I mean, I may some time or other try your friendship in\n this way.\n\n \"To go back a little. When we went to Europe, you may know it\n was the liberality of our friends, and the goodwill of the\n Corporation, which enabled us to undertake the expense of so\n long a tour. We calculated very well for such novices, but\n could not anticipate the great additional draft which a child's\n birth and the journey home would make upon our resources.\n Consequently we returned in debt. This debt we had hoped to\n liquidate by living within our salary, and thus laying by a\n little every year. Four years' experiment has proved this hope\n fallacious. Every year has brought with it some occasion of\n great extra expense, which has taken up what might otherwise\n have been laid by for this purpose. We have had, you know, a\n great deal of sickness, and there have been other contingencies\n which it is not necessary to enumerate. These may not occur\n again, but past experience proves that we have no right to\n calculate upon such exemptions; and it becomes, therefore, more\n than ever necessary that we economize in the strictest manner,\n to do all we can to free ourselves from this burden, and to do\n justice to others. Our children, of course, are acquainted with\n this state of affairs, and it is right that they should do\n their part, and from right motives. They know, as we do, that\n there are many expenses of daily occurrence in which there\n cannot be any retrenchment consistent with our obligations to\n our friends and the situation we hold in society,--such as the\n calls of hospitality and charity. But they ought to feel that\n all _personal_ sacrifices are to be made that can be, according\n to a standard of propriety which a high moral sense would\n dictate. This, of course, must be in some measure an arbitrary\n standard, to be settled as much by experiment and example as by\n reasoning. I have therefore had but few _rules_ upon the\n subject, leaving to each occasion which brings up the question\n all argumentation, taking care to have as little discussion as\n may be possible, lest it become in any way the subject of too\n much thought. This is particularly to be avoided with regard to\n dress, and upon this I have been more puzzled than on any other\n branch, as both our elder children are just of an age to\n require very 'judgmatical' treatment upon it. My rule for\n myself is, as I told you, to do without every thing which I can\n _decently_, making my own ideas of decency, not others', the\n standard. It is a difficult matter, especially as I make no\n pretensions to good taste, or good faculty, about externals;\n but this, I maintain, does not alter the question of duty....\n\n \"I feel that I am trying your patience with much ado about a\n small thing. But it is my weak side to wish to be thoroughly\n understood by my friends, weak points and all; and it helps me\n to understand myself, thus to try to make others understand me.\n I have not a word of complaint to make. We are far better\n provided for than is necessary to our happiness. We could live\n upon our income and grow rich, were our wishes only our rule;\n but as we are situated, it is not easy to make 'all ends meet,'\n as the phrase is; and as our five children grow every day\n older, it becomes more and more difficult every year. Can you\n teach me to economize? I fear, however, that if you could, you\n could not insure me strength to carry your plan into execution.\n No one who has not experienced it can tell how great a drawback\n sickness is to all saving, especially when it comes upon the\n head of the house, and when it requires the most expensive\n kinds of remedy. But enough of all this. I wish you would tell\n me if you do not think I am right in declining your offer. I am\n always doubtful enough about my own judgment, to be open to\n conviction from those who differ.\n\n \"Yours in all love.\n\n \"M. L. WARE.\"\n\nThe years 1834 and 1835 are spoken of by Mr. and Mrs. Ware as peculiarly\nfavored, having little sickness or severe trial, compared with other\nyears. But this must have been only a comparative view; for we find\nseveral incidental allusions to a state of feebleness and inability,\nwhich most of us would consider quite enough either for discipline or\nrelease from labor. Very pleasantly, however, does Mrs. Ware speak of\nthose interruptions and prostrations, as if they were the ordinary\ncondition. To Emma she writes: \"Could you have alighted upon us at any\ntime within the last fortnight, you would have found yourself _at home_.\nNearly all last week Mr. Ware and myself enjoyed a most social\n_tete-a-tete_ upon the two beds which occupy my chamber, neither of us\ncapable of reading to the other, nor, a great part of the time, of\nspeaking; I ill from the effects of the cramp, he from the fatigue of\ntaking care of me with it. From this state we were compelled to rouse\nourselves, by having one domestic taken sick, and Nanny ---- All the\nrest you know.\" This was said in 1834. In the autumn of that year a\ndaughter was born; and for a time Mrs. Ware was so helpless, that she\nyielded more than was her wont to feelings of discouragement. \"I did\n_try_ to be hopeful; but the idea of so long a period of uselessness,\nand its consequent evils to my children and family, was dreadful to me;\nand I could not quite feel that I could receive it as patiently as I\nought.\" But severely does she chide herself for this distrust,\nespecially as the result was so much better than her fears. She regained\nher health, and soon enjoyed a greater sense of strength and energy\nthan she had had since her marriage. And this period of\nexemption--though not very long as regarded the health of all the\nhousehold--was one of the seasons in which she strove to make amends for\nlost time, and accomplished a vast deal. Not that there was any\nremarkable, visible product. She never labored for one object\nexclusively, in doors or out, and it would not be easy to point to\ndefinite results. It may be doubted if she ever thought much of results,\nor expected, or even desired, to see them in any sure and signal form.\nTo do \"all she could\" was her only ambition; and she had the wisdom\nwhich is worth more than any other,--to be _content_ with doing all she\ncould, only taking care that that word \"all\" should take in something\nmore than the thought of earth, or self. She did not forget that objects\nand interests have a relative, as well as positive importance; and\nprobably all who knew her well have marked this as a characteristic\ntrait,--that she studied the exact proportion of the different claims\nupon her time, and was more anxious to do justly than to do all things.\n\nIn our times, and in a position like Mr. Ware's, there were sure to be\nnumerous calls and claims abroad as well as at home, and for a woman not\nless than a man. We have not inquired as to the names or number of the\nbenevolent societies and industrial enterprises in Cambridge, in which\nMrs. Ware took part. That she gained any notoriety in this way, we\nshould be surprised to hear, both from her multiplicity of duties, and\nher preference of private to public activity. Yet that her influence\nwas felt, her judgment peculiarly relied upon, and her presence always\nwelcomed, in these connections, we know. Cases of moral want and\nexposure interested her most, and we have reason to think that she was\nnever without some such case on her hands or in her heart. What she\ncould not do herself, in the gift of time or clothes or money, she\nalways induced others to do, _never_ suffering an object of actual want\nor peril to go unassisted. Very far was she above the poor apology, that\nto do any thing for one sufferer will create more. In a multitude of\nsmall notes given us, written by her to various neighbors and friends,\nwe chanced to see in one, so small as at first to be overlooked, a few\nwords that fixed attention; and on reading it through, we found, in the\ncompass of a few lines, a whole volume of illustration as to her\ninterest, her courage, and her power of indignation for selfish excuses.\nWe give it just as it was written to a neighbor, another right-minded\nwoman.\n\n \"I have company, therefore cannot answer you at length, or as I\n wish. I should have stepped in to see you this afternoon, if I\n had not been prevented by callers, to say a few words upon the\n subject of the latter part of your note. I have to-day got at\n the poor man's wardrobe for the first time, and determined to\n _beg_ for some means to supply it with a few decencies, for\n even they are wanting. Mr. Ware has thought it quite allowable\n to state the case to one or two of our rich men, to raise\n enough to pay the expenses of his journey; and I have just\n resolved to undertake the other matter. But I am full of\n wrathful indignation at being _sneered at_ for taking him in.\n 'You will have enough English beggars at your door, if you do\n so.' A good argument against relieving any distress! So let the\n poor suffer as much as they may,--no relief,--for others will\n be idle and want relief too!--M. L. W.\"\n\nIn another brief note, we saw a statement of Mrs. Ware, to the effect\nthat for many years she had not been without some \"case of intemperance\non hand\"; and a little inquiry tells us that it refers to her habit of\nhelping the reformed and the struggling to get an honest living. A\n\"Ladies' Aid Society\" had been formed in Cambridge, with that special\nobject; and its President, being obliged to leave home, asked Mrs. Ware\nto look after her \"patients,\" when she found that Mary had long been\ndoing privately, and by herself, what they were doing as a society.\n\nIt may seem the language of enthusiastic friendship, and our readers\nwill deduct what they please on that account, but we must give a passage\nfrom a recent letter, written by one of the many theological students\nwho had free access to Mr. Ware's house and family. In reference to Mrs.\nWare, he writes: \"I have often quoted her example since to those who\nmake the cares of housekeeping an excuse for the neglect of all public\noffices. She seemed to keep house better than any body else, to exercise\na larger and freer hospitality, to make her tea-table a pleasant resort,\nto provide more simply and at the same time more attractively, while,\nafter all, her domestic cares were only an incident in her daily duties.\nShe seemed to have time for every great out-door or general interest,\nand to be full of schemes of benevolence and kindness. And it was the\neasy, natural way in which she performed these double functions that\ngave me such a sense of her _power_.\"\n\nIn regard to intercourse with general society and festive gatherings,\nMary Ware was often drawn to them, not less by a social, genial temper\nthan by a sense of duty. A duty even there she recognized and regarded;\na duty secondary, certainly, to many others, but involving obligation\nwhen other duties came not in the way. She believed that society had\nclaims as well as the family, and pure enjoyment as well as religion.\nHer social sympathies were always calm, but never cold; subdued, but\nardent, and ever ready both to taste and impart pleasure. Her interest\nin children was a passion, and her love of seeing and promoting their\nenjoyment as intense as any we have known. She could ill brook any\nrestraint put upon the freedom and joyousness of the young, beyond the\npoint of propriety or others' comfort. Her own convenience, her rooms,\nher whole house, she would give up, adding her powers of entertainment\nand enjoyment, rather than make life cheerless or religion repulsive.\nMany scenes can we recall of childish glee and hearty frolic, presided\nover, shared, and promoted by both the heads of that house, with which\nare associated some of the happiest hours of life, and the best. We will\nalways thank God that those two hearts, which He was pleased to chasten\nwith many sicknesses and sorrows, were as genial and joyous as they were\npure and humble.\n\nThere was one form of social entertainment--if it deserve the name--with\nwhich Mrs. Ware had no sympathy, and for which she had little charity.\nIndeed, that \"indignation\" which we have seen enkindled by selfishness,\nthough not easily roused, could not always restrain itself in the\nhearing of small gossip or busy _scandal_. We said in the introduction\nto this Memoir, that not a single line or word allied to those petty\nvices have we found in the whole extent of her correspondence, sober or\ntrivial. We are sure the same might be said of her conversation. Nor was\nthis negative only. There was a tone of decided displeasure, and, if\nnecessary, pointed reproof, called forth at times by the spiteful or\nthoughtless scandal-monger. She would not allow that we have a _right_\nto be thoughtless; nor did she believe that we were sent into the world\nto scan a neighbor's conduct or impugn another's motives. In a letter\nwritten at Cambridge to a friend whom she had been to meet in Boston,\nbut with whom her enjoyment had been greatly interrupted, she thus\nexpresses herself.\n\n \"It is only tantalizing to meet in Boston, to fritter away the\n few moments of intercourse which we want for better purposes in\n the idle, profitless gossip of city life. Is it because I have\n so little interest in other people, or is it for a better\n reason, that I have no patience with hearing people descant\n upon the whys and wherefores of their neighbors' concerns;\n discussing their actions with as decided judgment upon their\n merits, as if the secret springs of thought, and all the\n various causes which led to them, were as fully developed to\n us as they can be to the Omniscient only? I know we may learn\n much from others' experience, both in warning and example; and\n to do this, we must closely observe them, and follow or vary\n from their course as our own conscience and judgment may\n dictate. But surely it is not necessary that we should be all\n the time speculating and gossiping with each other, upon every\n portion of the lives of our neighbors, or such portions as\n cannot from their very nature be of any importance to us in any\n way. Is it just to our minds so to employ them? Is it Christian\n charity towards others? I may see clearly my neighbor's faults,\n and if there be any chance of doing him good by it, I may speak\n of them to him freely. I may consult a friend, who I know will\n treat the subject with the same tender feeling that I have\n myself, upon all the views which could result in good to the\n guilty or ourselves. But to talk publicly to any and all about\n the matter, for no possible result but the getting rid of so\n much time, fostering contempt on the one hand and self-conceit\n on the other, seems to me the wickedest abuse of the high\n privilege of speech that I know of, next to absolute falsehood.\n And how often does this habit lead to falsehood, and all manner\n of injustice!... But enough. Perhaps I am too much of a recluse\n to judge justly of the temptations of city life, and am\n committing the very sin which I am condemning. Suffice it to\n say, that thus was my whole comfort in town destroyed, and I\n came home feeling that, so far as regarded our knowledge of\n each other's inner woman, we might as well not have met.\"\n\nWith all the variety of the Cambridge life, there was necessarily a\nsameness which makes it needless to mark every year, or follow exactly\nthe order of events. The chief \"events\" of these twelve years were the\ndeath of one child, the birth of four, and the variations of health and\nsickness to both parents. In the experience of sickness, the year 1836\nbrought one of the sorest visitations. We subjoin Mrs. Ware's account of\nit soon after its occurrence, and her review of the year at its close.\n\n \"_Cambridge, May 29, 1836._\n\n \"MY DEAR N----:\n\n \"... You have heard, no doubt, enough of the outline of our\n story to have traced us in all our outward movements. But you\n cannot know what rich experience the last four months have\n brought to us, and the compass of a letter can tell you little.\n The first stroke was a heavy one. Henry had been very well all\n winter, and had gained a degree of strength and ability to\n labor unharmed, which, in our most sanguine moments, we never\n even hoped for, so that the disappointment was even greater\n than when he was taken ill at Ware, as the height from which he\n fell was greater. He was attacked, for the first time since\n that, upon the lungs; and when, for the first few days, it\n seemed quite reasonable to expect that the consequences, if not\n even more alarming, would be at least as lasting as those which\n followed the former attack, the prospect was heart-sickening.\n It required the industrious use of all the few moments of\n thought I could borrow from my occupations, to gather strength\n enough to nerve me for the calm contemplation of the picture.\n\n \"His own view of the case was a very reasonable one; and the\n calmness with which he looked at the improbability of\n recovery, was at once an aid and a source of high enjoyment to\n me. A few weeks, however, gave us more encouragement; the\n attack was not a severe one, and yielded readily to the\n remedies applied. And although we could not but look forward to\n a long confinement at that season of the year, there was much\n in his state to give us pleasure. His mind is always, when he\n begins to recover, in a very animated state, very active, and\n upon the most entertaining subjects. This time he injured his\n eyes by looking over newspapers and books, in the early part of\n his illness; so that, as soon as my most arduous duties as\n nurse ceased, I had to commence those of reader and amanuensis.\n I never was so literary in my life. I did nothing but read and\n write; nor have I done much else since, for he cannot yet do\n either for himself. Thus passed ten weeks, a period equal to\n our whole residence at Ware and Worcester; and yet, owing to\n the difference of the season, he could not get out of his room\n more than once or twice a week, when he was carried in arms to\n a carriage. At this time, too, I sunk for a short term, not\n with disease, but exhaustion from confinement and incessant\n effort of some kind or other. I soon got rested; but whether\n from the interruption which this caused to Henry's literary\n employments, or because the time had come for a change, I know\n not,--his own animation ceased, and he seemed in danger of\n losing all his energy and strength for the want of air and\n exercise. I had hoped that he would be sent to a warmer region\n as soon as he had strength to get there, for air and exercise\n are always essential to his recovery. But he dragged on, until\n I was not willing to be submissive any longer; and I begged\n that he might go to New York at least, for a city is so much\n more protected than the country, that he could walk there in\n weather that would have kept him in here. I went to New York\n with him, but could not well stay; and as he was in a second\n home there, it did not seem necessary. He came home just in\n time to sit down by a fire during this long storm! It was most\n unlucky, but cannot be helped. Were it possible, I would go off\n with him as soon as the sun shines, to keep him from going to\n work. I never say any thing is _impossible_, but it seems to me\n next to it that I should leave home now. All my five children\n are at home,--to say nothing of not having attended to any of\n my domestic duties since last January;--a little sewing to be\n done, you may fancy. Still, if it is _necessary_ to go, some\n way of effecting it will present itself.\n\n \"Yours in all true love.\n\n \"MARY L. WARE.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Boston, December 31, 1836._\n\n _Saturday Night._\n\n \"MY DEAR N----:\n\n \"What a crowd of recollections rush upon my mind as I date this\n letter! It is nine years since I have affixed 'Boston' to this\n annual epistle; and the last 'Saturday night' which found me\n thus occupied was eleven years ago, at _Osmotherly_, 1825; and\n the last time I wrote the whole date was to a note which\n accompanied a pair of pegged gloves which I sat up till\n midnight to finish for your brother, in 1814. What an\n interesting and varied picture do these dates present to my\n mind's eye, and how many remembrances are associated with them\n of joy and sorrow, of trial and happiness! I could willingly\n spend hours in recalling all in detail, and I feel as if it\n would do us both good, should I do so; for I find that, in the\n full occupation of the present, the lessons of the past are\n losing their power over me. Their voice cannot be heard in the\n busy bustle of life; and it is only at a few favored moments\n like these, when all creation within and around us pauses, as\n it were, before taking another onward step towards eternity,\n that we can hear their distant, solemn murmur. It is good,\n then, to turn our hearts to the teaching, and to fix in them\n more deeply the warning and encouragement which we may thus\n receive....\n\n \"I have been led lately to think more than usual of the past,\n by Mrs. B----'s death. I believe I do not exaggerate when I\n rest in the idea that she was a woman of rare powers to\n interest and influence those around her. My own recollections\n bring with them a sense of almost romantic enthusiasm with\n regard to her; and I am quite sure that I owe as much of my\n conception of the _loveliness_ of a truly religious being to\n her exhibition of it, as to any one other source. With the\n thought of her in her glory, comes the remembrance of many who\n have been taken from time to time from our communion; and it\n amazes me to find how large is their number. How soon will it\n be, that it will become a rare thing to meet one of the\n companions of our childhood!... Perhaps I generalize too much\n from my own individual experience; but I find it so difficult\n to keep before my eyes the uncertainty of life, or to feel as I\n would do the _reality_ of the spiritual world, so busy am I\n with the occupations of this material one, that I should like\n to be recalled to the subject by some irresistible voice every\n hour of the day.\n\n \"I have spent this evening in our old church at the North End,\n for the first time upon this occasion since I lived in Sheafe\n Street, when Henry preached; and as I look back upon the\n experience I have had since that time, it seems to me I have\n little hope of ever being what I ought to be, when all this has\n had so little effect.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_January 9._ Yesterday, heard Dr. Channing preach and\n administer the communion, the latter of which is more to me\n than even his best sermons, so great is the power of\n association.... I find I almost lose sight of some of my best\n _pleasures_, when I have been for any length of time free from\n great _trial_. In truth, all this nomenclature is wrong. Ease\n and prosperity make our greatest trial; we are never more\n blessed than when we are said to be in affliction. It is\n remarkable, that not one year has passed since I began this\n custom of recording to you these mercies, that there has not\n been some striking one on the list. What is to come this year?\n God knows; and in this I can rest satisfied. Henry's eyes are\n useless, and mine still in requisition; of course I do nothing\n else, except at odd moments, when he is away or asleep.\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nMr. Ware's severe illness at this period seems to have been a crisis;\nfor the two following years, both with him and her, were probably the\nbest of all they passed at Cambridge, in their freedom from sickness,\ntheir ability to work, and the amount of their work. We connect them in\nthis respect, for it is not easy to separate their spheres and agencies,\neven in regard to his professional labors. Of course, we mean to imply\nnothing as to any special mental aid, for no woman ever made less\npretension, or less attempt, at any thing more than could be done by\nevery sensible and interested mind. But so completely did she enter into\nall his engagements, so constantly did she watch the degree of his\nstrength and the effect of his exertions, and so often was she called to\nassist him directly, as reader or writer, from the failure of his eyes\nand his frequent debility, that her cooperation was not wholly a figure\nof speech. Then, too, her heart was as much enlisted in the welfare and\nsuccess of his pupils in the Theological School, as it had been in his\nBoston parish. All that she had a right to know, she did know; all that\na woman and friend could do for those pupils, in sympathy, counsel,\nencouragement, or personal aid, she invariably did. A son, then a member\nof the School, says of her: \"As a Professor's wife, I do not think\nfather's heart was more in the School than was hers. I suspect she knew\nevery thing about it, and was his constant assistant and counsellor. How\nmuch directly she had to do with the young men, I cannot say. They were\nencouraged to be at the house, came to tea constantly by invitation, and\nin all sicknesses she cared for them; especially M---- and B----, who\nwere brought to the house, and C----, and also an undergraduate, sick.\nShe did what she could for the destitute among them; and I remember her\ngetting shirts made, &c., &c. I remember, too, the delicate way in which\nI was sent, on a cold New Year's evening, with a large bundle to an\nundergraduate who was friendless and penniless.\" There are others, and\nmany, who could tell much more; and whose recollections of her delicate\nsympathy, generous aid, and unpretending goodness, will hardly suffer\nthem to speak of her, but with silent tears. They felt her _moral_\npower; and all the more, because she seemed utterly unconscious of it.\n\"Never have I been with her,\" writes one, who says he had but a common\nacquaintance, \"no matter how short the time or slight the occasion,\nwithout the feeling of greater elevation of soul. I never knew one of\nwhom this were truer. Virtue came out of her.\" And he only adds, of one\nconnected with him, \"Even now the thought of Mrs. Ware moves her more\nthan the presence of any living friend.\"\n\nWhile writing these passages, we have received the testimony of another\nof those students, more extended, but too pertinent and valuable to be\nabridged.\n\n \"The members of the Theological School were always sure of her\n sympathy. They went to her as they would to an elder sister.\n There was something peculiarly engaging and attractive about\n her, which we all felt, but could not well understand. Yet she\n did not encourage, as some kind-hearted women do, the morbid\n sensibilities of young men, which, even while apparently\n depreciating their own powers, almost always have their origin\n in an exaggerated egotism or some masked form of selfishness.\n Mrs. Ware's peculiar excellence was, that, without encouraging\n such a state of mind and without repelling those who had\n cherished it, she, by the healthiness of her own mind and the\n cheerful disinterestedness of her character, dissolved the\n gloomy spell, and sent away her visitors with new hope and\n life. It was the atmosphere in which she lived, more than any\n particular words or acts, that made her presence in Cambridge\n so attractive, and so beneficent to the young at that period of\n life when they are likely to be in a morbid condition. To go\n from our rooms to her house, when we had got discouraged or\n worn down, was like going into a different climate. And we\n went back, like invalids who have been spending a winter at the\n South, with new vitality in our veins.\n\n \"While connected with the School, in 1834, I had a short but\n violent attack of brain fever. I was in Divinity Hall, and very\n kindly taken care of by my associates in the School, who did\n for me every thing that young men know how to do in such a\n case. After a few days, Mrs. Ware came to see me. The bare\n sight of her countenance, and the sweet, gentle tones of her\n voice, I shall never forget. They changed the whole aspect of\n the room. As soon as it could be done, I was removed to her\n house. And the delicacy of her touch, as in my helplessness she\n washed my hands and face, with the air of motherly cheerfulness\n and tenderness, was to my diseased nerves like the ministry of\n one from a better world. During the months of confinement and\n extreme debility which succeeded, the remembrance of her\n kindness was a constant source of comfort, and I cannot now\n recall it without deep and grateful emotion.\"\n\nIn connection with exertions for others, it is but just to refer again\nto the laborious efforts, self-denial, and perpetual solicitude, to\nwhich Mrs. Ware was driven, at home, in regard to pecuniary means. The\ndifficulty came at last to its height. They found it impossible to live\nas they did, and yet impossible to retrench more than they always had.\nWe would not speak of this so freely, did we not feel--beside the light\nit throws upon character and results--that it is due to the professors\nand ministers of all denominations, whose energies are crippled, and\npower of serving as well as enjoying sadly abridged, by the conflicting\nfacts of unreasonable demand and incompetent support. Those of us who do\nnot suffer, and are only grateful, have the better right to speak for\nothers; and we speak in the memory, and as by the authority, of those\ntwo unsparing and noble workers, whose sentiments on the subject we well\nknow, and whose power of usefulness should never have been hampered, as\nit often was, by the want of means which hundreds were both able and\nwilling to furnish. Yes, willing; for it is no want of _generosity_ that\nwe speak of; were we capable of that injustice, especially in the\ncommunity and the family under review, we should expect almost to hear\nthe reproof of the departed ones, whose gratitude was as intense as\ntheir solicitude. Not for themselves did they feel, but for others; for\nthe School, for the ministry; for the students who were prevented from\nentering the School, or forced to leave it, by poverty and the fear of\ndebt, some of whom were retained only by promises of aid, whose\nfulfilment cost added labor and wearing anxiety. There is better\nprovision now, we know; ample provision for those willing to accept it.\nStill are there wants and straits in the actual ministry which are not\nduly considered. And this it is that is needed,--not generosity in the\nfew, but consideration in the many, and the cooperation of all. If the\ninstitutions of the Gospel are worth having, they are worth supporting.\nIf young men are expected to engage in a service that becomes every year\nmore perplexed and exacting, they must be able to see a fair prospect of\nsuch remuneration and sympathy as will at least set them free from\nworldly anxiety. We believe that in no one way can the ministry be more\nstrengthened and elevated, than by a consideration and provision, not\nextravagant, not large, not perhaps proportioned to the labor and reward\nof other callings, but _sure_; and sufficient, while it imposes the\nnecessity of all the exertion, prudence, simplicity, and sacrifice that\nshould be expected and be seen in the service of CHRIST, to save from\nall depression, and the necessity of other pursuits.\n\nIs this a digression? No; for it entered into the daily thought, and\naffected the life, not only of Henry Ware, but equally of her whose life\nwas his, and whose spirit was always striving to allay his fears, and\nnurse his powers and resources. Reluctantly did she consent to his\ntaking upon himself new burdens and extended responsibilities, as he did\nin 1838, when his father resigned to him his active duties, by a liberal\narrangement made for both of them. \"While this makes us very grateful,\"\nshe writes, \"it involves more anxiety about health; but we will trust.\"\n\nJust at the time of these new offices and brighter hopes on the one\nhand, and increased labor and danger on the other, a heavy affliction\nfell upon them both, in the sudden death of a sister; the first death in\nthirty years of an adult member of that family, from which six have\nsince gone to the spirit-land. Ought any considerations to prevent our\ngiving to others the Christian thoughts and high affections called forth\nfrom Mrs. Ware by that event? They were many and comforting. Some she\nthus expressed to Mrs. Allen, a surviving sister. \"The more I dwell\nupon what she was, of what she was capable, and how deeply she suffered\nfrom the mere load of humanity, the more I am thankful that the season\nof discipline is over, the more I rejoice at the thought of what she is\nnow enjoying. Can we conceive of a higher bliss than that which must be\nexperienced by a soul of such capacities as hers, which has struggled,\nas we believe, most strenuously with temptation both within and without\nwhile here, freed at last for ever from the burden of the flesh,\nthrowing off all obstacles to its progress in a purer state, _bounding_\nforward to perfection? O, who would recall her here, even for the best\nhappiness which this world could give her? But we are yet too earthly to\npart with our treasures without suffering. It is meant that we should\nsuffer. It is a part, a most important object, of the dispensation; the\ninevitable consequence, too, of that which we esteem the best blessing\nof our existence,--our capacity for the exercise of the affections. It\nseems as if so great an event as I feel this to be must have great\nobjects; and who can doubt that the improvement of those who suffer by\nit is the principal one? I have never felt this so deeply with regard to\nany event that ever happened to me in life. I have never had so loud, so\nimperious a call. O my God, give me grace to profit by this call, to be\nmade better by the mental exercises to which it has given rise!\"\n\nAt the end of 1838 we find Mary very happy, in gratitude for the past\nand cheerful hopes of the future, with sober but not sad thoughts of the\nrecent sorrow.\n\n \"_Cambridge, December 31, 1838._\n\n \"MY DEAR N----:\n\n \"... O that blessed thing, Faith,--faith in the truth of\n friendship! Among other changes, I have not yet grown old\n enough to lose my youthful faith in those I love; and between\n you and me, I begin to suspect that I never shall. I certainly\n do not find myself, at forty, one whit nearer misanthropy than\n I was at sixteen. Is this symptomatic of folly at the very\n core? Or is it only the effect of my superior good luck in\n life? Whatever it may be, I bless God for it, for I find in it\n too much happiness to be willing to regret it, even if it be a\n weakness.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_January 9._ Just so far had I got, when I found my eyes so\n dim and my head so giddy that I was compelled to go to bed. And\n there have I been most of the time since, quite sick with one\n of my old attacks upon the lungs, which threatened to keep me\n there the rest of the winter, if it did not end in lung fever,\n so obstinate and violent was my cough.... I have been living in\n the past very much lately, from having many of Harriet's\n letters to read. Some of them, written in Exeter, have brought\n before my mind people of whom I had not thought for years; and\n circumstances having intimate connection with events in which I\n was immediately interested at the time, have unfolded a long\n and beautiful page of life before me, which I seldom have\n opportunity to recall. O that Past! what stores of wisdom and\n happiness are not laid up in it! Why should it be that the busy\n bustle of the Present hides it so much from our sight? Should\n we not, by an effort, give ourselves more to its retrospection,\n that we may profit more by its teaching?...\n\n \"But here we are, dear N., at the end of another year,\n certainly not growing younger, yet I think not at all losing\n our capacity for enjoying. So far from it, I am surprised to\n find, that, while with regard to some things my happiness\n becomes more and more every day a sober certainty, it does not\n in the least diminish my susceptibility of enjoyment from any\n new source that chances to present itself from day to day. In\n fact, it is a much more agreeable thing to grow old than I\n expected to find it. This is not strange, you may say, in my\n case, whose blessings increase with every year. Truly it is so,\n and I never felt it more than at this present. Never since I\n was married could I look back upon a year of such freedom from\n sickness in my own family; never was my husband so well for the\n same length of time in his preaching life; and if I had no more\n to be grateful for than my precious baby, who has been nothing\n but a comfort ever since she was born, that is enough for one\n year. One sad blight has passed over us, and it has indeed\n solemnized our hearts, and made us feel, as we never felt\n before, by how slight a tenure we hold all earthly blessings.\n But these afflictions serve to make us more grateful for those\n blessings which cannot be taken away.\n\n \"O, how I do wish you were within talking distance, that I\n might know whether you feel as I do about bringing up children.\n I have no comfort yet in my management of my little ones. I\n have not yet got upon the right track, and begin to think I\n never shall. Lucy comes and comforts me a little now and then,\n and if I had her power I should no doubt have her success; but\n that makes all the difference in the world.\n\n \"Yours ever, in true love.\n\n \"M. L. W.\"\n\nAnother year closed its record with similar expressions of thankfulness,\nthough we see that it brought sickness and discipline. But these are\nnot spoken of as trials; for Mrs. Ware appears in fact, as well as in\nword, to have caused sickness to change its name and its face. It had\nbecome to her a friend, whose absence she almost dreaded. \"It is so long\nsince I have had the slightest physical drawback, that I had almost\nforgotten that I could be other than strong. I am glad to be reminded\nthat I am not free from the common lot in this respect; in truth, that I\nam to be subject to the salutary discipline which the prospect of\ncertain suffering and weakness, with all their possible consequences,\nbrings to the soul.\" She had great faith in the relation of events to\neach other. She looked upon nothing in the providence of God as either\naccidental or insulated; every thing had a design and a connection. \"If\nany one thing more than any other strikes me powerfully as I advance in\nlife, gaining confirmation from every day's experience, it is the\nbeautiful adaptation of circumstances to accomplish the great object of\nexistence, each succeeding event pointing to some end which the other\nevents of life have not particularly aimed at. It seems as if we had\nonly to keep our vision clear, to find around us all the teaching which\nwe can possibly need to bring us to perfection.\" She had not much\nrespect for the common view of \"circumstances,\" as securing all the good\nand accounting for all the evil in men's conduct and character. To her\nmind, the responsibility was as great of turning adverse circumstances\nto good account, as of using well the most favoring and prosperous\ncondition. Yet here she dealt more severely with herself than with any\none else; too severely sometimes, as may be the case with all\nconscientious sufferers who are at the same time conscientious workers.\nThey exact too much of their own frames. They make too little allowance\nfor those natural limits and occasional weaknesses, for which many minds\nallow too much. Most of us suffer the body to be master, where it should\nbe servant; while they of whom we speak are apt to forget that the body\n_will_ sometimes rule, and affect the mind unfavorably yet helplessly.\nThere are various intimations, some of which we have seen already, that\nMrs. Ware was not free from all errors or dangers of this kind, though\nshe soon detected them. After a short visit to Mrs. Paine, in 1839, she\nsays of it: \"I did enjoy my visit to you hugely; I do enjoy it now even\nmore; for I was fighting all the time with an evil demon within in the\nshape of an uncommonly violent attack of 'Mary Pickardism,' making me\nfeel that I might as well be out of the world as in it. But that is\nover; and I have learnt from it that our minds are more frequently under\nthe control of our _physique_, than we, in our pride, are very willing\nto admit.\"\n\nThe season of exemption and favor continues; not without qualifications\nand exceptions, as others might think them, but without serious\ninterruption to the labors or joys of Mr. and Mrs. Ware. And we see the\neffect of it in the pleasant and playful mood of the next letter.\n\n \"_Cambridge, January 1, 1841, 1.20 o'clock, A.M._\n\n \"MY DEAR N----:\n\n \"There is some difference truly between a solitary spinster\n sitting in her quiet parlor with her desk before her, pen in\n hand, without a shadow of a hope or fear of interruption from\n any demand of domestic duty or pleasure, and the mother of\n seven children, one of them a most agreeable youth of six\n months, with a husband and nurse to boot, to be looked after\n and taken care of. For instance, after a vain attempt to get\n all the new year's presents finished and arrayed in due order\n before the clock should strike twelve upon the 31st of\n December, 1840, I was obliged at the first date to content\n myself with just recording the hour with one hand, while the\n other held in durance the two hands of the above-named youth,\n who had been for the previous hour exercising his utmost power\n of fascinating blandishment to attract and monopolize my\n attention. And now I must re-date, _One o'clock, P. M., January\n 3d_, being my very first moment, since the aforesaid date, that\n I could in conscience give to the luxurious employment of\n writing to you. I think the said little (or, rather, large)\n gentleman had a strong desire to write to you himself, or he\n would not have been so remarkably wakeful upon that occasion;\n but I chose to enact the part of the dog in the manger,--if I\n could not do it myself, I would not let him. He is a most\n bewitching creature, by the way, and there is no telling what\n you may have lost by my selfishness. Nothing can be sweeter\n than a healthy, bright child of his age; there is certainly\n something far beyond the mere animal in the enjoyment we derive\n from such a creature. I am sometimes tempted, when I watch the\n animated expression of his little visage, to go all lengths\n with the modern spiritualists, and believe that there is a\n higher sense and fuller knowledge of the deep things of heaven\n inclosed in that little casket now, than can be found in it\n after the wisdom of the world has entered there....\n\n \"O, how the business of life thickens as one goes onward! I\n sometimes wish I knew whether there is ever to be such a thing\n as _rest_ in this life for me, wherein to breathe a little more\n freely, and feel it right to forget, for a moment at least, the\n care of the earthly. Or I should like still better to know how\n far it is practicable to keep one's mind at ease, and yet do\n all that ought to be done. It does not seem as if it could have\n been intended that we should be the careworn drudges that most\n of us are, hardly giving ourselves time to enjoy the sight of\n the beautiful world around us, or know any thing of that within\n us. I have often great misgivings upon the subject, much\n doubting whether it is not, after all, more my bad management\n than the necessity of the case, which makes me so pressed from\n want of time to do what I wish. But I have looked around and\n within in vain for a remedy for the evil.\n\n \"I am just where I was a year ago, only a little more involved\n from having one child more, and that one that cannot be tended\n by any one who is not tolerably sizable herself. This is not as\n it should be, (not my baby, but my incessant occupation,) and I\n feel the evil effect upon my intellectual and physical\n too,--the one becomes utterly empty, the other too crowded.\n Thought is free, happily, but one uses up the material for\n thought if not refreshed by outward subjects occasionally; or\n rather one's thoughts take too uniform a track, and become\n morbid. I should like to peep into some other person's mind and\n see how the land lies; one is apt to think that no one is as\n wicked as himself, but perhaps the same causes lead to the same\n results. It would be a comfort to know, upon the old principle,\n that 'misery loves company.' Yours,\n\n \"MARY.\"\n\nA change was approaching. The favored interval had been unusually long,\nand an amount of work had been accomplished of which we attempt not to\ngive an idea. It had been to Mrs. Ware, as to her husband, a \"golden\nage,\" in vigor, labor, and enjoyment. In the family, the school, and the\ncommunity, both were busy, both happy. There was no diminution of care,\nrather an increase with an increasing family, unnumbered visitors, and\ninterruptions, engagements, and claims, of every possible kind. But all\nthis went on easily and naturally. A casual observer would not be likely\nto see that there was much done, or to be done. There was no hurry, no\napparent exertion. Each caller or claimant was received so quietly, and\nlistened to so patiently, that he might have thought he was the only\none, or the favored. To be sure, Mrs. Ware felt, as we have seen, that\nthere was no such thing as rest, nor time to do the half that she would.\nBut very few saw the feeling, and it prevented neither her own serenity\nnor others' enjoyment. Very grateful did she feel for her husband's\ncontinued health and active usefulness. At the same time, we can see\nthat her experienced eye and watchful heart discovered symptoms of\ncoming change,--as in passages of her letters of different dates.\n\n \"_December 31, 1841._ I look at my husband with a sort of\n wonder, to find that another whole year has passed without any\n serious consequences to his health. I dare not look forward for\n him, for it seems presumption to expect that he can be long\n exempt. His duties are very perplexing from their variety, and\n I think the effect upon his system, by harassing his mind, is\n really worse than a greater amount of labor would be upon a\n more concentrated and satisfactory object. He is the greater\n part of the time in that dragging, half-sick state, which\n leaves neither freedom of mind nor comfort of body. I often\n think he could be happier, and do in fact more good, in a\n parish, than here; and were it not that men at his time of life\n get to be too old-fashioned and 'conservative,' as the phrase\n is, to suit the rising generation, I should hope he might yet\n end his days in the vocation which he best loves. I would not\n have you suspect me of a discontented spirit; but my heart\n leaps at the idea of parish-meetings in my own parlor, and\n other _pastoreen_ enjoyments. But I have no care about the\n future, other than that which one must have,--a desire to\n fulfil the duties which it may bring.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_January 16, 1842._ I have been prevented by all sorts of\n things from finishing this; it is not worth while to enumerate\n them. I will only say, that for the last fortnight I have had\n little thought or time for any thing but preparing my husband\n for a six weeks' absence. Not that I had so very much to do for\n him (although it is a different thing to poor folks, to live\n where their clothes can be mended every day, or must go without\n mending for six weeks); but he has been very unwell lately, and\n I am so little accustomed to the idea of his going away sick\n without going with him, that I found it very hard to bring my\n mind to submit to it. I did not feel quite clear whether it\n would be right to let him go, in the hope that change of scene\n and occupation would do him good, or to prevent it from fear\n that the necessity of the case would tempt him to exert\n himself, whether he was able or not. However, he has gone; and\n went too upon the anniversary of dear Dr. Follen's loss. But I\n have heard of his safe arrival in pretty good case, and I hope\n for the best. Yet I am a very baby at the prospect of so long a\n separation. Truly one's affections do not become blunted by\n age,--do they?\"\n\nWhat _her_ affections were appears in the letter which she had already\nwritten to her husband,--written in fact the very night of the day he\nleft her; for her heart was full. Its quick, keen sensibilities told her\nthat this was more than a common parting. Seldom had Mr. Ware gone from\nhome since they were married, without being sick, or without her going\nto him. And though she had not the least superstition, nor even indulged\ngloomy apprehensions, she held herself ready for the worst, and saw\nreason at this time to expect some decided result from such a journey in\nmid-winter, with all that had preceded it. Before she slept, therefore,\nshe gave utterance to the emotions--prayers and blessings we might call\nthem--which were yearning within her.\n\n \"_Cambridge, January 12, 1842, 1/2 past 11._\n\n \"DEAR HENRY:--\n\n \"And you are really gone! And notwithstanding I have looked\n forward to this moment for so long a time, and, as I thought,\n realized over and over again all that I should feel when it\n should arrive, I am ashamed to find how little all my\n anticipations have prepared me for it. I do not mean to\n overwhelm you with an outpouring of all my woman's weakness,\n but I could not go to bed without saying, 'Good night to you,\n dearest.' I have a quiet faith that all is well with you, and I\n have much hope that this expedition will result in good to your\n mind and body both. I can say from my heart, 'God speed you!'\n And the thought that His care is over you reconciles me to\n having you withdrawn from mine, as nothing else could do. I\n feel that, in your absence, great responsibilities rest upon\n me, and I cannot therefore go to my solitary chamber for the\n first time without many solemn and affecting thoughts. But my\n hopes are bright, and my confidence unshaken; and I can send my\n mind forward with a cheerful trust, although the tear will come\n to my eye. So good night, again. I know your thoughts are with\n me, as mine with you, and that this union in the spirit can\n never cease, whatever may betide our outward being.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Friday Evening, 14th._ Thanks for your letter,--and many most\n grateful thanks to the Giver of all good for your safety! It\n could not be but that the recollection of the past should be\n present to our minds; it was good that it should be so, and I\n trust it has not been without great blessing to our souls. For\n myself, I almost feared that I was a little superstitious, or\n rather inclined to forebode evil; for I feel so much that we\n have been peculiarly blessed in having so many times had\n threatened evils averted, that, upon every new exposure, I find\n I am inclined to think it is presumption to expect exemption\n this time; and I never felt this more strongly than now. I hope\n I have behaved well outwardly. I have tried to do so, but the\n struggle has been very great. This experience is a new lesson\n of trust and comfort for us. May it have its due influence!\n\n \"Farewell. Blessings be with you!\n\n \"M. L. WARE.\"\n\nThe result of the visit to New York is known. Mrs. Ware had not\nover-estimated the importance of the period. It was a crisis. The second\nSunday of her husband's absence was the last time that he ever attempted\nto preach. He was attacked in the pulpit with bleeding, as he supposed\nfrom the lungs, and did not finish the service. It was the end of his\ncareer as a preacher, and the extinction of many bright hopes in those\nunited minds and devoted hearts. For to Mrs. Ware, also, was this a\ndisappointment of cherished purposes, not simply as his wife, but from\nher own fervid interest in the Christian ministry, and her sympathy with\nthe aspirations and the struggles of those engaged, or about to engage,\nin this great work.\n\nHer account of the change, and other changes that followed, closing the\nCambridge life, may be best given in extracts from various letters,\nwhich will constitute a journal of the time.\n\n \"_March, 1842._ Mr. Ware had not been well for two months\n previous to his going to New York; no difficulty upon the\n lungs,--simply out of order from too close and wearisome\n attention to a vexatious variety of duty, having no rest, and\n not time enough to do any thing well. His system seemed\n disarranged, and he thought he should be most benefited by\n going away, changing the scene entirely, and obtaining rest to\n mind and body. He went. Every letter spoke of improvement, and\n I had made up my mind, that, in spite of all my fears, he was\n doing the best possible thing. So I said to his father on\n Sunday evening; and on Monday I received his letter, telling\n me of his having been taken in church with raising blood. Of\n course I went immediately to him, arriving at his lodgings at\n nine, Tuesday morning. The weather was very mild, and the\n uncertainty of its continuing so made me anxious to get him\n home. After some reluctance on the part of his physician had\n been overcome, we decided to return that day. So, after\n spending eight hours in New York, I turned my face homeward,\n and in forty hours after leaving my own door landed at it with\n my precious charge, none the worse for the journey. You may\n suppose it all seemed a dream to me. It was, however, a sad\n reality to him, a _very_ sad disappointment.... Your picture of\n 'rest' is a beautiful vision,--one which many of our friends\n have brought before our eyes at this time. But what can a man\n do, with seven children, and only his own hands to depend upon?\n I scruple not to say, that a ten-foot house, and bread and\n water diet, with the sense of rest to _him_, would be a luxury,\n and I trust some door will be opened to us by which we shall\n obtain it. Now he is tied, bound hand and foot; and if he does\n not die in the bonds, it is more than any one has a right to\n calculate upon. How various the trials of life! and how\n difficult always to feel that elasticity of spirit which is\n needful to make one as cheerful as we ought to be at all\n times!\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_May 1, 1842._ You will hear in a few days of the change that\n has come to us. I have been entirely satisfied, ever since last\n October, that it must come to this, and I felt, the sooner\n Henry stopped, the better for him. But the utter uncertainty as\n to the future support of such a large family, and a reluctance\n to leave his father's side in his declining years, important as\n he is to his parent's comfort, could not but make him\n deliberate.... And now, dear Nancy, we are once more afloat on\n the world's wide sea. You will easily guess how much there is\n of deep, soul-stirring emotion in all this, and how much more\n there must be before we quit for ever our dearly loved home,\n rendered doubly dear by the hours of sickness and sacred sorrow\n experienced in it. What will be our destination, I know not. We\n have some plans, but the execution of any must depend upon\n contingencies now hidden from us. The first thing to be thought\n of is Mr. Ware's restoration to health; and had we the means, I\n should like to spend a week or two in riding about home, or in\n little excursions, giving him the opportunity of doing what he\n could by conversation for the class about to leave the School.\n Should he ever get well, there are some possible projects\n already presented which would support us, but in the mean time\n all is dark,--that is, we know nothing about it. I am satisfied\n that we have done _right_, and I am ready for the consequences,\n be they what they may. I am not as strong as I once was to meet\n hard labor, but I am willing to work to the extent of my\n ability; and I know that no amount of bodily labor can be so\n wearisome as the mental struggle of the last two years. I feel\n as if I could meet any thing better than seeing my husband\n declining; can he only be spared, no matter what comes. Do not\n think that I am unmindful of the difficulties which poverty\n brings,--the hindrances to the satisfactory education of\n children, the loss of intellectual privileges, and the wear and\n tear to the spirit by the uncertainties of daily supply for\n even the necessary wants of life. I understand it all; and I\n know that in all there is useful discipline for heaven, and I\n think for my children, that, if the means of one kind of\n education are denied them, they may in other ways gain the\n essentials for spiritual life more readily. I cannot distrust\n or doubt the good providence of God under all circumstances;\n how can I, after the experience I have had in life?... If Mr.\n Ware and I should ride off anywhere, it will probably be\n towards Worcester. O the money, the money! what can be done\n without money! I have written to the end of my paper, and all\n about self; but I have much to say about other things.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_May 8, 1842._ I have tried in vain, dear Emma, to find time\n and ability to answer your kind notes, for I have longed to\n tell you something of the mighty movement which has been going\n on within our little domestic world, as well as to satisfy you\n of Mr. Ware's gradual progress towards health. But for the\n first three weeks of his sickness, his case demanded my\n undivided attention; and since the day he wrote his letter of\n resignation, I have been, with the exception of three 'poor\n days,' sick myself. Not made sick by that fact, I beg you to\n understand,--unless the reaction of relief from anxiety might\n make one sick, and the exhilaration consequent upon it act too\n powerfully upon the nervous system. It is indeed an\n unspeakable relief to my mind, and I could see that it was also\n to Henry, for he began to improve at once when the deed was\n done. It is a great step, at our time of life, with so large a\n family, and so little substantial health in the acting portion\n of it, to be launched forth upon the wide world to obtain a\n support we know not how. But of what use is experience, of what\n value is faith, if they cannot enable one to meet the changes\n of life without fear?... I have been quite sick, having had a\n sudden and severe attack threatening fever. I felt for a little\n while as if I could _not_ have one of my long sicknesses just\n at this juncture, as if I was for once too important a person\n to be laid upon the shelf, and I never was more truly thankful\n than when I found myself relieved by the first applications. I\n have not yet been down stairs, but expect to ride to-morrow, if\n it is pleasant. The breaking up will be severe, I know; but I\n think I am prepared for it. It is not the first time that the\n strong ties which bind me always to my _home_ have been\n severed. And although I have never before felt so much that my\n home was indeed my own creation, the thought that it is _right_\n to leave it, and the oppression of spirit which the last two\n years have witnessed here, reconcile me to all the suffering in\n prospect. Don't think me a romancer, that I can feel joyous\n when I know not how we are to be fed and clothed. If God gives\n me strength, I am willing to work, and prefer that my children\n should be obliged to; and I have no fears but that, _if we do\n the best we can_, God will take care of us. He has many agents\n of mercy.\"\n\nMr. Ware was able to remain in office the rest of the theological term,\nand to carry through the graduating class, with whom his last exercises\nwere deeply affecting. Very soon after this, in the summer of 1842, the\nfamily left Cambridge; having fixed upon Framingham, Mass., as their\nplace of retreat, after looking at many places, and weighing all\nconsiderations of position and expense.\n\nOf the last days in Cambridge, we have obtained the recollections of\ntheir oldest son, himself a member of the class just spoken of, as the\nlast that enjoyed the instruction and benediction of his father. We give\nthe account in his own unstudied words.\n\n \"That last summer was a very pleasant one, as I remember it.\n Things were very much as ever; if any thing, the little social\n gatherings of neighbors were more frequent, as all felt they\n must be few. The drives with father to find a place, the\n selection of Framingham, the pilgrimages there, occupied a good\n deal of the time, as also the gradual preparation, and the many\n adieus. The 'breaking up' was one of the gravest trials of\n mother's life. Thoroughly convinced of its necessity, looking\n forward to it as a relief in all ways, yet the whole summer was\n tinged by the thought of it. I remember long talks; one in\n particular, in which she drew nearer to me and I to her. I\n think that, feeling obliged to keep up before father, she\n yearned to confide in us. When it came to the last, it was\n hard. The children and all were gone. Mother, father, and I\n were left, and I was to be left, for I was just going into the\n world myself. The wagon was at the door. Father got in, merely\n wringing my hand, but most deeply moved. I could see it and\n feel it. If he had spoken, it would have been more than he\n could bear. I never till that moment imagined, so feverish had\n been his desire to get away, how much his heart was in that\n spot. Mother was behind, and had got down one step, when she\n turned round and threw her arms about my neck, and there we\n stood. It was one of the _moments_ of life. 'God bless you, my\n child!' I have heard her say it many times, but it never meant\n more. Father could not bear it. He urged her away; the horse\n started at his quick word; I was alone,--and that chapter of\n life was ended! We never all three of us entered Cambridge\n together again, until the night that mother and I brought with\n us from Framingham 'the last of earth.'\n\n \"Since writing this, I have chanced upon father's first letter\n afterward. He says: 'The struggle at the last moment was a hard\n one; but we got composed after a while, and then found\n ourselves excessively overcome with weariness.'\"\n\n\n\n\nXII.\n\nLIFE IN FRAMINGHAM.\n\n\nIt is no cause of regret that the narrative of a married woman's life\ncannot be separated from that of her husband. The biographer may regret\nthe necessity of referring to familiar facts, and sometimes using\nmaterials already in possession of the public. But more sorry should we\nbe if the history of the _wife_ could be drawn out by itself; especially\nthat history of every-day life, and idea of the inner being, which we\nare attempting to give. Few women, in our community, and with \"troops of\nfriends,\" have been more thrown upon themselves at an early age, or have\nled a more truly single life until life's meridian, than did Mary\nPickard. But the moment she became Mary Ware she lived for another,--as\nunreservedly and devotedly as woman ever did. Principle and affection\nalone would have prompted this, as a pleasure; the circumstances in\nwhich she was placed, from first to last, made it a duty, and still a\ndelight. And more and more, as years passed, did the duty and the\ndelight grow, tinged only by the sad thought of _his_ premature failure\nand sore disappointment.\n\nIt, is a small trial to be summoned from one sphere of duty to another;\neven if it cost the disruption of many ties, still if it be a call of\nduty, with continued power of activity and usefulness, it is not to be\ncalled a hardship. It surely is no evil, but rather a privilege, for the\nfaithful laborer to die at his post, with his harness on. But to die and\nyet to live, to have one's chosen work broken off for ever, and the\nstrong, disinterested love of labor forbidden all exercise, with the\nprospect of years of helplessness at the best, perhaps protracted\nsuffering and a dependent family,--this is trial, calling for as much of\nfortitude and faith as humanity often requires. It may be partiality\nwhich leads us to doubt whether there was ever _more_ of fortitude and\nfaith, in similar condition, than in the hearts of Henry and Mary Ware,\nas they turned their back upon the fond scenes of their labor, and, with\nthe unavoidable consciousness of high qualification as well as\naffection, withdrew from all public service and peculiar trust. Nor is\nit too much to assume, that, while on him pressed most heavily the\nburden of responsibility and the grief of incapacity, it was to the wife\nand the mother that there came most loudly the call for exertion, for\ncheerful courage, a wise diligence, and unfaltering trust.\n\nThe village to which they retired was chosen partly for its seclusion\ncombined with convenience, and partly for economy. In relation to the\nlast, their anxieties were now relieved by a generous contribution from\nfriends, whom it would have been wrong to refuse; though similar offers\nhad been made and declined before, as we ought to have said in referring\nto their embarrassments. So long as there was the power of exertion, or\na reasonable hope of it, Mr. Ware could not bring himself to accept any\nmere favors of this kind,--seldom so grateful as a fair requital for\nwilling service and acknowledged ability. But now that the power of\nexertion was suspended, duty to those nearest, as well as gratitude to\npersevering benefactors, made him more than willing. \"I have got rid,\nthrough the kindness of excellent friends, of all distressful anxiety\nfor the living of my family; I can leave them in comparative peace; in\nthat sense, my house is set in order.\" Thus did Mr. Ware write to his\nbrother John, in that earnest letter in which he begs him, as a\nphysician, to deal frankly with him, and tell him the whole truth as to\nthe probability of his recovery or decline. And this was the state of\nmind in which the life at Framingham began, and continued to the end,--a\nstate of suspense, entire uncertainty, unwillingness to be idle, but\ninability to enter confidently upon any plan, or engage vigorously in\nany employment. There is little, therefore, to be told of this period,\nin regard to occupation or incident. We can only show in what spirit\nMrs. Ware met this new trial,--to many minds the hardest of all,--living\nwithout an object, yet striving to live cheerfully, busily, and\nprofitably.\n\nThis may be shown best by giving brief extracts from her letters,\nwritten during the first season of their residence there.\n\n \"_July 30, 1842._ My dear Mrs. F----: You will be glad to know\n that we find ourselves very comfortable here. The house is\n exceedingly well adapted to our purpose; and though the\n externals of life are comparatively small matters with respect\n to happiness, in health, there are cases of sickness in which\n they must be of importance. It is a great comfort to me, in the\n present case, that our outward appliances are such as will aid\n the chief object for which we have made this change. I feel\n deeply that it is an experiment, and, like all human plans, has\n some disadvantages; but I will 'hope on, hope ever,' believing\n as I do that it was _right_ to try it. Yet you know (none\n better) how much one has to feel in the detail of life, when so\n much is at stake. O, why can we not, with full faith and\n perfect peace, cast all our care upon Him, who indeed careth\n for us more than we can care for any being? I can for the most\n part feel this, but it is not easy to keep always on the\n mount.... Although I realize the change, and fully appreciate\n all I have left behind, I am perfectly amazed to find how\n obtuse my feelings are. I could almost fancy I did not love my\n friends as well as I thought I did, so entirely do I find\n myself absorbed by my new duties and occupations, with scarcely\n a thought for any thing but the best accomplishment of my\n immediate business,--my husband's comfort and improvement. What\n a blessed power of adaptation is given us, to enable us to meet\n the varieties of life! The fact is, in our case, never could so\n great a movement have been made under more favorable\n circumstances; and, with so many blessings about our path, it\n would be strange indeed if we could find place for regret.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_August 21, 1842._ My dear N----: I begin to think I shall\n not gain much in the way of _leisure_ by this change. For\n although there is not the same necessity for attending to\n extraneous matters that there was in Cambridge, so much more of\n the detail of affairs necessarily passes through my hands, that\n I find the days all too short to accomplish half I should like\n to do. I cannot give up the hope, and indeed expectation, that\n the mode of life we have adopted will prove good for Mr. Ware;\n and as I view it nearer, so many of what I had anticipated as\n hindrances vanish into thin air, that I am more than ever\n satisfied with the form of the experiment. Of course, I expect\n to put my shoulder to the daily wheel in a new line of labor,\n and have fully calculated the cost. I only hope my health and\n strength will continue as good as they now are, and I shall do\n very well. I never shrink from labor of any kind.... Our\n children are much pleased with the place and its occupations;\n and I hope to give them by the change the opportunity of\n acquiring the knowledge of many things, and exercising some of\n the virtues for which they had no chance in their former mode\n of life.... I have a treasure of a woman, who has been with me\n nearly two years, bound to me and mine by the strongest\n affection, kind, capable, and refined; particularly pleased\n with being 'monarch of all she surveys' in the kitchen, and so\n well informed and respectful, that it is a pleasure to me to\n associate with her as I am obliged to in work, and a comfort in\n the perfect security I feel in her intercourse with my\n children. It is not the least of my blessings, that just such\n an one should have been with me at this crisis.\"\n\nThis mention of the faithful domestic, \"our Margaret,\" as she was always\ncalled, who lived with Mrs. Ware seven years, discloses another trait of\ncharacter, more rare than it should be. The complaints that we\nconstantly hear of the selfishness and \"plague of servants,\" demand more\nconsideration than they usually receive. The whole matter of domestic\nservice is becoming a serious one. Even where it is wholly free, it\naffects materially the comfort of life, and exerts an influence on the\ncharacter of both the employers and the employed. Are the employers or\nthe employed most in fault? This is the one question which should be\ndeliberately weighed, instead of being dismissed with a burst of passion\nor a smile of self-complacency. There are women who have little or no\ntrouble with their servants,--who retain them long, secure their\nconfidence for life, obtain from them better service than many who pay\nmore and exact more, and repose in them the most important trusts. To\nthis class we believe Mrs. Ware to have belonged. And the secret of her\nsuccess we suppose to have been simply this: she looked upon servants as\nof the same species with herself; creatures of like passions and like\nsensibilities; as liable to be selfish, unreasonable, and easily\noffended, as those whom they serve, but not more; having equal claim\nupon kind consideration, and a perfect _right_ to feel wounded and\nwronged, if dealt with unjustly. On this subject Mrs. Ware seems to have\nasked herself these two questions: Why do so many people, who are never\nharsh or ill-natured toward any one else, think nothing of being harsh\nand ill-natured toward their domestics? And why do many sound and\nzealous religionists forget to carry any of their religion into their\nintercourse and dealings with servants? It would not have been easy, we\nthink, to discern any difference in _her_ treatment of the highest and\nthe lowest, the affluent and the dependent. Nor did she think it her\nduty to visit iniquity even upon the vicious, by withdrawing from them\nall confidence, and turning them into the streets to sin and suffer\nmore. Not in words alone, or of one sex only, has she said, as we find\nher saying in an aggravated case: \"I see not why a man's sins should for\never cut him off from the charities of his kind, if he is truly\npenitent. What are we that we should condemn, if God forgives?\"\n\nIn continuing our extracts from Mrs. Ware's letters at this period, we\nshall draw freely from those which she wrote to the son who had been\nleft in Cambridge, and was now entering upon the work of the ministry,\nfeeling painfully the separation from his father, and the loss in part\nof his guidance and counsel.\n\n \"_Framingham, August, 1842._ At last, dear John, the great\n crisis has passed, the great movement is made. We have changed\n our home, and are no longer to live together under the same\n circumstances. The change is indeed great to us all, but I feel\n that for you it is greater than to any one else, and therefore\n it is that I am impelled to use my first quiet moment in\n expressing my deep sense of the trial of your present position,\n and most heartily sympathize with the soul-stirring emotion\n which belongs to it. To you it is indeed a very important\n turning-point in existence, and when one looks only upon the\n momentous responsibilities which it involves, it is not strange\n that the heart should sink, and the question should\n involuntarily arise to one's lips, 'How can this change be\n borne, how can such duties be met?' I have felt sometimes, in\n looking at the singular combination of events, by which you\n should be separated from your father, just when you were\n commencing the most trying and important period of life, as if\n it were almost too hard; and as if it would have been not only\n easier, but safer, to have been able to feel your way a little\n before you absolutely floated off under your own sole guidance.\n But a second thought has always satisfied me that the\n arrangement of Providence was the best, although for the time\n the most painful. Standing forth in your lot, as an ambassador\n for Christ to the world, you cannot be too soon led to rely\n solely on his teaching for direction, and it cannot but be best\n that you should be compelled, by the removal of earthly succor,\n to go only to Him who is 'the way, the truth, and the life,'\n for strength in the hour of need.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"My dear John: You are now passing through that ordeal which I\n have long looked forward to as inevitable at some period,\n sometimes with an almost irresistible desire to avert it by\n opening to you pages of my own painful experience in\n self-education; sometimes with an uncontrollable impatience to\n hasten it, that, being past, you and I and all might be\n enjoying the happiness it might produce. It is one of the most\n difficult questions to decide how far, and when, to make\n opportunities, or wait for them to come in the natural order of\n things; we should very decidedly wait, if we were sure they\n would come at some time,--but there is the rub....\n\n \"It is a common and very natural idea with young people, that\n older ones cannot understand or sympathize in their feelings;\n forgetting that we have all been young, and that the struggles\n by which the soul is exercised in youth are never to be\n forgotten. The experience of different natural characters of\n course varies, but the fact of struggle is common to all. And\n upon no spot in the review of the past does one's memory dwell\n with so much intense emotion, as upon that thorny and tangled\n labyrinth through which the spirit wandered, 'bewildered, but\n not lost,' at the period when the necessity and duty of proving\n its own character first roused it to a sense of its\n responsibilities. You say most truly, that it is good to look\n at things at a distance, from new and various points of view. I\n have always advocated this, for my own changeful life forced\n the conviction upon me; and for the same reason, I would\n advocate free, confidential discussion of inward and spiritual\n experience. The mere clothing our thoughts and feelings in\n words sometimes places them in a different position. We take\n them out of the atmosphere of our own perhaps morbid fears and\n anxieties, and can therefore see them more clearly. Then, too,\n we have the advantage of another's observation, and, may-be,\n experience of the selfsame difficulties, to aid us in our\n judgment of their true character. At any rate, we have the\n certainty of that warm kindling of the affections which to a\n loving heart is always a help in bearing the burden of life.\n Believe me, dear John, there is ample reward for all the effort\n it may cost in unclothing ourselves, in the consciousness that\n however the outer world may think of us, at _home_, in that\n sanctuary which God and nature have alike appointed as the best\n resting-place for the spirit upon earth, we are understood and\n appreciated and loved. Let us not suffer any factitious\n thoughts or circumstances to cheat us of this privilege, but\n with trusting, confiding hearts take the good which Heaven\n designed for us when the family-community was established in\n the world.... I could write more than I should care to give you\n the trouble to read, if I attempted to write half that I have\n in my heart to say.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_December, 1842._ The going forth into the world for the first\n time _alone_ is, it seems to me, the most trying point in the\n existence of any one of any sensibility. But does not the very\n difficulty of the case indicate the value of the experience?\n Are not almost all the most valuable results of effort those\n which require the greatest efforts for their attainment? The\n higher the summit to which we would arrive, the more toilsome\n must be the ascent. When by a prayerful, self-surrendering\n spirit we have sought to learn the will of God concerning us,\n shall we not believe that, into whatsoever path we may be led,\n it must contain for us the discipline we need,--treasures of\n experience, hidden perhaps at first, which will amply repay any\n toil, any suffering, in the aid we shall derive from them in\n our Christian progress?... We admire, we reverence, the spirit\n which actuated Oberlin and Felix Neff, and many others of the\n class of missionary spirits who have left all to do their\n Master's work in the field he has appointed for them; but we do\n not easily realize how much of the same spirit of\n self-sacrifice is called for in what no one would think of\n calling missionary ground, and which yet requires as much\n surrender of earthly desire as their situations could, which\n none but the All-seeing can know.\"\n\nAn event which all felt, at this time, was felt by none more than by\nMrs. Ware. We mean the death of Dr. Channing. The reader will remember\nhow much he had done for her in early life, not only as a public\nteacher, but as a private friend, with whom her intercourse had been\nfrequent and perfectly free. For several years she had seen little of\nhim. And now, in her seclusion and comparative solitude, the unexpected\nintelligence of his death moved her deeply. To a friend in Cambridge,\nshe writes: \"You cannot imagine how trying it is to me, to know nothing\nof Dr. Channing's sickness and death, except what the newspapers can\ntell me. You know not the peculiar relation in which I have stood\ntowards him. Do in pity tell me what you know about the event. I cannot\nrealize it, I can scarcely believe it. There is so much to be thought of\nin relation to such an event, that my mind is perfectly bewildered. I\ncannot arrange my thoughts enough to give them utterance. But my heart\ngoes out toward those many dear friends who will feel his loss as I do.\nOne is tempted to say, 'What a loss to the world is the death of such a\nman!' But such a man cannot die. How will his words have new power over\nthe hearts of those who read them, from the consciousness that the\nspirit that uttered them already sees behind the veil, that his light\ncan never be put out, but will penetrate still more and more the inmost\nrecesses of men's souls! How will that last eloquent, touching appeal\nfor the Slave gain access to the coldest hearts, when it is remembered\nthat it was the last effort of the departing saint for the rights and\nsufferings of the oppressed! The impulse which such a mind gives must be\nfelt for ever. Who can measure its power?\" A fact is here suggested\nwhich there seems no reason for withholding, showing the estimate which\nDr. Channing himself put upon the character and power of Mrs. Ware. A\nlady intimate with both of them when they were most together, says: \"Dr.\nChanning talked with her on religious experience, to learn as well as to\nteach. I have known him to request her to make visits of instruction to\na disconsolate person, whom _he_ could not awaken to religious\nhope,--trusting that her gentle sympathy and clear views might shed a\nray of light that would point her to the day.\"\n\nThe first season at Framingham was a busy one, though tranquil. Mrs.\nWare's bodily as well as mental labor must have been unusually great.\n\"It is true, I do not see how we are to set all the stitches which will\nbe necessary to prepare eight people for a winter campaign in a cold\nhouse; but I have faith that we shall find a way.\" They were much more\nfree from interruptions than ever before. Their new neighbors and\nfriends were not only kind, but considerate,--one of the best forms of\nkindness. Gratefully does Mrs. Ware acknowledge this. \"How much there is\nin human life to interest our hearts! One cannot go anywhere without\nfinding some cases of peculiar interest. We are here cut off from\ngeneral knowledge of those around us, by having come expressly for\nretirement. Our neighbors, understanding this, do not call. And yet we\nhave already happened upon some most interesting people, from whom we\ncannot in conscience hold back.\"\n\nThus the year closed; a year of as great outward change as any that had\npreceded it, and leaving them in as great uncertainty as to the future.\nYet Mrs. Ware could say: \"The prevailing emotion in the retrospect is\none of gratitude at having been enabled to escape from the burden which\nbefore oppressed and weighed me down. The consciousness that we were\nspending all our strength, mental and physical, upon a vain attempt for\nan unattainable result, was worse to me than any degree of labor for an\nattainable end, or even any uncertainty about the future means of\nsupport. I rejoice that my husband is free from that incubus upon his\nspirits; and still more do I rejoice, that it is given to us both to\nfeel, in the uncertainty that lies before us, such a tranquil trust that\nall will be well, that we have no fear, no wish. Still there is room for\nmuch mental and spiritual discipline; and I must acknowledge that there\nare times when the weakness of the flesh overcomes the willingness of\nthe spirit, and I feel for the time entirely depressed by a sense of\ninadequacy to meet the demands of duty. I have not the power to do all\nthat ought to be done, and I feel as if the effects of my incapacity\nwould be grievous. I know that one has no _right_ to suffer from this,\nbecause we ought to have faith to believe that the trials even of our\nown insufficiency are designed to accomplish some end. But the\nconsciousness that others are suffering from our deficiencies is just\nthe very hardest thing to bear in life. It is my cross, and always has\nbeen; and I fear I do not learn as I ought, to bear it in meekness and\nhumility,--I need not say 'fear,' I _know_ I do not.\"\n\nTo those familiar with the life of Henry Ware, and with its close, it is\nunnecessary to recount the events of the year 1843; the year that\nbrought into stern requisition all the trust and endurance of a devoted\nwife. She had long seen that this trial was approaching, and had\nfortified herself to meet it, not by putting the thought of it aside,\nbut by keeping it before her, and making it familiar, that it might\nnever take her by surprise. And long had she thus disciplined her mind\nand her affections. For during the sixteen years that she had lived with\nMr. Ware, she could never, for any long time, have failed to see the\ngreat precariousness of his hold on life. At this very period, she says:\n\"In such alternation of hope and fear do I live, and indeed have lived\nfor the greater part of my married life.\" Yet how much had she enjoyed\nlife! and what an amount of happiness, labor, and usefulness had she\n_extorted_--if we may use the word in a grateful sense, as she\nwould--from every year and every position!\n\nIn the spring of 1843 she accompanied her husband to Boston, for a short\nvisit at his brother's; and there occurred that severe and alarming\nillness, which confined Mr. Ware for ten weeks, and from the effects of\nwhich he never recovered. Of this attack, and of all that intervened\nuntil his death, we will not give the particulars, but would only trace\nMrs. Ware's own thoughts and feelings, as she expressed them from time\nto time in letters and fragments of letters to those most concerned.\n\n \"_Boston, Thursday, May 11._ Since writing to you, dear N----,\n I have had a season of intense anxiety. Sunday, Monday, and\n Tuesday, Mr. Ware suffered extremely, and it was not clear what\n was the nature of the difficulty that produced this suffering;\n one thing only was certain,--that he was very sick, and too\n weak to bear such distress long. It must be a long time before\n he is free from the effects of it, even if he have strength to\n hold out. So end my hopes for the present, and I must give up\n all thought about any thing but the care of my husband, for I\n know not how long. God's will be done! HE must know what is\n best,--but it is not easy to understand how it is so in this\n case. And if it were easy, where would be room for Faith?...\n These are trying, but blessed days, for the cultivation of the\n spirit of faith and trust; and I know I need much to make me\n feel that this is _not_ my home. God grant that I may\n effectually learn it, so as to be not only willing, but glad,\n to give up all that belongs to me here, confident in the\n prospect of a reunion in a better state! I shall write again if\n I can, but I have few minutes unoccupied.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Boston, May, 1843._ My dear child: Father continued very much\n as you left him, yesterday. He does not suffer as much as he\n did, but his disease is a very tedious one, and it may be many\n weeks before he is able to get home, if it pleases God still to\n restore him to health. Let us pray to Him to look in mercy upon\n us, and spare him to us yet longer. The circumstances of our\n lot in life are just now very trying, and no doubt are arranged\n for us in order to our improvement. It is a great trial to\n father and me to be separated from our children so long; and to\n you all, this separation brings the greater responsibility to\n watch over yourselves, that you do in all things right,--not\n what is most pleasant, not what we wish, but what is _right_ to\n do, without regard to self. Next to my anxiety about father,\n now, is my anxiety about you; because I feel that you are at an\n age when the habits are formed, and the principles of action\n settled for life; that your whole future, for time and for\n eternity, may depend upon these years. And I cannot feel happy\n unless I see you gaining from day to day more and more of that\n self-discipline and self-control, which can alone, by the grace\n of God, make you what you ought to be.\"\n\nMr. Ware was able to return to Framingham in June, and afterward took\nseveral short journeys among friends, one as far as Plymouth, and thence\nto Fall River (where his son was then settled in the ministry), and home\nby Providence,--his last visit to those places. In August, another and\nstill more violent attack upon the brain prostrated him completely; and\nthe remaining five or six weeks of his life seemed only a vacillation\nbetween earth and heaven,--yielding transporting glimpses of the latter,\nbut constantly drawing him back to the former,--and creating altogether\nas hard a trial for the sufferer, and those around him, as can easily be\nconceived.\n\n \"_August 17._ We feel, in father's case, 'how vain is the help\n of man.' His system is so delicate, that he cannot bear the\n administration of any potent means. Our reliance must be upon\n our Heavenly Parent, in whose hand are the issues of life and\n death. Let us pray to Him, that, if it be consistent with his\n wisdom, this cup may pass from us; but let us be ready to say,\n and feel in our inmost hearts, 'Not my will, but thine, O Lord,\n be done'!... We do not feel it to be impossible that dear\n father should recover from this illness; but we know that his\n repeated sicknesses must have weakened his power of reaction,\n and we strive, therefore, to be prepared for any result. The\n very uncertainty is appointed for our good; let us use it, my\n dear child, for our spiritual advancement.... God bless you! be\n submissive, be patient, be _grateful_, if it so please God that\n dear father should be released from the burden of his earthly\n house, to be transported to his heavenly home, where there is\n no more pain.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_August 21._ It is all in the hands of Infinite Love and\n Wisdom. God will order all well; let us be willing and be\n thankful to place our trust in Him. What a mercy it is to us,\n that He has not given us the power of foreknowledge! But\n whatever may be the event, let us not lose the benefit of this\n discipline to our souls; let us strive to increase our faith in\n God's goodness, our trust in his love.... I cannot write much,\n for I cannot leave father many minutes at a time,--and all the\n time I can get, I am bound to devote to sleep.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_August 23._ ... Thus you see we are vibrating between hope and\n fear. But it is a question whether we have a right to allow\n either; for we know not what is best for him or for ourselves.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_August 29._ My dear Emma: I must say a few words to you, to\n thank you for your most welcome letter received yesterday. How\n much I have longed for some intercourse with you, during the\n last two months, you can judge better by your own experience\n now, than by any words of mine. I have wished, as you do now,\n to know all that was passing within the deep fountains of your\n spiritual life, and nothing but the absolute necessity of the\n case has kept me away from you. Now, I say, come, whenever you\n can; you will be most welcome to us all, and to me your\n presence will be a real benediction. I feel at times as if I\n should be overpowered by the tumult of feelings to which I dare\n not give utterance here, where the composure of all around me\n depends so much upon my calmness. This last fortnight has\n shaken to its very foundation the whole fabric of my spiritual\n being,--thank God! not to displace a single fibre of the\n fabric. But there has been such a heaving up of all that was\n hidden in the depths of past experience, as has wellnigh\n conquered at times my self-control, and I have felt that I must\n utter myself, or be lost; yet to no one have I dared to speak.\n John's sickness here has made composure with him peculiarly\n important.... Happily, we cannot lift the veil of the future;\n we can only be ready for whatever may be in store for us, and\n this I trust we are.... I have been prevented from writing in\n the daytime, and now, at eleven o'clock, I am compelled by\n weariness to shut my eyes, and rest.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_August 30._ My dear Lucy: I should indeed rejoice if you were\n able to be here, for I long for some communion with one who\n could so enter into all my views and feelings at this time as I\n know you would. But I bow in submission to all the discipline\n which God appoints for me.... In some respects the bitterness\n of the stroke has passed. I felt that the real separation came\n with the conviction, that that mind with which my spirit had so\n long communed in the truest sympathy was clouded for the\n remainder of its sojourn in the body. The sense of solitude, of\n isolation, I had almost said _desolation_, was for a time\n nearly overpowering; and there are moments when life looks so\n like a blank, that it is not easy to restrain the wish to go\n too. But the necessity of calmness for the children's sake,\n feeling that their state of mind would inevitably be influenced\n by the tone I should give it, has aided me in preserving a\n quiet exterior; and so we have had the great comfort of peace\n and entire freedom from agitation and excitement. God give us\n strength to preserve it! But this weary waiting from day to\n day, alternately hoping and feeling that there is no reason to\n hope, wears upon the nerves,--the days seem interminable, and\n the nights ages.... Long as I have looked forward to this\n change, it seems like a dream from which I must awake,--as if\n it could not be! No wonder;--for fifteen years, his health,\n _he_ indeed, has been the first, almost the sole, object of my\n life. It will be long before I can turn even to my children,\n with the consciousness that they can now be attended to without\n neglecting him.\"\n\nThe struggle was over. Henry Ware died, at Framingham, on Friday\nmorning, September 22. A Sunday intervened before the body was removed\nfor burial, and that day Mrs. Ware went, with her children, morning and\nafternoon, to their accustomed place of worship; desiring it for their\nown sacred communion, and believing it most in accordance with _his_\nfeelings. To her faith, with her habitual view of duty and death, this\nwas probably no effort. To many it would be impossible, even with the\nsame faith; for, unhappily, association and custom are allowed to check\nour highest aspirations in the holiest seasons, so that many would\nconsider such an effort unnatural and strange. Is it not more strange,\nthat it should ever seem unnatural for a Christian mourner to go to the\nhouse of God, in the most solemn hours of life,--especially when that\nhouse is completely identified with the life and image of the departed?\nMrs. Ware was grateful also for the power of associating the idea of\nDeath, in the minds of her children, not with restraint and gloom, but\nwith the place of prayer and praise, and the cheerful presence of devout\nworshippers. It was a beautiful exemplification of her high trust, in\nharmony with her whole character. We honor the principle, and thank her\nfor the act.\n\nTrue, it was an altered and saddened house to which they returned, yet\nsaddened by no gloomy aspect, disturbed by no busy preparation. There\nwas less than usual of care and hurry, instead of more. \"It was a holy\nseason,\" says one of the daughters, \"those days after dear father left\nus; no bustle, no preparation of dress, no work done but what was\nabsolutely necessary; it was like a continued Sabbath.\" Then, on Sabbath\nevening, after a simple religious service, the \"precious remains\" of the\nhusband and father were taken in their own carriage, by the wife and\neldest son, to Cambridge; where, the next day, the more public ceremony\nof interment took place.\n\nBut of this whole experience it is right to let Mrs. Ware speak in her\nown letters, several of which we add. The first was written the day\nafter the funeral, to an absent child, and the others to different\nfriends after her return to Framingham. We take them from among many\nwritten at that time, either in answer to offers of sympathy, or as a\nrelief to a burdened heart. Of necessity, they contain some repetitions\nof the same thought, in similar language; but it is best to give them as\nthey are, that we may see in them how great was the bereavement and how\ndeep the anguish of one whose countenance was always cheerful.\n\n \"_Cambridge, September 26, 1843._\n\n \"MY DEAR CHILD:--\n\n \"I use my first moment of repose to write to you, for I know\n you will long to hear what we have been doing, and as far as\n possible to enter into all our thoughts and feelings. I want to\n have you know all that has taken place since you left us, and\n shall therefore send you a minute detail of every day, when I\n shall have time to write it; but now so much is pressing upon\n me which demands attention, so many duties which must not be\n neglected, and which belong to this time, and must be performed\n at once, that I confine myself to the last two days.\n\n \"After dear father's death, I told Uncle John that I wished all\n arrangements with regard to his funeral should be made in\n accordance with grandfather's feelings; and I gave it wholly\n into his hands to arrange. He came up again on Saturday, and it\n was decided that we should come to grandfather's on Monday\n morning, and have a service at his house. On Sunday we all went\n to meeting; we felt it was good to go to the house of God, and\n find peace to our troubled souls in the act of worship. About\n six in the evening Mr. and Mrs. Barry came to us, for I felt\n that I could not have father's body leave that house without\n\n 'the voice of prayer at the sable bier,\n A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer.'\n\n He read to us some passages of Scripture, and offered for us\n and with us a prayer to Him who alone could give us strength,\n that he would aid us in that trying hour. We had no one with us\n except Mr. and Mrs. W----, whose kindness was most valuable to\n us during the last days of father's life.\n\n \"Then John and I brought dear father's body to Cambridge in our\n own carriage; we could not feel willing to let strangers do any\n thing in connection with him which we could do ourselves. We\n reached here about half past ten, having had a season of\n precious intercourse upon our way. We found that, in accordance\n with the wishes of the College Faculty, it had been decided\n that we should go to the College Chapel, for the service, at\n half past three on Monday.\n\n \"On Monday morning the rest of the family came down, and all\n the aunts and uncles, so that grandfather had all his children\n with him. At three o'clock we went to the Chapel. The students\n attended in their places, and the pews in the gallery were\n devoted to us. The service commenced by a voluntary, and the\n anthem, 'The Lord is my shepherd.' Dr. Francis prayed; Dr.\n Noyes read some passages from Scripture; then was sung the 463d\n hymn. Dr. Parkman then prayed for us, in his most touching,\n heartfelt manner,--so elevating, so soothing, so full of faith,\n gratitude, and hope, that it subdued all earthly emotion and\n took away all earthly desire. Although very minute and\n personal, it seemed as if one might have listened for ever\n without a thought of self. He loved father most sincerely, and\n all he said came from the depths of his heart. I had shrunk\n from the thought of publicity at such a time, in such a\n connection, but I found that the circumstances about me were\n wholly lost sight of; it made no difference to me where I was,\n or who was near me. I felt raised above all minor\n considerations. The services closed with 'Unveil thy bosom,\n faithful tomb!' We all went to Mount Auburn; that is, all the\n family, even grandfather and dear little Charlie. The weather\n was misty, but the light which it threw around was in keeping\n with the occasion, and I thought I never had seen the place\n look more beautiful. One only thing I wanted which I could not\n have,--the sound of the holy hymn at the consecrated spot.\n\n \"Father was laid in Mr. Farrar's tomb,--the first inhabitant;\n and I felt, as I looked once more upon him as he rested there,\n that it was indeed but his body from which we were to be\n separated; his spirit is still, and will ever be, with us. He\n seems to me nearer to-day than he has for many weeks, and the\n thought of his freedom from the burden of the weary flesh is\n sweet indeed.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Framingham, September 29, 1843._\n\n \"MY DEAR EMMA:--\n\n \"I cannot write you more than a few words, I am so much pressed\n on all sides by matters which cannot be put off; but I must say\n these few, to assure you of the peace and repose which are with\n us, and have been, I may say, ever since you were here. O that\n you had been with us longer,--that you could have been with me\n at that still hour when the spirit was freed from its\n prison-house, the weary body left to its rest! And it was rest.\n Could you have seen the very 'rapture of repose' depicted upon\n that face, which had so long been disturbed by the pressure of\n disease that its very expression had been changed to a\n character foreign to the whole man! All continued of the same\n peaceful character which pervaded our atmosphere when you were\n here, with the exception of a few days of a little temporary\n uneasiness about the time C---- R---- was here. And the last\n fatal attack, coming as it did at a moment of rather unusual\n brightness, was so sudden and so soon over, that there was no\n time for change. Dear little Charlie, who had just returned,\n was at the moment bounding, in the height of his joyous\n spirits, from one side of the bed to the other, exclaiming,\n 'Sall I buss the flies off you, father?' He was taken at once\n to bed; and when he came down in the morning he found his dear\n father lying just as he had left him the night before, looking\n only more peaceful, more beautiful, and he took up the same\n thought,--'Sall I buss the flies off father, now he has gone to\n heaven?' I felt it a peculiar blessing, that all the\n circumstances of the event were such as to make any movement or\n change in any external respect unnecessary, so that the\n children might have their first associations with the fact of\n death without any horror, and their recollection of their\n father uninterrupted by any repulsive details. He lay in his\n bed just as he had when talking with them, until he was\n removed from the house, and that process the little ones did\n not witness. I doubt not it will give a tone to their view of\n the subject through life. But why should I dwell upon these\n externals? Simply that you may dismiss from your mind any\n thoughts of distress connected with us at that moment; and you\n know all that I can tell you of the spirit _within_.\n\n \"You know how I have suffered in anticipation of this\n separation, but all the worst agony connected with it is yet to\n come. It is comparatively easy now to be calm and firm and\n thankful; the first thought cannot but be of him and his\n present happiness; and the sense of relief that the sufferings\n of that blessed being are over, that he has gone to his\n Father's home, 'to the house of his rest,' is so great, that no\n other thought dare intrude. I long to see you, and hope to do\n so soon. I go to Cambridge to-morrow, to be in Boston on\n Sunday. I could not deny myself the luxury of going once more\n to that house of his religious affections, in connection with\n him. That spot has most sacred, most tender associations to me,\n so full that it would be enough to sit there in silent\n meditation; and if I feared any thing, I should fear that it\n would be too overwhelming to be borne, to go there in public.\n But I have found by my experience on Monday, that the\n surroundings of such a moment are of no consequence. I have a\n quiet faith that the strength will come. O, may improvement,\n elevation, come also!... John leaves us soon. He and I had a\n holy season, as we went, in the stillness of the night, to\n carry those precious remains to Cambridge.\n\n \"I find it is as I anticipated,--I feel a greater nearness to\n my husband than I did when he lay on his couch in the next\n room. I am separated from that _form_; I look back to it only\n as the associate of the spirit in health; I do not cling to it\n now. Yours in all love.\n\n \"M. L. W.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Framingham, October 6, 1843._\n\n \"MY DEAR MARY:--\n\n \"The first moment I can call my own since my return from\n Cambridge, I turn to you. I know no one to whom I can so freely\n pour out all that is in my heart, as for the first time I pause\n a little from the pressure of necessary action, and realize the\n change that has taken place in every thing about me.... I\n wanted you at my side, when I stood once more at that sacred\n spot where we had laid our dear sister's image. You and I can\n never forget that moment. And, though not near, you were in\n close communion with the spirit in that holy hour.\n\n \"As I glance back at the period which has elapsed since you\n were here, one single thought takes precedence of all the rest.\n It is astonishment at the power of the soul to sustain the\n pressure of circumstances, the tension and excitement of\n feeling, the necessity of positive, energetic action, when the\n very heart-strings seem riven asunder,--and the capacity of\n sustaining a tranquil, and even cheerful aspect, when 'the\n dull, heart-sinking weight' of a vital grief is bearing us\n down, down, down,--one can scarcely believe there are any\n soundings to that _deep_ gulf. Yet so it is; and does it not\n open our vision to the glorious truth of the alliance of the\n soul with its divine origin? What but that inexhaustible,\n fountain of strength could sustain us, when the waves of\n trouble thus threaten to overwhelm us? Rich, blessed, indeed,\n is the experience which brings this conviction to our minds;\n holy is that season in which we can live as it were in the\n light of such a faith! And holy indeed has it been to me.\n\n \"I feel that my danger now is, that I reluctantly do any thing\n that shall remove me from the influence of the atmosphere which\n it seems as if death had created around me. Death? transition I\n would rather call it. And yet let us strive to disabuse that\n word of some of the horrors in which education has wrapt it. O,\n could you have seen how mercifully it was stripped of all its\n terrors to us, how calmly that spirit left its earthly\n tabernacle, how sweet was the impress of peace and rest it left\n upon that face which had so long almost lost its own expression\n in the veil that sickness had thrown over it! Its last\n expression would have rebuked the slightest wish to recall the\n spirit, had we been so selfish as to have indulged one. We\n could scarcely be willing to be separated from that image of\n him we loved, so powerfully even in death did it express his\n character. Even the little children preferred being there,\n rather than anywhere beside; and will, I think, all, including\n even little Charlie, remember this first knowledge of a\n death-bed as a beautiful experience.\n\n \"The first part of Henry's sickness he seemed quite unconscious\n of what was around him; torpid, and at times wandering in his\n expressions. But the last three weeks, although still unable to\n exert himself to talk,--for it tired him, he said, 'even to\n think,'--his mind was perfectly clear; indeed, I had reason to\n suppose his mind was never as much clouded to himself, as it\n appeared to be to us. The pressure upon his brain was so great,\n as to produce great difficulty of action of any kind; his ideas\n were often clear, but the power of finding words to convey them\n was paralyzed. He said little at any time, and yet I find, in\n surveying the whole period, that I have many satisfactory views\n of the whole state of his mind in relation to the change that\n he was making. He never had but one view of his own situation;\n he felt decidedly that the time for going home was come,--'the\n fitting time,' 'the best time'; and he was grateful that the\n toil of sickness and inability was at an end. And so convinced\n was I, that, if he should revive from that attack, it could\n only be to continue to suffer still more than he had done,\n from inability to do what he had hoped to, this autumn, for the\n good of his fellow-men, that I too felt that it was indeed the\n fitting time. And so intense was my suffering from the\n apprehension of his continuing, for years perhaps, in the\n half-paralyzed, half-torpid state in which he lay for so many\n weeks, that it was not only with resignation, it was with a\n sense of relief, that I saw the doubt was at an end, the\n prisoner was released. So strange is it, that that event to\n which I had ever looked forward as the one thing that could not\n be borne in life, came at last under circumstances which made\n it welcome! Do I live to say it, to feel it? But O the chasm\n left in my lot, in my heart! Who can estimate it! No one. No,\n 'the heart knoweth its own bitterness'; no human being can\n enter into it.... But I must stop. I hope to see you, or at\n least hear from you.\n\n \"Yours with much love.\n\n \"M. L. W.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Framingham, November 5, 1843._\n\n \"MY DEAR EMMA:--\n\n \"This has been a day of peculiar trial to me. At no period,\n since the commencement of Henry's last sickness, have I found\n it so difficult to adhere to my determination not to trouble\n those around me by the want of self-control. This first\n communion service since that sacred occasion, when we together\n witnessed that celebration of the rite by him who can now be\n present only in spirit! I feel as if I needed the relief of\n utterance; and to whom can I go for this relief so naturally as\n to you, who are strongly associated with the remembrance which\n so deeply agitates my spirit? It frightens me, when, upon such\n an occasion as this, I am led to probe the nature of my\n feelings, to find how much the reference to him in his\n spiritual state is becoming to me a substitute for all other\n thoughts of heaven. Great as was my absorption in him while he\n was with me here, I find it is so far from being lessened by\n the removal of his visible presence, that it has only changed\n its character into an idolatry of a more alarming nature. It is\n so much easier for me to conceive of his presence than of that\n of any other spirits, that it is the thought of his inspection\n of my inmost soul that dwells perpetually on my mind, whatever\n I do, or say, or think, to the exclusion, except by an effort,\n of the idea of even a higher presence. What shall I do, if this\n grows upon me? How shall I root out this enemy to Christian\n improvement? It may be only the first effect of the blow. Time\n may modify or rectify this infidelity,--I trust it will; but at\n present it is overwhelming. O, how deeply do such seasons of\n strong emotion make me realize my loneliness, now that I have\n no longer that ever-ready sympathy, that composing,\n strengthening counsel to turn to, with the certainty of comfort\n and peace in the turning! I do indeed feel his presence with\n me, but my heart calls and he 'answers not again'; there can be\n no response to my application. How deeply, how tenderly, is he\n associated with all the holiest hours of existence! It seemed\n to me to-day I could hear his voice in the hymn which had so\n often been read by him on the same occasion; I could anticipate\n the words which would fall upon my ear as we should leave that\n service together, rejoicing, as he was wont to do, that such a\n service had been ordained for weak, sensual mortals, to take\n their souls sometimes away from flesh and sense to the\n unfettered contemplation of heavenly love. Fully do I realize,\n that the sense of loss is to grow with every added day of my\n existence; nothing can come near enough to supply it in the\n least degree; nothing else can become so a part of one's own\n self. This consciousness of desolation must press perpetually\n like a weight upon my heart, as long as life lasts. And yet\n how strange! I go on, and every thing goes on outwardly as\n before. I eat, drink, sleep, talk, and laugh with others,\n whenever it is important for their comfort to do so, as if\n nothing had changed. In the midst of all, I stop and ask\n myself, 'Am I dreaming?' Or is it really true that I am\n alone,--that that point has been actually passed, which in\n anticipation had always seemed impossible in the possession of\n any power of action? I have thought that the trial could not be\n borne and sense left!\n\n \"But why indulge myself in this strain? I find I cannot write,\n or even think, connectedly; so I will stop.\n\n \"Your own MARY.\"\n\nLanguage so strong as this, from a nature so calm as Mary Ware's, means\na great deal. Nor can we marvel. For what a change is that through which\na true woman passes,--from wife to widow! Is it not greater than even\nthe first change? Often has Mary referred to the difference, which few\ncould feel as she had, between her former isolation as to natural ties,\nand her adoption into a large and united family circle. But _now_ she\nfelt the change through which she was passing still more,--inasmuch as\nshe had a more profound and pervading sense of all that is comprised in\nconjugal affections and parental responsibilities. And while none can\nhave a higher standard of duty and obligation, very few have a meeker\nestimate of their own powers; particularly as regards the care and the\ntraining of Children. This was to be now her great work,--the chief\nobject and anxiety of her remaining days. And unfeignedly did she\nshrink, not from the task, but from the vastness of the trust and the\nburden to be sustained _alone_. \"When I think of this large family of\nlittle children to be left to my care, instead of _his_, it requires a\nprocess of thought to feel so assured that God can bring good out of\nseeming evil, and work out his purposes by the weakest instruments, as\nto be able to calm the throbs of anxiety, and say, 'Peace, be still!' to\nthe troubled spirit.\" True, her ideal was high, and she could never be\nsatisfied with that which would more than satisfy many parents. Years\nbefore had she said of one of her children: \"For her intellectual\nprogress I have no anxiety, that is, so far as the acquisition of\nknowledge goes; but how to cultivate the moral, so that it shall govern\nand guide this intellectual progress into the right channels, and\nestablish the supremacy of the _spiritual_ in the character, I know\nnot.\" Again, she exclaims: \"And these are Mary Pickard's children! When\nI go back in recollection to Pearl Street days, to its long hours of\nlone watching, when my mind dwelt upon the deficiencies of my condition\nuntil it had exaggerated to a more than earthly possibility the\nhappiness of having something to love which would satisfy the desires of\nmy mind and heart,--and then compare that longing with the present\nreality,--is it strange that I can scarcely realize my identity with\nthat same lone one?\" The time had now come when she was again a \"lone\none.\" And this is what we would say,--that the loneliness which\n_follows_, is far greater than that which precedes, the knowledge and\nenjoyment of such communion and cooperation as she had known. Nor is\nthere any thing inexplicable in the fact, that the most conscientious,\neven the strongest in character and highest in aim, suffer most from a\nsense of their own deficiencies, and use language which seems to many\nexaggerated and hardly sincere. \"I am so perpetually oppressed,\" writes\nMary at this time, \"with the sense of nothingness, it is so very\ndifficult for me to realize that I am to be regarded even by my children\nas the leader in any matter, that it all but frightens me to have any\none look to me as one who is expected to have some influence. This is no\nmock humility; I think as well of myself as I deserve. I am aware that\nit grows in some measure out of the newness of my position, and know\nthat time and habit may bring somewhat different feelings; but it is\nonly these which _can_ do it, and I must suffer for a long time yet from\nthis as well as from the other effects of isolation.\"\n\nWe are the more willing to disclose such feelings, in connection with\nsuch character, from the fact that the world is severe in its judgment\nof those, whose affliction is not worn as a garment or an altered\nvisage, but whose whole aspect and demeanor, even their occupations and\napparent enjoyment of life, are nearly the same as at other times. At\nthe time of her writing the words which we last quoted, Mrs. Ware had\njust exerted herself to collect in her own desolate home a little circle\nof children and youth for their social enjoyment, in which she freely\nmingled, and doubtless seemed cheerful and happy. And yet she said of it\nsoon after, that at no moment since her trial had she felt so intensely\nor suffered more poignantly. \"Every word was an Herculean labor; and I\nwas conscious that all were disturbed by it. For once, I must say, _I\ncould not help it_. And shall I tell you all my wickedness? I have in\nvain tried to look at life with sufficient interest to care about\nliving. It has seemed to me that my children would be as well without\nme, as they could be under my imperfect guidance. I could not excite in\nmyself any of that zest in the pursuit of an object which alone could\nsatisfy the heart. I felt _homesick_ when I waked up in the morning, and\nwould fain shut my eyes and forget that there was any thing for me to\ndo.\"\n\nHow much she _did_, particularly in regard to that which we see was most\nupon her heart, the care and culture of her children's minds, will\nappear in larger extracts which we make from letters of this and the\nprevious year, brought together as referring to the same great subject\nof education and domestic discipline,--the first having been written to\nher husband, the others to her children.\n\n \"My dear Henry: ... When I am left to the sole care of my\n family, there is nothing that exercises my mind more than the\n right performance of family worship. It seems to me that it\n ought to be more peculiarly adapted to the capacities of\n children than we are apt to make it. For the older and\n well-educated part of a family, other means of instruction and\n communion with God are open and acceptable every day; but the\n children and domestics must of necessity depend upon this\n exercise for nearly all the religious influences of the day.\n The simplicity of diction which would fix the attention of\n even little children, would not be too plain for the generality\n of domestics; and we all feel that the most simple is often the\n most sublime and affecting expression in relation to the soul's\n connection with its Creator. I think, therefore, that the main\n object should be to excite in the minds of those present some\n clear ideas, which will be likely to stay in their minds\n through the day, and work there to some definite result; and\n that the choice of subjects should grow as far as possible out\n of the peculiar circumstances of the family,--not merely the\n general, but particular circumstances. For instance, if they\n are about separating, to dwell upon the use to be made of such\n an event, reminding us of _final_ separation and the tenderness\n which should grow out of that thought towards all that are\n left. Is one child peculiarly out of humor? It will do no harm\n to any to be reminded of the importance of governing our\n passions; and, if done in the right way, subdue the rebellious\n spirit more than any arguments. So, too, with regard to reading\n the Scriptures; it seems to me the time is all but lost if a\n familiarity of the words only is gained, and that the book\n should never be closed without having the attention fixed upon\n some one at least of the useful passages read, either in the\n way of explanation or application to duty.... I have not time\n now to put into shape half that is in my mind, but I really\n feel that we do not do justice to our children in not acting\n more directly upon their religious characters every day. In\n many instances, I believe a wayward spirit might be checked by\n having a useful current of thought opened for it, which would\n take off the mind from the subject of irritation.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"Dear E----: ... Looking at affairs at home from a distance, I\n see many points in which we need improvement, and I want to\n talk and read more with you upon the subject of education.\n\n \"When we look back, and see and feel how much the circumstances\n by which we were surrounded, and the treatment of those about\n us, affected our views, we must bring it home to ourselves that\n what _we_ are now doing is having the same influence upon them.\n God has set us apart in families to mark out for us a specific\n line of duty; and however we may wish that our path had been\n different, or our duties less arduous, as they are of His\n appointment, we have reason to believe they are the best for\n us. The longer I live, the more I realize the value of love,\n affectionate interest; and I think that many things, which we\n are apt to consider of moment at the time, ought to give way\n whenever they interfere with the cultivation of the affections\n in children. Disagreeable manners, childish though annoying\n ways, may be remedied in after-life, and are, after all,\n matters of very secondary importance in comparison with the\n growth of love, which is often sacrificed to them. To children\n the perpetual irritation of a check in trifles keeps the temper\n in a turmoil, and, by their standard, makes small things as\n important as great ones. Fault-finding is blame to them, be the\n subject what it may, and they will have an association of\n jarring and displeasure with those who keep it up, let the\n cause be ever so small, as lasting as if it were larger. We\n need change in this thing; we want a more cheerful atmosphere,\n a more affectionate, interested one, in which the affections\n may grow, and have room to expand. I do believe in Mrs. ----'s\n doctrine to a great extent, that _virtue_ thrives best in an\n atmosphere of love. We should gain our object better, if,\n instead of finding fault with an action, we set ourselves to\n produce a better state of feeling, without noticing the action.\n Children imitate the manners of their elders, more especially\n of their elder brothers and sisters; for of course they feel\n that they are similarly situated, not always making the\n distinction of age which is expected of them. And I have always\n observed that the younger members of a household take their\n tone from the character and ways of the first in their rank,\n more than from their parents. I could name many instances of\n this which have come under your notice, as well as mine, and it\n does, as you say, make the responsibility of an older sister\n great. But do not feel that it is too great; be contented with\n doing all that you can, and not discouraged because you cannot\n satisfy your own conceptions. It is best for us, it is said, to\n aim at perfection; even if it is not to be attained, it keeps\n up our efforts for something higher and higher.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"My dear E----: ... The old saying, that 'children will be\n children,' might be improved by the substitution of 'should'\n for 'will.' I mean in the sense, that their natural characters,\n which are as different as their faces, _ought_ to be educated\n gradually; not requiring of one child any thing because\n another child does it, to whom the thing may be perfectly\n easy, or more than we can in justice require of them at their\n age, in consideration of their peculiar circumstances. We are\n to judge and discipline a child simply in reference to its own\n individual character and circumstances, and deal with it with\n the single view to the improvement of its individual character,\n rather than to our own comfort or even its external\n improvement. Now, of course, the application of this principle,\n in detail, involves a great deal of thought, observation, and\n self-denial; but if we really desire to do good, and this\n opportunity of doing it is in our path, can we engage in a work\n of more extensive good, when we consider how these children's\n characters are to influence a still larger circle, and how\n great is our responsibility to future generations as well as\n the present, that we do all we can to prepare the way for their\n best instruction?... But to come down to our own case. We all\n take too much notice of mere _disagreeables_. The evil of doing\n this is obvious; if the child is dealt with in the same way for\n making a noise, or for carelessness, that it is for a moral\n delinquency, it soon learns to confound moral distinctions; and\n if it is fretted by being perpetually talked to about small\n things, it is easily worked up to a state of irritation which\n leads almost insensibly, and certainly without any design, to\n the commission of some moral misdemeanor. I think we may often\n see this with all children, and it is very clear, in such a\n case, that their sin is as much our fault as theirs. We should\n watch our own state very carefully, and see how far our desire\n to cheek them grows out of our own peculiar state at the time,\n and how far that influences our view of the offence. We all\n know that what at some times we feel to be a great annoyance,\n is of no consequence to us at others; and for the same reason,\n in a different physical state, it is sometimes easier for them\n to control themselves than at others.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"Dear E----: ... I think it is good for young people to have\n some variety in life. I suffered much from the want of it; and\n I trust that you have too much good sense and right feeling to\n be unreasonable in your wishes, or in any measure unfitted for\n the duties and enjoyments of home by the indulgence. I know it\n has formerly been a great trial of your patience to pass from\n the irresponsible position of a visitor, to the occupations and\n responsibilities of home. But I trust, as you grow older and\n look at life more and more with a clear appreciation of its use\n and end, you will take more and more delight in the\n consciousness of living for some useful object; and, despite\n unpleasant accompaniments, find, in using all your powers for\n the good of others, a pleasure beyond any to be derived from a\n mere indulgence of taste. We cannot, and we had certainly\n better not, if we could, choose our own lot in life; we know\n not in that matter what is best for us. It is happily under the\n guidance of a more perfect wisdom than we can attain, and we\n may rest in faith that our position in life is unquestionably\n the best one for us, or it would not have been appointed.\n Therefore, dear E., remember that He who appointed all 'knows\n what is in man,' and in wisdom and love adapts our trials to\n our wants; and the very fact that such and such things are\n particularly hard to bear, is a proof that we need to cultivate\n just those virtues which would make it easy to us to bear\n them.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"Most people think it as well that the young should 'fight\n their own battles,' as they term it, and find their own way out\n of their childish troubles. But I believe many a character is\n seriously injured by the want of _aid_ in its petty\n difficulties, at that period when the right principles of\n action are most easily taught; they are as necessary to the\n right adjustment of small matters as of great.... I do not\n think as much as I once did of the loss of constant intercourse\n in the daily routine of life, in cultivating family affection.\n I believe family attachments are sometimes increased by\n occasional separation. But I do think a great deal of the loss,\n to a girl, of all domestic education, for the whole of that\n period when domestic occupations can best be learned. Of all\n objects in life there is none more distasteful to me than a\n _merely_ literary woman; no amount of learning is a fair\n balance, in my mind, for the feminine graces of a true woman's\n character. It is not merely that she looks better, clean and\n tidy, or that a careful use of the needle is a preventive of\n waste in the use of means,--although these are considerations\n worth weighing. But there are internal graces connected with\n these external habits; and there is no higher object for a\n woman's life than the cultivation of those powers which make\n the comfort of a well-ordered household.\"[5]\n\n[Footnote 5: A strong assertion; but it is evident that Mrs. Ware's idea\nof a \"well-ordered household\" comprised all that the Scriptures mean by\nthe direction, \"Set thine house in order.\"]\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_December 31, 1843._ The last day of this most eventful year!\n Dear Annie, how many precious, solemn thoughts does the very\n writing its date suggest! In all the future years of our lives,\n be they many or few, no one, it now seems, can bring to us so\n great, so affecting a change in outward things, as this year\n which is just passing away. It is not only that the outward\n circumstances of our lives are to take a new course, because he\n has left us who was to us the leading and controlling spirit in\n all that pertained to our life in this world, but that we shall\n no longer feel the perpetual action of his character in the\n daily detail of the education of our souls....\n\n \"Your expressions of discouragement and anxiety about yourself\n touch me very much. I can enter fully into all your feelings,\n for at your age I was not only separated from the loved circle\n and influences of home, for a time, but I lost for ever my\n chief earthly dependence for aid and happiness in my mother's\n death. Thus, being left to myself, I was led to a\n self-inspection and care of my own character, which do not\n usually come for many years after. I know all the trials that\n beset one's path at your age, for I have had deep experience of\n them; and I can say with confidence to you, that they may all\n be overcome by a resolute will, united to a true spirit of\n _humility_. Not, perhaps, in one year or two; but I do know\n that, by the persevering use of the means which God has placed\n within our reach, in reliance upon and earnest seeking of the\n aid which he will give, we shall make progress in the\n Christian life, the only life which can give us any\n satisfaction.... Seek the _truth_ in your own character, and\n see it in others. Fix for yourself a high standard of\n excellence, and never 'tire nor stop to rest,' until you have\n put yourself in the way to attain it. Stop not then; there is\n no stopping in this world (or in another, I believe).... Look\n your great difficulties full in the face; seek not to gloss\n them over, or find excuses for them. You have them as the means\n of excellence, by giving you something to do, a mode of\n applying Christian principle. Use them as such, and faint\n not....\n\n \"One thing I would suggest. You have been in the habit from\n earliest childhood, and I trust are still, of praying before\n you close your eyes to sleep. I am not sure that you have\n always done the same when you first awake in the morning. I\n know that much good may be derived from thus commencing the day\n with some private devotional exercise. The time given to it\n must of course depend upon circumstances; yet there cannot but\n be, under any arrangement, opportunity for at least the\n offering of a petition for light and strength, to meet the\n duties and temptations of the day on which you are entering,\n and a thought and resolution in regard to some particular fault\n to which you know you may be prone. I cannot but believe, that,\n when the day is so commenced, there is less danger of yielding\n to temptation than if no such act were performed.\"\n\nOne is perplexed to understand how Mrs. Ware, who neglected no duty,\nfound time to write so much; for the letters here published are a small\npart of all she wrote, and scarcely any do we publish entire. The\nexplanation is, that they were written after every thing else was done,\nat night, and very late in the night. It shows the strength of her\nframe, that she could follow this habit through life, till near the end.\nWe suppose it to have been very rare that she was not up and at work\nbeyond midnight. So was it particularly during the winter after Mr.\nWare's death; when her great solace and chief occupation were found in\nreading and arranging the immense mass of his manuscripts and unfinished\nworks. She says in December: \"The sense of the uncertainty of life,\nwhich is always awakened by the circumstance of death, made me anxious\nto do a great deal with respect to Mr. Ware's papers, which no one could\ndo as well as I; the day was too full of movement to allow an\nopportunity of doing this before evening, and I found myself night after\nnight poring over manuscripts until twelve, one, and two o'clock, for\nweeks together.\" This is not mentioned as an example to be followed; nor\nis there reason to think that it is ever done with entire impunity. But\nthe work to which she thus gave herself, through that lone winter, was\none of pure and high gratification. \"It was a touching employment, not\nmelancholy. This living life over again, when all its sands have been\n'diamond-sparks,' not dazzling, but reflecting the bright hues of\nheaven, cannot be melancholy; it is but a type of future blessedness.\"\n\nBut not for her own pleasure alone was this done. She had yielded to the\nearnest desire of all the friends of her husband, that a Memoir should\nbe written, and many of his letters and private papers given to the\npublic. Not, however, without long deliberation and great reluctance did\nshe give her consent; for, as we have said in the beginning of this\nwork, it cost a hard struggle, and even \"agony,\" to open to the public\neye that \"sacred inner life\" which seemed her own, and only hers. But\nhere, as everywhere, she soon conquered all selfish feeling, and, taking\nthe largest view of usefulness and duty, afforded every facility for a\nfaithful exhibition of such a character. To her son she says: \"I know\nthat, if the picture of what he was is to be a true one, it must have\nall those beautiful lights and shadows thrown into it which come from\nthe light of the soul; and I hope to be able so to lay aside all\npersonal consideration, as to do what ought to be done in this regard to\nmake the work as _useful_ as it can be. I trust you will feel so too. In\nour horror of gossip, do not let us go to the other extreme, and be too\nexternal and cold.\" In all such relations, it was a great part of her\nprinciple and power of action, that she had entire faith in her\nhusband's knowledge of her motives; with the added conviction, that,\nwhatever had been his thoughts and wishes under the burden of the flesh\nand of disease, he was now looking only at the highest and broadest\naspect, the spiritual and eternal issues of every act. Her communion\nwith his mind seems to have been as habitual and actual as it is\npossible to conceive. Again and again does she refer to it, and\nexpresses regret and pain when a doubt is raised, or a check given to\nthe full, cordial assurance of the \"fellowship of the spirit.\" And her\nenjoyment of this thought was never troubled, but rather enhanced, by\nthe thought of _another_, with whom the sharer of her affections and her\nexistence was now reunited in heaven. Distinctly does she refer to it,\nin writing to one of the children of those parents who were now restored\nto each other. \"I never experienced the sense of continued union as\nfully as now. It may be visionary, but I know it is beneficial. Your\nmother and your father are as much really present with me, to my\nconsciousness, as if Scripture had told me so, it seems to me. In his\ncase, it is but a continuation of perfect oneness; in hers, it has\nalways been the sense of accountableness, which has aided it.\"\n\nWe attempt no concealment of our wish to exhibit fully this rare and\nbeautiful feature of a Christian's faith and love,--less rare, we would\nfain believe, in the reality of its existence, than in the courage that\navows it. We value it, not only for its own sake, in a connection where\nit is needed and may be the source of peculiar happiness, but also for\nthe evidence it affords of the power and glory of our religion. We find\na letter written on the first anniversary, after Henry Ware's death, of\n_her_ decease who had been the object of his earliest attachment, and\nwhom every later change, in life and death, endeared the more. The\nletter was written to a child of that departed mother.\n\n \"_Framingham, February 5, 1844._\n\n \"MY DEAR JOHN:--\n\n \"I always feel, when I get your letters, as if I wanted to sit\n down and write to you at once, so much have I in my mind that I\n wish to communicate to you, and so much do I enjoy free\n communication with you. You may thank your stars that I do not\n give way to my inclination, for you would have more prosing\n than you would care to read. I am tempted now to depart from my\n usual custom of writing only once a fortnight, because I feel\n so much the want of some one with whom to commune upon the\n subject which cannot but occupy my mind upon this day. It is\n the first time for seventeen years that I have not had a\n delightful conversation with your dear father upon the event of\n which it is the anniversary. I loved to hear him tell me of\n your mother, for it helped to strengthen the feeling which I\n have loved to cherish, the sense of responsibility to her in my\n connection with her children. And her character was so fine a\n one, and her early experiences so much like my own, that I\n always felt that I gained wisdom as well as pleasure in\n contemplating it....\n\n \"I have often wished I could convey to your mind, without the\n intervention of words, what I felt to be the tenderness of the\n relation in which I stood to you; for my views and feelings\n have always been so different from what I find to be general,\n that it was not to be expected that you should understand them\n without such communication. From the very commencement of my\n connection with your father, I have realized the truth of my\n long-cherished theory, that the strength of one affection does\n not interfere in the least with the strength of another; we\n love not one brother or sister or child the less _because_ we\n have another to love; if there is any difference in the degree,\n it arises from other causes than number; and I know not why it\n should not be the same in all relations, where the soul is\n large enough to take so wide a range. I would thank God for\n this special blessing in addition, I might almost say above\n all others, for without it all others would have had a bitter\n ingredient. It has been one of the purest sources of happiness,\n that we could dwell together upon the memory of her who had\n gone, and feel an equal anxiety and interest in fulfilling her\n wishes towards _her_ and _our_ children.\n\n \"With the love of your Mother.\"\n\nOne other letter we give from Framingham, addressed to the same son, in\nrelation to the first experiences and discouragements of the ministry.\nIts plain good sense may be of use to some other beginners,--confirmed\nas it is by the fact disclosed in it, that some of the strongest minds\nand most successful ministers have suffered in the same way.\n\n \"_Framingham, March 15, 1844._\n\n \"MY DEAR JOHN:--\n\n \"... I turn now to that for which I most wished to write,--your\n present anxieties in your professional duties. I cannot indeed,\n as you say, help you, as _he_ could have done, but O how fully\n can I sympathize with you! It is to my mind only the\n reiteration of what I have so often heard from him; even after\n the ten years' experience which he had had when I first was\n partaker of his joys and sorrows, he suffered at times as you\n do now; and the details he has given me of his trials when he\n was first settled would equal, if not exceed, yours. You may\n depend upon it, dear John, yours is a common experience of all\n young ministers who have feeling and sensibility enough to be\n really good ministers; and you must not be discouraged by\n thinking your difficulties grow out of peculiar disabilities. I\n remember hearing a parishioner of Mr. Buckminster say, that he\n felt so much his incapacity to administer comfort to the sick\n and afflicted, that it was distressing to see him in a\n sick-room. I wish you could talk freely with some ministers\n about it. I have no doubt you would find it more or less so\n with all, according to their natural temperament. As I have\n said again and again, it is well to keep one's conscience and\n sensibilities tender; it is well to realize one's deficiencies\n to the extent of making us humble and energetic to improve, but\n not to make us despond or be discouraged; for; 'faint heart\n never won' the prize of goodness, any more than of the less\n spiritual objects. I know what it is to feel that more is\n expected of one than _can_ be accomplished; and it is, I grant,\n of all things the most distressing. But we must shut our eyes\n to all such considerations, and go on, looking only to the\n standard we have in our own minds, striving with all diligence\n to reach that, and be satisfied with striving, if it be but\n real, hearty endeavor.... I remember there were some passages\n in Taylor's 'Holy Living,' which used to be a great help to me\n in your state of mind. I have not the book by me, and cannot\n quote the words. Fenelon, too, has much comfort for one thus\n tried.... We forget, in our familiarity with what seem\n 'commonplaces,' that they really contain the great, fundamental\n principles from which all strength, all consolation, is to be\n derived; and of course, when the vision is quickened by present\n need, they all seem to be worth more than at any other time.\n And as to the other point, it is not you that speak,--you are\n only the medium by which the truths which _God_ spake are\n conveyed to the outward ear; you are only His instrument, and,\n while you are to seek to supply yourself with a full portion\n from the fountain of all truth, you are to be satisfied to\n present it as His, not your own; sympathizing as a\n fellow-Christian, not dictating as a leader and guide. I see no\n other way in which a young, inexperienced minister can have any\n comfort in that department of his duties. Many reasons come to\n me which may account for the greater difficulty in cases of\n sickness, than in bereavement.\n\n \"Truly your Mother.\"\n\nWhile looking for a place of permanent residence for herself and family,\nwith an opportunity of doing something for their support, Mrs. Ware\nreceived an earnest invitation from a gentleman in Milton, to go there\nand take the instruction of three little children, in connection with\nher own, for two or three hours a day. On many accounts, she was\ninclined to accept this offer at once. But she looked well at all sides\nof it, and especially at its moral aspect and probable influence upon\ncharacter. One is struck with her plain and practical, yet comprehensive\nand exalted view of the question, where so many would have looked only\nat the immediate and tangible advantage. \"There are many things to be\nweighed before so great a step is taken. Expense is of course a great\nitem, but not the greatest. The influences upon my children must be the\nfirst, usefulness the second, and the possibility of living without debt\na _sine qua non_ anywhere. Now I am not a very romantic person, and am\nnot disposed to live under any less refining influences than I can help.\nBut my children are destined to work for their living, and I wish to\nhave them as happy in doing so as right principles and a healthy tone of\nmind can make them.\" The result of full reflection was favorable to the\nplan; and the wisdom of her decision, while it affected all her\nremaining days, became more and more manifest to the end. From that\nmoment she had a new object, demanding and creating new energies. \"I\nalready see how I shall be a great gainer by this plan, in the strength\nof the stimulus it will offer to mental effort. In fact, I begin to\nrealize that I am more exhausted mentally than I am physically, by the\nanxieties of the past, and absolutely need the application of salutary\nmental medicines, as my body would of physical, if it had suffered in\nproportion.\"\n\nThus another change was to be made,--and the last, in a life of change.\nIt cost an effort. \"This first going forth alone, to bear new\nresponsibilities, to make a new experiment, unaided by _his_ strength,\nunassisted by his wisdom,--this is indeed to realize the loss of his\ncompanionship as I have not done before. But that blessed faith! that\nfaith in Him who is 'the strength of the lonely,'--I have a trust that\nit will be sufficient for me, although I cannot now see how.\"\n\nA few lines to one of her children, as the last record on that sacred\nspot, closes the life at Framingham.\n\n \"_March 26, 1844._ I think you will like to have a few words\n written from this room, consecrated as it is to us, by having\n been the last earthly home of dear father's spirit. This is the\n last time I shall sit in this spot; and I feel as if all the\n memories of the past were concentrated in this moment of time.\n How much do they tell of the peaceful and holy life which was\n here closed; how much recall of that triumphant struggle with\n the weakness of humanity! Dear child, may we never lose the\n influence of those last days passed in this place; may it\n strengthen, encourage, quicken us to all diligence in our\n Christian warfare; knowing that, if we strive as he did, we too\n may enter into that rest which we doubt not he has attained.\n _This is a holy hour_,--this leaving the things that are\n behind, and stepping forward into a new, untried scene of\n life's discipline,--alone,--and yet not alone, for the Father\n is with me.\"\n\n\n\n\nXIII.\n\nLIFE IN MILTON.\n\n\n \"Life in Milton is a very different thing to me, if you are\n here or elsewhere; but I warn you against letting me cling to\n your sympathy, as I may if you give me so much of it. I have\n such a sense of vacuum in life, that I am in danger of leaning\n upon any one who will let me lean upon him; and my sense of\n impaired powers is so constant and oppressive, that I need to\n be driven to action, rather than spared it, to rouse my\n energies. This is no false modesty; I am sure that I am not\n myself; I have not yet come to act freely in my new position in\n life; I am not 'at home,'--shall I ever be in this world?\"\n\nThus did Mary Ware write to a friend and true sympathizer, whose\nresidence in Milton was one of the great inducements that had drawn her\nto that place. She had been there but a short time, and had not yet\nrisen from the complete exhaustion of body and mind--the effect of years\nof solicitude, exertion, and suffering--for which she made too little\nallowance. She had been more than mortal, if she had not felt the\neffect, especially in the inevitable reaction when the great anxiety and\ndemand ceased. She would not allow that or any thing to plead for her;\nand her danger was, as we have seen, that of forgetting the designed\nand necessary sympathy between body and mind. She did not always forget\nit. Her balanced mind led her to suspect the true cause of the change\nthat had come over her; and she confessed that what she had called \"a\nstroke of mental paralysis\" was only physical, though affecting for a\ntime all the powers. Still she was inclined, through its own unconscious\ninfluence, to give it a different name. \"I doubt not you will smile at\nmy quick sensibility to every thing which is likely to injure myself;\nand I am deeply convinced that I am growing more and more selfish.\"\nSelfish in moral sensibility! May we not be instructed by this, as by\nthe other aspects of her eventful life? There is good sense in the\npleasantry of her words to Emma not long before, in regard to power. \"I\nsometimes wonder whether you and I are doing ourselves or our\nconstituents justice,--whether we do not attempt too much, to do any\nthing as it had best be done,--whether we secure sufficient repose of\nmind to keep our judgments clear, our thoughts bright, and the supply of\nmental food what it ought to be to enable us to have the best influence\nof which we are capable.\"\n\nThe first letter which we find dated at Milton discloses much both of\nthe inward and the outward state.\n\n \"_Milton, June 11, 1844._\n\n \"DEAR N----:\n\n \"You have no doubt expected long ago to hear from me. You had a\n right to do so, and must have wondered at my silence, as I\n could not but know how much you must wish to hear of our new\n life. But I have purposely forborne to write; I could not have\n addressed myself to you, without uttering all that was passing\n in my mind and heart; and so perfectly chaotic has been the\n state of my feelings, that I was sure it was best to wait until\n time and experience had arranged and quieted them, before I\n trusted myself to the slightest expression. It was as if the\n fountains of the great deep of my soul were broken up, and the\n waters were overwhelming every power and faculty. I thought I\n had anticipated the whole amount of suffering which my\n isolation was to bring to me, and vainly imagined that I was\n prepared to meet it with a firm mind; but nothing but\n experience can picture the agonizing sense of desolation, which\n entering upon a new life, unaided by the sympathy that has been\n so long the light of life, brings to me. Nothing in life can\n come near it, unless it be the homesickness of a little child,\n when for the first time it finds itself in new scenes without\n its mother's presence. At Framingham I was but living out the\n plan of life which we had formed together; the sense of\n association was not for a moment lost, and it was comparatively\n easy to realize the continued presence of the spirit. But on\n leaving that home, I seemed for the first time to be cast upon\n the world alone, and every moment's experience in Boston and\n elsewhere only increased this feeling, until it reached its\n height in the necessity of forming here a new plan of\n existence, under circumstances of great responsibility,--alone.\n I used to think I felt all of loneliness that could be felt, in\n that little chamber in Pearl Street, and that humble cottage in\n Osmotherly; but that was nothing to this. I had then never\n known what perfect sympathy was; I could not understand as I\n now do its loss. I have been a puzzle to myself; but I still am\n sure that I would not change, one iota, the decree of\n Heaven....\n\n \"We came hither the last week in April, and find everything\n pleasant, and every body kind. As far as I can yet see, I think\n I anticipated very truly the pros and cons of the case, not\n excepting my own incapacity for the employment. One would laugh\n at the idea of a woman of forty-five doubting her capacity to\n teach children their letters; but the intellectual is the least\n part of the concern to my view, and I still think I have no\n tact for the education of children. The little I can do for my\n own is through the connection which nature has established, not\n a power of my own acquisition. I have determined to try the\n experiment for a year, and the result only can decide the\n question of the expediency of pursuing it another year. I must\n consider the good of my own children first, of course.... My\n time is entirely filled, from early rising to very late\n sitting. The only time I can take for writing is at night when\n all are in bed, and I ought to be; for the constant bustle of\n children wearies my head much.\n\n \"Yours, as ever, lovingly.\n\n \"M.L.W.\"\n\nSo far from mental infirmity or loss, the mind of Mrs. Ware was never,\nwe should say, more active or energetic than at this time, as soon as\nshe was wholly rested. It is obvious, indeed, that the growth of the\nmind had kept pace in her, as in many, with the growth of the affections\nand higher aspirations. In such a character and life, mental and\nspiritual are nearly synonymous. The spiritual had been always in\nexercise, sharply disciplined and expanded. And thus chiefly, thus only,\nwe may almost say, had she advanced mentally. For she was not a student.\nNo period of her life had permitted her to be an extensive or habitual\nreader. Persons, and not books, events and experiences, were her study.\nShe lost no opportunity of direct instruction, but she made it\nsubservient, or rather concomitant, with other engagements and positive\nduty. And no better mental discipline, perhaps, could she have had, in\nconnection with the communion she enjoyed with the best minds, and the\nlessons of her lot. We see the effect, and the progress, continually.\nThere is a striking difference between her earlier and later letters. We\nhave felt, in fact, that injustice may have been done, in giving so many\nof not only the early, but the unstudied and hurried, productions of one\nso pressed and unpretending. But they all serve to show her as she was.\n\nIf we mistake not, vigor rather than feebleness will be seen in her\nremarks upon that vast and inexhaustible subject, which now engaged her\nmost,--education. She had always thought herself incompetent to teach;\nand no burden or responsibility did she feel more painfully, than that\nof opening, furnishing, and guiding the minds of children. This can\nnever seem a light or easy task, unless to the superficial in\nself-knowledge and conscientiousness. Where the religious principle and\nthe moral aim are like hers, we can understand any confessions of\nhumility or distrust, in view of such a work; and we do not doubt the\nentire sincerity of the fear she more than once expressed, that she had\nalmost done _wrong_ in giving up the reluctance she at first felt to\nassume the office of a wife and mother, on account of her\ndisqualification for so great a charge. And now that it had become an\nundivided charge, now that her children were left to her alone, and she\nhad engaged to be their teacher and sole guardian, she felt that the\nduty, the solicitude, and the happiness of her life were centred there.\n\"O my dear child!\"--she exclaims, in addressing one of them, and\nreferring to all,--\"when I think of what you _may be_, my heart beats\nalmost impatiently to stretch forward; for if life is ever again to have\nany zest to me, ever to seem like life, it must be through the\nsuccessful struggles of my children. On them I now must rely for all I\ncan enjoy of this world; their affection, their character, must be my\nsole dependence.\"\n\nIn a letter to Emma, a little later, she speaks of her suffering from\nthe real or imagined loss of power, particularly in reference to the\nyoung. \"I sometimes think that some strange change has taken place in my\n'physical'; for I cannot otherwise account for the torpor which hangs\nover my mind. All the little animation I ever had seems to have\ndeparted; and, although my mind is crowded with thoughts, they are a\ndead letter when I attempt to use them for purposes of conversation. I\nfeel this to be a great evil in my intercourse with children. To be\nsure, their own inexhaustible spirits are mostly sufficient to their\nhappiness; yet they need sympathy, not formally expressed, but existing\nin the atmosphere about them. I think I have felt the want all my life\nof a more cheerful home in early childhood, a fuller participation in\nthe pleasures and 'follies' of youth. I want to have my children\nremember their home as the happiest spot, because the most sympathetic\nas well as the most loving.\"\n\nOf Mrs. Ware's seven children, all, excepting the oldest son, made part\nof the family circle, with occasional absences at school. To one of the\ndaughters who was absent most, there are many letters containing\nwell-defined thoughts on intellectual and moral discipline, and\ndisclosing more fully the fact of her own trials of temper in early\nlife, to which we have before alluded, but which many find it difficult\nto believe. From these letters we take the passages that follow, the\nfirst relating to a visit to Framingham.\n\n \"_Milton, October 1, 1844._ O, I did so enjoy being upon that\n sacred spot, living over again, as we can scarcely do but by\n the power of association, all the details of the holy time of\n which that day was the anniversary! I felt that it strengthened\n my faith and trust, that I could recall there something of the\n gratitude which I felt when that weary spirit was just\n emancipated. I had needed this; for as the cares and\n responsibilities of life have pressed more and more upon me\n every day I have since lived, their accumulated weight was\n beginning to keep down and obscure that brighter vision which\n faith then revealed. I had a delightful walk alone in the\n woods, recalling the sweet words which I had had with dear\n father when we strolled through those woods together. How\n strong is the power of association! I found that particular\n spots revived thoughts which he had uttered when there, which\n perhaps I should never again have recalled, elsewhere.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_October 18, 1844._ ... I have determined, as a fixed\n principle, not to go beyond my income, for any thing short of\n necessity, and it is a delicate question to settle what\n necessity is. I choose to take it for granted that there never\n can be a question in any of our minds, that taste is to be held\n in subjection to principle, and I am not only willing, but\n desirous, to indulge taste, _within that limitation_, to the\n utmost bounds of my ability. I think a refined taste has an\n indirect, but certain influence upon morals; and I never can\n believe that one of my children will ever for an instant be\n pained at any restraint put upon them by a necessity which God\n has ordained.\n\n \"I have great sympathy with the struggles of young people in\n this matter. I well remember how often I had to school myself\n (for you know that many of my associates in early life were of\n the wealthy classes), when I saw my companions gratifying every\n wish for amusement, instruction, and dress, while I could only\n just keep decent enough not to shock them, and had to give up\n all my longings for expensive amusements and accomplishments.\n But I had this great advantage, by mixing familiarly with the\n rich,--I soon discovered that neither goodness nor happiness\n were dependent upon these adventitious circumstances, and I was\n so fortunate in the characters of those whom I thus dealt with,\n as to be made to feel very early in life that my own position\n among them was not in the least degree affected by externals. I\n soon began to look upon my oft-turned dress with something like\n pride, certainly with great complacency; and to see in that,\n and all other marks of my mother's prudence and consistency,\n only so many proofs of her dignity and self-respect,--the\n dignity and self-respect which grew out of her just estimate\n of the true and the right in herself and in the world. I can\n distinctly remember coming to this conclusion upon the occasion\n of wearing an old-fashioned, stiff, purple silk dress, with a\n narrow plaited tucker in it, to a party at Colonel P----'s,\n about the year 1808; I have never had any trouble on that score\n since. I did shed some tears, when I found I must give up my\n long-cherished hope of learning music, some years after, but\n they were 'natural tears,' and 'wiped soon.'\n\n \"But I have become garrulous, talking about my youth (as old\n people are apt to), and have wandered from the case in hand.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_November 8, 1844._ I feel that I must have some free\n communication with you, for my heart is full to overflowing.\n That I can understand all your internal trials, I have often\n assured you; and, strange as it may seem to you, it is from\n _experience_ that I am enabled to enter into them. In the\n solitude of my early days, the consciousness of unworthiness\n preyed upon my spirit, until I persuaded myself that every body\n despised me, that I was nothing to any one, that nobody could\n care for me for my own sake. Many and many a night have I lain\n and thought of this, and looked at life through this medium,\n until I wished that I had never lived, and in my agony have\n cried myself into perfect hysterics. Even my mother's love\n failed to satisfy me, for I thought it was only an involuntary\n feeling for an only child, not depending upon or growing out of\n my own deserts. O, how many precious hours of life have I\n thrown away in uselessness to others, and in misery for myself,\n by this morbid sensibility! Would that I could recall them!\n Would that my example might ward off from you like regrets! I\n had suffered many years from this cause before I discovered the\n true source of my trial, or caught a glimpse of its remedy. And\n when at last it flashed upon me, that it was the want of true\n Christian humility, not the real conviction of inferiority,\n which led to all this, I could not at once credit my own\n consciousness; and many and severe were the mental exercises by\n which I was led at last to understand and _feel_ the truth. I\n believe this to have been a constitutional tendency; and\n however much the demon may have been brought under subjection,\n there have been times all along life, that it has so striven\n for the mastery, that I have feared it might conquer. But\n knowing one's danger is more than half the security against it,\n and I have gained in happiness more than a compensation for the\n warfare.\n\n \"... When we find ourselves disturbed in spirit, we very\n naturally refer to the exciting cause as an excuse for it; and\n however we may blame ourselves, we still feel that those whose\n wrong-doing irritates us are really the most to blame. But we\n must get away from this view of things, if we ever hope to\n improve ourselves. As long as we live in the world, we are to\n live with those who do wrong. We can never be perfect, nor can\n we find others who are; and our care should be, to learn so to\n control ourselves, that not only shall we cease to be tempted\n to do wrong by their wrong-doing, but also cease to tempt them\n by our own. And who can doubt that the best hope of improving\n them is by showing them the advantage of self-control?\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_December 12, 1844._ I feel that you have begun the great work\n of self-education with a resolute will and I pray God to give\n you strength to pursue it without faltering. I do not expect,\n and you must not expect, that all can be done at a stroke. A\n whole life is too little for the attainment of all we desire;\n but having fairly set ourselves at work, let us go on\n hopefully, cheerfully, laboring diligently, 'knowing that we\n shall reap, if we faint not'; and remembering that, as we\n ascend, the prospect widens before us. And although we may be\n tempted to be discouraged, as we see more and more to be done,\n we are to look back upon the path we have trodden, and measure\n the steps we have taken, and find comfort and encouragement in\n the past, for the future. Go on, in the fear and _love_ of God,\n in the path which he has marked out, the path of right\n principle,--and fear not,--all will be well.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_January 1, 1845._ ... I can scarcely realize that the year has\n come to an end, so little have I marked the progress of time\n during its passage; and yet it has witnessed a great change\n outwardly. But how little does mere outward circumstance affect\n the life within,--how do we carry _ourselves_ with us\n everywhere! Does not this fact of experience help us to\n anticipate something of future retribution? The past year has\n been to me one of such constant, tremendous struggle, that in\n looking back upon it I seem to see nothing but the heaving of\n the waves upon which my spirit had been tost. And yet I cannot\n lose sight of the many bright spots, the many and great\n blessings with which my life has been cheered. How should we\n praise and thank God that our circle has not again been\n broken,--that we are blessed with such kind friends, and the\n means of improvement and usefulness! As I look forward into the\n uncertain future, I sometimes feel as if I longed to know how\n it will be with us at this hour next year; but a glance at the\n possible picture makes me ready to exclaim, 'O blindness to the\n future, kindly given!' I feel as if some great change may come,\n but I can leave the whole to Him who will direct it right....\n\n \"How fully do I respond to the feeling you express of desire to\n see dear father once more. Sometimes,--I know not how,--for an\n instant an oblivion of the past comes over me, and the feeling\n of his temporary absence returns as of old when he had gone a\n journey, as if I could not wait, but _must_ see him soon. Why\n is not our faith in the unseen sufficient to satisfy these\n longings? Why do we not realize more fully the presence of the\n spiritual? Let us remember his almost dying words: 'Body and\n spirit may be separated; _spirit and spirit, never_.'\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_June 26, 1845._ ... No woman can be a true woman, whatever may\n be her intellectual acquirements or capacity, without that\n womanly knowledge which will fit her for domestic life, and\n enable her to fill 'home,' that appointed sphere of most\n women's duties at some time or other, with all the comforts\n which alone can make it happy. I do not mean merely the\n knowledge of the daily routine of outside domestic employments;\n but the cultivation of the domestic affections, the habits of\n concession and self-sacrifice, of delicate attention to the\n little things which go so far to make up the sum of domestic\n happiness, and the mechanical facility with respect to a\n thousand minor matters,--all of which nothing but practice in\n the atmosphere which calls them into exercise can possibly\n teach. I will not deny that I think a great deal, too, of\n education in 'common domestic employments,' as a means of\n happiness and usefulness. I hold that nothing can compensate\n for a wilful neglect of what may be made the means of so much\n comfort to others, as order, cleanliness, and a facility in\n administering to the human wants of our friends, which is\n peculiarly woman's province. Now, for this part of education,\n home ought to be the best place. Of course it is impossible,\n while attending school constantly, to find time for these other\n matters, and all theoretical learning upon such subjects can be\n of little use without practice.\"\n\nMrs. Ware had found another, new home,--a pleasant cottage built for her\nuse by a friend after she went to Milton, and entered by her and her\nchildren toward the end of the year,--her last removal. And highly\nfavored did she feel, both in the society around her and the local\nsituation. No heart could be more alive to the beauties of that glorious\n\"Milton Hill\" than was hers. Its rich landscape, its gorgeous sunsets,\nand ever-varying hues, she enjoyed intensely, for their natural beauty,\nand not less, if not more, for their moral influence. The thought of\nher enthusiasm comes over us even now with subduing power, as we stand\nagain at her side on those beautiful heights, to which she longed to\nlead _all_ her friends, and see the emotion, if we hear not the\nutterance, of her glowing, admiring spirit. We catch again the earnest\nwords with which she urged a visit there, even in the freshness of her\nwidowed grief. \"O this glorious view! I do hope the weather will be\ngood, that you may see it in all its glory. I had no conception of the\nmoral influence of the sublime and beautiful before. I really think one\nmust be _very_ wicked to be troubled about little things, within sight\nof such a display of the Divine love; even children feel it.\"\n\nThe time had come when she might be pardoned, had she been \"troubled,\"\nnot indeed by \"little things,\" but by some of serious import. A hidden,\ninsidious disease, which seldom leaves its nature long doubtful, had\nbegun its work, and the quickened spirit caught the first whisper of\nmonition. Even two years before, she had a sort of presentiment, if not\na distinct warning, of her fate, and in a pleasant way signified it to\nher husband, who answered as pleasantly, and probably thought no more of\nit. How much she thought of it we cannot know. But as early as the\nsummer of 1845 she prepared her mind for a painful operation; and, when\nrelieved of the immediate necessity, wrote thus to a friend: \"You may\nimagine the depth of my gratitude; for I could not doubt that an\noperation, even if successful, would disable me for a long time; and I\ncould not look upon the fact of being taken off from my duties, without\nmuch anxiety as to how my place was to be supplied. Still I have a\nstrong conviction that ultimately this is to end my days. But I am not\ntroubled at the thought, otherwise than that it is a mode of decay\ndistressing to others. But God's will be done!\"\n\nMary Ware was not only to suffer, but to _do_ God's will, to the end.\nAnd for four years longer we may follow her, and see her so busy and so\ncheerful, that we might think her unaware of danger,--except that we\ncannot fail to perceive in her letters how clear was her consciousness\nof all that was impending. But very few knew it. The work of life went\non as usual. Her small school in the house occupied much of her time,\nand interested rather than satisfied her. She does not appear to have\never felt that she accomplished much in the way of teaching. She entered\nupon the task distrustingly. \"I begin my little school to-morrow, and I\ndoubt if any girl of sixteen, making her first essay at school-keeping,\never felt more dread of the thing. I am ashamed and almost amused at my\nown cowardice. The difficulty is, I have a great idea about a small\nthing, and cannot feel fully that it is 'little by little the bird\nbuilds his nest.'\" There may have been another difficulty,--that\nchildren so young exercised only her patience, and could not call into\naction the higher powers, nor make her forget herself as she always\nwished to do. But there was another and absorbing work of mental and\nmoral training in which she was constantly engaged,--that of her older\nchildren, for whom, by communion or correspondence, she was striving to\ndo all that was possible in the time that remained to her.\n\nAbout this time Mrs. Ware received from a friend, who knew her whole\ncondition, the offer of a \"home\" for either of her children that she\nwould be willing to spare, and for any period. She felt deeply the\nkindness of the offer, as will be seen in her reply to it,--where we\nalso see her views of the wisdom of separating children, and giving them\nunequal advantages.\n\n \"_Milton, December 18, 1844._\n\n \"MY DEAR FRIEND:--\n\n \"As I read over again your precious letter, I wonder if there\n is any pardon for one who could have delayed so long to answer\n it. There could not be, were it possible that such delay\n proceeded from indifference, or want of just appreciation of\n the feelings which dictated the letter. To neither of these\n charges can I plead guilty; and can only say in my excuse, that\n I have not had, since it was found safely rolled up in a bale\n of carpeting, the command of one hour of daylight, and that my\n eyes have been so troublesome that I could not use them at the\n only time when my mind was free to write. Thus have I been\n compelled to put it off; until now, on the eve of leaving home,\n I dare not put it off any longer, and am compelled to take the\n hour of midnight to tell you, as I may be able, almost without\n eyes, how deeply grateful I am for it. You have indeed shown\n yourself the true friend by your benevolent proposition; what\n more could a friend do for another? But delightful as is the\n thought that any of my children could have such a home in the\n heart of one I so truly love, I dare not lift a finger, or say\n a word, which would decide such a question. I feel my own\n short-sightedness so much, I believe so fully in the\n circumstantial leading of Providence, that I could not venture\n to anticipate the future expediency of any arrangement, the\n advantages of which must depend upon a fitness of things _when\n the time comes_, of which we now cannot know any thing. How\n little we can tell what a child may be at any future\n period,--what its tastes, or its adaptedness to any particular\n position in life,--and how great may be the embarrassment which\n might arise from any arrangement made in anticipation of\n results which are never to be reached!\n\n \"I have always had a strong objection to giving one member of a\n family any great external advantages over the rest. I had\n rather all should stand upon the same level, as a better\n security for the cultivation of that family affection and\n sympathy which I believe to be a valuable preservative of\n virtue. I should much prefer that all my children should live\n together, if it were possible to find any one to act as a\n judicious head to such a community, than risk the growth of\n separate interests and a feeling of superiority from any\n outward cause. This, you will say, is impracticable, as, in the\n common course of events, one is likely to gain for himself a\n better position than another; but when a strong family\n affection is established by early dependence, I have no fear\n for after influences,--I am willing to risk them. Yet this is\n only an idea, and I have no hope of its accomplishment; both\n the means and the person would be wanting, were I taken from\n them now, and I should leave them to their fate with the\n delightful confidence that there are many instruments in God's\n hands ready to do for them what may be best. Bless you, for the\n satisfaction of knowing that it is in your heart to be one of\n them. I have much anxiety about my children, not from any\n peculiar difficulty in their original characters, but from my\n deep sense of incapacity to guide any child in its progress\n through life.... I want Faith, I want Hope,--O, I want a great\n deal which I ought to have gained, by this time, to make life\n bearable. And yet, when I think of the possibility of being\n soon taken, I can hardly say, 'I am ready.' Pray for me that it\n may be otherwise when the time comes.\n\n \"Ever yours, most truly.\n\n \"MARY L. WARE.\"\n\nAs the months advanced, Mrs. Ware was more and more occupied and active,\nevidently feeling that her time was short. And yet we see none of that\nanxiety about the future which such a conviction is apt to create, in\nreference either to the present world or another. As regarded another\nworld, and her approach to it, we doubt if she ever felt the slightest\ndread or unwillingness to go. Not from any sense of fitness or\nself-sufficiency, but with the deepest humility there mingled the\nfirmest trust; and a trust that refused to separate the exercise of\njustice from mercy, in God. She could trust the one as much as the\nother, and she could not distrust either; but, assured that a perfectly\nrighteous and omniscient Being would do exactly that which was needful\nfor her purification and perfection, she rested there,--and left all\nelse. We say this of the peculiarity of her faith, if it be peculiar,\nfrom personal knowledge of her mind on this point, and from her own\nexplicit declarations at a later day. And we refer to them at this time,\nto say that the same convictions sustained and tranquillized her in\nregard to the future of this life for those whom she was to leave\nbehind. From the earliest moment of the expectation or apprehension of\ndeath, a mother's mind must turn strongly and fix intently on her\nchildren. And to most mothers this is the great struggle. Who can\nwonder? Who will reprove, even if the struggle be bitter, and the vision\ndim? HE will not, who has given a parent's affections, and likened to\nthem his own. Many a mother, who could leave the world without a pang\nfor herself, will suffer and fear for her children. It is only the\nhighest faith that prevents all this suffering and fear. Such, we think,\nwas Mary Ware's. Not in commendation do we say it,--we know not that it\ndeserves that,--but as the simple fact, that while she was always\ndoubtful of her power to guard and train her children in the best way,\nshe never feared to leave them with God, in reference either to things\ntemporal or spiritual. Even when she could see no sufficient provision\nfor their temporal comfort, she seemed unable to believe that she was\nessential to that comfort, or that her life would be better for them\nthan her death. She _knew_ that that would be best which God appointed.\nDoes not this belong to the highest faith? No one could induce her to\nmake any request, or express even a wish, as to future arrangements, the\noutward condition or fortune of any child. Many wishes, many prayers,\ndid she offer for the inward condition and the spiritual preparation for\nboth worlds,--but only the spiritual. \"I could write a sheet,\" she says\nto a mother who was herself anxious,--\"I could write a sheet upon the\ntext your letter gives me, with regard to the preparation of our\nchildren for life. But I can only say, Why should we feel anxious for\nthem when we are gone? Do we not see that the finest characters are\nthose which are formed by the necessity of acting for themselves?\" And\nagain: \"I have felt so grateful for having had health and strength to do\nfor Henry what I was sure no one else could do, that I had nothing more\nto ask, and could submit to any thing. I hope I shall not find my faith\nfail, come what will. I do _not_ feel that I am as essential to my\nchildren. I do not feel that I am competent to train them.\"\n\nIf we have given of late none of Mrs. Ware's \"annuals,\" it has only been\nfrom the abundance of other material. They were continued without a\nsingle failure to the end of life. From two of them at this period, we\ntake such parts as will help to show the state and progress of her mind.\n\n \"_Milton, December 31, 1845._\n\n \"MY DEAR N----:\n\n \"Twenty years ago at this hour, I was writing my annual upon a\n pair of bellows, crouching over a small coal fire, in poor old\n Aunty's chamber at Osmotherly. What changes, what a variety of\n weal and woe, does a glance at the intervening space present to\n one's mind! It is all too familiar to you to make a\n recapitulation necessary, and you can understand, without any\n explanation, the wide difference between the nature of the\n loneliness I then felt, and that which I now experience. Have I\n not gained that which can never be lost, a bond of union with\n an immortal spirit which can never be broken? O that I could\n realize more the perpetuity of this spiritual union! then\n should I suffer less from this merely earthly isolation. But I\n have gained a little since last year, dear N----; either I have\n become more wonted by time to my condition, or the increasing\n care and anxiety about my children have taken my thoughts away\n from myself; be it what it may, I am more able to turn my mind\n from that one idea of change, and have acquired a more tranquil\n state of mind, under the consciousness of it. So far, so good;\n but God knows there is still enough of sin in me, to keep me\n from that state of quiet trust which, as a believer in\n Providence, I ought to have. I cannot get away from the\n terrible sense of insufficiency for the great work which lies\n before me in the education of my children, and I cannot learn\n to rely, as I should, upon the All-sufficient, for the supply\n of that deficiency. It is a living, acting Faith that I want;\n how shall I get it?...\n\n \"It is long since I have written to you, but I have little of\n variety to detail. I spent a fortnight in November, and another\n in December, in Boston, helping Dr. John in the completion of\n his work, and since my return, three weeks ago, I have been\n very fully employed as nurse and maid of all work; for I found\n C----, W----, H----, and my Margaret, all sick. E---- too has\n not been well. Help is not to be got here extempore, and, with\n the exception of two nights from a nurse, I had no aid, until\n within a few days I have had a little girl of thirteen. You\n know something about such concatenations, and need not be told,\n that under such circumstances one finds no time for anything\n but supplying the bodily wants of those about us. Add to this,\n that I have been more than half sick myself all the time with\n one of my tedious coughs, keeping me awake at night and tiring\n me terribly in the day.\n\n \"Only think of Emma's trip to England,--and, good soul, that\n she should go and see 'Cousin Jane' for me, and George Lovell,\n too! Does she not always do more than any one else?\n\n \"Your faithful\n\n \"M. L. W.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_Milton, December 31, 1846._\n\n \"Thirty years, is it not, dear N----, since I began to make you\n my mother-confessor upon this anniversary? A long life, as some\n people would have used it; a long life it seems to me, as I\n look back to that first hour of consciousness that there was\n one being in the world to whom I could be as egotistical as I\n pleased, with impunity. A long life it has truly been to me,\n not so much in its usefulness or improvement, as in the variety\n of its experiences, internal as well as external. In fact, it\n seems like many lives; and as I survey different portions of it\n in retrospect, I can scarcely believe in my own identity with\n the being who appears upon the stage in each. How has it been\n with you? I am anxious to know whether others are as sensible\n as I am of a change of character from the influence of\n circumstances. We are wont to say, and I think I have seen\n strong proof of the truth of the assertion,--that 'the child is\n father to the man.' In truth, he is the future man, in all the\n leading traits of his character, as well at five as at fifty\n years of age; and yet I do feel as if I were not the same being\n that I was three years ago. Whether it is that I am growing old\n and losing my faculties, or whether the responsibilities of\n life have paralyzed my mind, or that the loss of that\n refreshment to the spirit which comes from the reciprocation of\n an affection for which there is no substitute, has exhausted my\n strength by depriving me of my spirit's resting-place, I know\n not. But certain it is, that from being a person of some\n decision of character, some energy, some judgment, I feel as if\n I were reduced to a mere child, ready to lean upon any body's\n judgment but my own, heartsick and homesick at the sense of\n incapacity to meet my duties. Is this want of actual power, or\n want of faith to use the power that is left? I don't know. All\n I know certainly is this: that I find myself utterly inadequate\n to the duties which belong to me, and am in consequence in a\n perpetual state of anxiety, which incapacitates me from doing\n or enjoying. This is a new strain, you will say; for me, truly\n it is a new state of mind, and whether remediable or not, I\n cannot tell; can you tell me?...\n\n \"... How strangely various seem to be the means appointed to\n bring about the same end in life; and it is not easy to see how\n our various lots can all be brought to bear the same fruit of\n holiness and happiness. The greatest evil to me in life is the\n perpetual hurry, hurry, to get through the business of the day\n without leaving any necessary duty undone,--without a moment\n for quiet thought or intellectual improvement,--while here is\n my neighbor, it may be, at a loss how to fill up the vacant\n hours, thankful to resort to sleep to dispose of some of them.\n Does it seem as if we were both destined to the same end? The\n more I look upon life, the more I feel that the outside has\n less to do with improvement or happiness. And dissatisfied as I\n sometimes feel with my own position, I know not how I should\n improve it, on the whole. When I look calmly at my\n deficiencies, I see that they are not so much the effect of any\n outside cause, as the weakness of my own character. And if at\n times this brings a feeling akin to despair, it makes me less\n restless than I should otherwise be.\n\n \"Dear N----, I have a strong feeling that this is to be a year\n of change to me; not from any present indications, but that it\n seems presumptuous to expect that the trial which I believe\n hangs over me should be long averted. Pray for me, that I may\n be prepared for it. I fear I shall never be any better. And so\n I begin the year, not wishing to look to its end, but with more\n indifference as to what that end may be to me, than I ever felt\n before. I fear this is not a right feeling....\n\n \"Yours always.\n\n \"M. L. W.\"\n\nFrom the many letters of sympathy which Mrs. Ware wrote, we have drawn\nlittle. They were sure to be many, from her position, her large circle\nof intimate friends, the unreserved confidence reposed in her, and her\nwarm affections. How warm and tender those affections were, how prompt\nto go out to those who suffered, and how sure to do something to soothe\nand cheer, many of us could tell. Or rather, it is not to be told. But\nthe want of it is felt. There are those of that family and acquaintance,\nwho will never weep, without the remembrance of her ready and wise\nsympathy. The power of sympathy is not given to all. The feeling may be\nin all, but not the faculty of so expressing and adapting it as to make\nit truly sympathy. It requires one to be \"acquainted with grief.\" It\nrequires a quick discernment and deep insight of character. That which\nis sympathy to one may not reach, or may offend, another. Mrs. Ware\nunderstood this so well, that she always accepted, for herself, most\ngratefully, all attempts at condolence, and at the same time adapted her\nown to the character and case of the sufferer. \"In my intercourse with\nher,\" says one, \"I felt the difference between feeling _for_ and feeling\n_with_ another.\" There is nothing belittling or weakening in such\nsympathy. It appeals to the highest, and not, as is often done, to lower\nmotives and affections in the mourner. It does not condole merely, but\nrejoices with him. To a friend in sorrow she writes: \"My confidence\nmakes me rather rejoice for you, than grieve, that you should be called\nto such suffering. There is so much of sublimity in these _great_ trials\nof faith, that one feels raised by them to a nearer approach to the\nInfinite, to a clearer vision of the realities of the spiritual world, a\nnearness, almost oneness, with the Father of spirits. Who would desire\nto avert any thing that will do this for us?\" There is, too, a\nself-respect and decision, with which even her humility clothes itself.\n\"Your case is much upon my mind, and I cannot help wishing there were\nsome mental daguerreotype, or magnetic communication, by which I could\ntransfer to your mind, without the intervention of words, all that is\npassing in mine concerning you. 'Vain mortal!' whispers Humility, 'what\ncould you show her worth her seeing?' I was not thinking of the _worth_,\nbut of the sympathy and love. I know that is worth something even from\npoor me. You say, 'Why do you not talk?' I have no habit of talking\nabout the internal, and I have so little love of discussing the\nexternal, that I have no free use of language in any way; and it always\nseems to me, when I make the attempt to utter what my mind is full of,\nas if my thoughts all came wrong end foremost; and the idea of taking up\na person's time to listen to me seems so foolish, that it embarrasses me\nby making me feel in a hurry to get through _for their sakes_.\"\n\nBut if she could not or did not talk much, in the way of solace, she\nwrote freely; and her letters, though not original or remarkable, are\ndrawn from the depths of experience and faith. We offer none entire, but\nonly the parts that indicate her manner of urging upon others the great\ntruths and principles on which she herself relied. The extracts that\nfollow are not all of one character, but such as were called forth by\ndifferent experiences near the same time,--all showing the serious cast\nof her own thoughts, and her deepening interest in others' moral\ncondition. The first was written to her son in the ministry.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_February 9, 1846._ Dear John: Oh! you are but just beginning\n to know what life truly is in its solemn discipline. The great\n book of religious experience is now but opening to you; and,\n believe me, you will find in it treasures of happiness of which\n the heart of man _cannot_ conceive without such experience. You\n say you feel something of 'fear' coming over you. I will not\n say, put away all apprehension; uncertainty does hang over you,\n but let it not produce fear. I would advocate a courageous\n contemplation of possibilities, for in this way, I believe, the\n benefits of all trial may be made greater. But let it be with a\n quiet trust and hopefulness, such as we as Christians have a\n right to feel; let it be with a steady faith, that whatever God\n permits has a beneficent end and object, kindly to aid us in\n the great work for which we were placed in this world of\n trial,--the preparation of our souls for that spiritual life\n which may be lived even while we are still in this world. Does\n not our Father love us with a perfect love? Does he not know\n better than we can what is best for us? Has he not power to\n fulfil all his designs of good for us,--and shall we not, if\n with childlike faith in that love and power we surrender our\n will to his, find a peace which cannot be moved? I was once\n most forcibly checked in some fruitless attempt to obtain peace\n under great difficulties, upon false principles, by happening\n upon these verses of Watts (I believe):--\n\n 'Is resignation's lesson hard?\n On trial we shall find\n It makes us give up nothing more\n Than anguish of the mind.\n Believe, and all the ills of life\n That moment we resign,' &c.\n\n And I never find myself trying to argue myself into\n acquiescence to any dispensation by reasons other than those\n implied in these lines, that they do not rise to my memory as a\n rebuke. But still the struggle,--O, that struggle is great, and\n we must not be discouraged that we find it so; that is part of\n the discipline. Strength comes by effort; and only think what\n precious teaching this is for _your_ work.\"\n\nAll who have read the beautiful Memoir of Robert Swain will feel the\ngreater interest in the following, written from his favorite\nisland-home, to a son in England, about the age of Robert, when he died.\n\n \"_Naushon, September 13, 1846._ I am glad, dear William, to\n write to you from this place, not only because I am happy in\n being here, but because it must remind you of him with whose\n memory this place is so strongly associated, that one cannot\n hear its name without having his beautiful character brought up\n before the mind. I have thought much of you since I have been\n here, in tracing Robert's life by the memorials which are\n everywhere around me, in hearing his parents talk of the\n formation of his character, in reading the record of his death,\n and contemplating at his grave his present life. O, I have\n felt, dear William, that to have such a child was the highest\n happiness this world could give; and however great must have\n been the pain of parting, and dreary the void which his absence\n made in the earthly pilgrimage of his parents, it was all more\n than compensated, by the satisfaction of having begun here such\n a relation to so pure a spirit, which can never cease while the\n soul lives. And how earnestly I have prayed, that my child,\n too, might so understand the true object of existence, as to\n make his spiritual progress the first aim under all\n circumstances! We see in Robert's case how beautifully he was\n training himself for heaven, while he lived the simple life of\n an active boy, following all the common pursuits which belonged\n to his age, but doing all with a conscientious reference to the\n law of right. With the most devoted love towards his parents\n and friends, he loved his God above all, and sought first of\n all to obey Him. His grave is in one of the sweetest spots on\n the island, in a little opening surrounded by trees which he\n had named his 'mother's parlor'; and upon a seat which he had\n made there for her I have spent some holy moments, with which\n the thought of you was tenderly mingled. Dear son, may I have\n the same satisfaction in your life, which these parents have in\n that of their son! and should God in his providence call you\n also thus early to himself, may I have reason to believe, as\n they do, that for you the work of life was accomplished!...\n\n \"I trust you will come home ready to _begin_ the work of life\n in earnest. When you look forward and consider that you must\n depend on your own efforts for subsistence, that you have a\n gift of mind for the use of which you are accountable to your\n Maker, and that the person with one talent is equally\n responsible with him who has ten, you will see that nothing\n short of physical inability can excuse you from beginning at\n once the work of self-education. All that can be done for you\n is nothing, all the advantages with which you may be surrounded\n are as nothing, if you do not set yourself to a conscientious\n improvement of all. I care little what path you follow as to\n external life, if you only follow it upon the basis of right\n principle, which shall produce in you a manly, disinterested\n regard to the accomplishment of all the good you may have it in\n your power to perform.\"\n\nA letter from England informed Mrs. Ware of the death of an excellent\nkinswoman, who may be remembered as \"Cousin Bessie,\" the wife of George\nLovell. And she wrote of it to Emma, then in New York, who had been her\nfellow-traveller in England, and whose own health was gently but surely\ndeclining.\n\n \"_Greenhill Cottage, December 18, 1846._ ... Dear Bessie's pure\n spirit passed away in peace, the 22d of November. Her mind\n remained perfectly clear to the last moment, calm and cheerful.\n Hers was a sweet spirit, and I love to remember the intimate\n intercourse I had with it in times past, for there was more in\n her soul than appeared to the casual observer. Her departure\n has added one more attraction to that spiritual state in which\n I hope to renew the interchange of kind affection and holy\n thought. How beautifully is it arranged for us, that, as we\n approach nearer and nearer to the exchange of worlds ourselves,\n our interest in that to which we are going should be so\n increased by the removal of so many loved ones before us.\n\n \"It can be no new thought to _you_, that all sickness must be\n of uncertain result, and you understand too well the object of\n all the discipline of life, to shrink from any form of it which\n Providence may appoint. To you and me, strength and power seem\n so much our birthright, that we hardly know how to understand\n ourselves when they fail; but it certainly is not difficult to\n see why we peculiarly need the gentle monitions which sickness\n brings to us. It would seem as if some of the capacities for\n the enjoyment of the purely spiritual could not be formed in us\n without them; we should be too self-dependent, too confident in\n our own strength, to learn how to be the meek and lowly\n disciples, to whom are promised the fruits of faith and trust.\n I am sure that the sense I now have of liability to the\n development of fatal disease at any time, is the source of some\n of the most exalted moments of my present existence. So far\n from its lessening our enjoyment of all that we ought to enjoy\n belonging to life, it gives a keener sense of it, inasmuch as\n it puts in their true position all the trifles which are so apt\n to mar our comfort under common circumstances. I cannot but\n believe that you will derive great relief from this experiment;\n and if it does not reach all the difficulty, it certainly will\n do this good,--that, by removing some of the causes of\n irritation and consequent exhaustion, it leaves you more\n strength to contend with what may remain of disease,--and,\n after all, that is the main thing.\n\n \"... I have had a very kind note from Miss Sedgwick, inclosing\n a letter from Madame Sismondi after reading Henry's Life. It\n was a most gratifying testimony to the influence of the truth\n upon a mind which had been educated to undervalue every thing\n proceeding from our form of faith.\"\n\nThe younger son, to whom Mrs. Ware had written from Naushon, had now\nreturned from England, where he had been for his health, and was placed\nat school in Exeter, in the well-known Phillips Academy. From his\nmother's letters to him while there, we should be glad to borrow\nlargely, but must abridge. The number and fulness of these letters, when\nwe remember the state of her health, the care of her family, and all\nelse that she was doing, would surprise us, if we had not seen the same,\nvirtually, in every period and position of her life. The letters\nthemselves are written without effort or ornament, and contain much that\nwould be called \"common-place,\" because they aim only at those simplest\ntruths and counsels which lie at the root of moral character.\n\nDuring the time of writing the extracts that follow, Mrs. Ware went\nherself to Exeter, alone and at the shortest notice,--finding that some\nquestions in regard to the course of study to be pursued by her son\ncould be best determined by her actual presence. It was one of her last\njourneys, and, being in mid-winter, must have required resolution, if it\ndid not cost suffering.\n\n \"_January 1, 1847._ The clock has just struck one, so I may\n fairly date 1847. And with the recollections of the old year\n which has just passed away, and the anticipations of that upon\n which we are entering, come many thoughts of you,--affecting\n thoughts, for I remember my own experience at your age, and I\n feel that this year must be to you one of the most important of\n your whole existence, in its influence on your character and\n happiness, both for this life and for that long future which\n can be measured only by one word,--Eternity. It must bring to\n you many trials, both of feeling and principle; it must bring\n to you many deep spiritual exercises, and anxious thoughts with\n regard to your religious progress. You have come to that period\n of life at which one cannot escape from a deep sense of\n responsibility for the formation of one's own character; when,\n with every power and faculty in a peculiarly excitable state,\n every nerve vibrates to the slightest touch of joy or sorrow,\n and one feels perpetually in danger of being led by feeling\n rather than by judgment. It is a period of intense enjoyment,\n and for the same reason may be one of intense suffering; and\n while it must depend much upon circumstances which shall\n predominate, I believe it depends still more upon our own\n self-discipline, in enabling us both to avoid many occasions of\n suffering, and to meet with a calm spirit those which are\n unavoidable. You are in a new position of independent action;\n and while, with the deep sympathy which is the result of\n experience, I can suffer and enjoy with you, in anticipation, I\n feel the satisfaction of a quiet trust that 'all will issue\n well.' I believe that you mean to govern yourself by the\n highest principle, and in that faith I can leave you to the\n guidance of your own conscience; hoping that you will never\n forget, that principle, to do its perfect work, must be applied\n to small things as well as great; that then only is it true\n principle when it regulates even the tone of the voice, as well\n as the most heroic action. Your mother's prayers are for you,\n at this solemn turning-point of life, that, when this\n anniversary next arrives, it may find you, whether in the body\n or not, able to look back with satisfaction upon the past,\n conscious that a true progress has been made towards that\n perfection of the soul for which it was created....\n\n \"You will say, you have much to struggle with in your own\n character, and that nothing can satisfy you while you have to\n contend with self so continually. But your greatest temptation\n is to dwell too much upon your internal trials, leading you\n almost insensibly to that most insidious and deceptive form of\n self-love, a too constant thought of self even in regard to\n one's faults. You will find your intellectual occupation a\n great help in preventing this. Do not think too much about your\n own deficiencies, be content to live along in the constant\n thought for others' good, and you will find that you have done\n more for yourself by your disinterested action, than you could\n have done by all the thought you would have given to the\n subject in twice the time.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_January 24._ ... Cultivate in yourself a religious spirit;\n read God's word to learn what he would have you do; pray to Him\n for power to do it,--and you _will_ succeed. Here lies the\n only sure foundation. Religious principle is the rock upon\n which alone you can build any superstructure; all other will be\n like the sand on the sea-shore,--the next tide of temptation\n will sweep it away. And do not think that it will interfere\n with any of the pleasures of youth, or restrain the spirit of\n mirth which belongs to your age. So far from it, it will\n promote all enjoyment; for when we engage in that which we have\n decided by the standard of principle to be right, we go forth\n with a free spirit, to enjoy to the utmost,--without any of\n that under-current of misgiving which is a perpetual check upon\n us when we are engaged in a matter of doubtful expediency.\n Experience must have already taught you this in some things,\n and, believe me, it is equally true in all. You will have many\n temptations in your little world, composed, as well as the\n great world, of various characters. But if you once establish\n it with yourself to pursue only the right, and to have a strong\n moral courage to say 'No' to any measure of even doubtful\n character, you will find that you not only gain peace of mind,\n but win the respect even of those who may at first laugh at\n you. Never fear for the result, if you only do _right_.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_January 26, 1847._ Well, it was an event for me to go to\n Exeter. All my associations with the place are of the most\n interesting kind. All the romance of my youth was connected\n with it; my first knowledge of your father was during his\n residence there, through the medium of the admiration of that\n brilliant circle of young ladies, in whose society he found\n poetical inspiration. It was the home and the death-place of\n the first specimen of the highly intellectual and spiritual\n form of humanity that I had ever known intimately, in the\n person of your father's dear friend, John E. Abbot; and the\n very name of Exeter was sacred to me, from its connection with\n the daily details of his last sickness, which I received from\n Mrs. P----, then residing in her Aunt Abbot's family. I had\n been there, however, only once, twenty years ago with your\n father, when together we visited John Abbot's grave, and gave\n ourselves up to the emotions connected with his memory. You may\n believe that it was with no common feelings that I went alone,\n upon such an errand, to that spot. The sense of my sole\n responsibility in the care of my children presses upon me at\n all times; but it bore with peculiar power at that time and at\n that place, reminded, as I could not but be, how little\n qualified I was to decide the question, in comparison with a\n father's knowledge and experience.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_February 2._ ... This has been an intensely interesting day to\n me. What a thing is this _gift_ of life,--this strange, first\n union of the spiritual and the material! How closely such an\n event brings one near to the great Origin of all, and in what\n an interesting, affecting relation! The tender Father, watching\n over, protecting, sustaining, a feeble, mortal child in the\n greatest work of creation, the introduction of a new heir of\n immortality to the path which is to lead it to receive its\n inheritance!\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_March 3._ ... Do not for a moment lose sight of your dear\n father's example. He was what he was, not by the bestowment of\n great natural powers, but by the religious industry with which\n he used his powers, the high standard of moral and religious\n character at which he aimed, the disinterested devotion with\n which he labored for others' good. _He cultivated his\n conscience_, and by its light he cultivated his intellect;\n marking out for himself that path in life in which he felt\n himself most likely to be useful. And this was the secret of\n his great success. He was willing to do any thing he could; and\n he regulated that 'could' by the most unwearied industry. What\n cannot one do, with such a lever?\"\n\nWe have not thought it necessary to speak of Mrs. Ware's peculiar\ninterest in the public ministrations of religion. Such an interest, in a\nwoman even of practical good-sense, is a matter of course. She could\nnot, in any possible circumstances, think lightly of public worship, for\nothers or for herself. Nor was she dependent upon the form and medium of\nworship; since, whatever her choice or taste, she thought more of the\nspirit than of the letter or manner. Either from hearing her quote the\ncouplet, or from a knowledge of her feelings, we often think of her in\nconnection with the quaint lines of old Herbert:--\n\n \"The worst speak something good; should all want sense,\n God takes the text, and preaches--patience.\"\n\nPatient she was, even interested, in all preaching that evidently came\nfrom the heart, however homely, and in all preachers who were sincerely\nengaged in their Master's cause. But for the lukewarm and the selfish,\nfor those who preached not Christ, but themselves, and offered stones\nrather than bread to the hungry soul, she found it difficult to maintain\nher respect, or refrain from expressing a very different sentiment. Her\nindignation at some kinds of preaching, and the abuse of sacred time,\nwas as strong and almost as terrible as that which we sometimes heard\nfrom even the gentle spirit of her husband. It was to him that she once\nwrote: \"Mr. ---- gave us a philosophical disquisition on the nature and\nproperties of mind and matter, containing (I suppose) a conclusive\nargument against Materialism, abounding in technical phrases and\nabstruse quotations,--which, to a certainty, not one in fifty of his\naudience could understand. What food for sinful, accountable,\nhalf-asleep souls! If an inhabitant of the insane hospital had called\nsuch a production a sermon, he might be excused the misnomer. But in a\nminister of Christ to an erring world, it is nothing short of\nprofanation.\" She loved simplicity of manner, as well as matter. She\nloved a fervid, but quiet utterance. Of one of the popular preachers she\nsays: \"Such grand and momentous views as he brings together do not seem\nto me--it is a matter of taste, I suppose--to need the factitious aid of\nsuch a declamatory style of writing or studied mode of delivery. I want\nto strip them of all this, and cannot help thinking, that in their\nsimple, naked sublimity they would be quite as effective,--to many minds\nmore so.\"\n\nAs life advanced, Mrs. Ware felt more and more the value of religious\nconnections; and both in Framingham and Milton she found great\nsatisfaction. Such a hearer and parishioner gives more than she\nreceives. Would that all knew how inestimable is the blessing to a\nminister! We cannot withhold the testimony of one pastor to her\ncharacter in this single relation:--\"None could be more candid, more\nkind, more sympathizing, or more appreciating. Her seat at church\nscarcely ever vacant, her interest warmly expressed by word and deed in\nevery event and place connected with our spiritual growth and\nprosperity; reverent, and almost punctiliously faithful in her\nattachment to the church, its forms and its order were cherished with a\ntrue-hearted veneration and love,--while none could have exceeded her in\nthe spirituality of her religious views, or have risen more entirely\nabove a mere formalism.... On those occasions, too, of trial, which will\nat times arise in a minister's service, when he may be called to speak\nor act with boldness, or adventure upon untried experiments, she was\never prompt and hearty in expressions of encouragement. Instances of\nthis nature occur to me, where she would stop at my house on her return\nfrom church, and leave the benediction of a kind word of sympathy and\ngod-speed, uttered with all the emotion of her sympathetic nature, to\nassure me that one heart at least was in unison with my own.\"\n\nOf the \"church in the house\" we dare not speak,--except to say, that she\nwho was for so long a time its only head did not believe that all\nreligious service must wait for a priest, nor even for a man. Never will\nthe sweetness of _that_ voice, in devotion, Scripture, or hymn, die\naway from the heart. Never will those cherished words, \"To prayer, to\nprayer! for the morning breaks,\"--be so moving and uplifting, as in that\ndwelling, where the thought of death, just past or just approaching,\nserved but to quicken the spirit of Devotion.\n\nAt the period now reached, 1847, the letters of Mrs. Ware continued to\nbe nearly as many as formerly, and quite as cheerful. There is a large\nclass of letters that have been scarcely represented in this sketch;\nthose which are filled with details of domestic life, personal and\nprivate incidents, and playful communications. No absent child was left\nin ignorance of that which occurred at home. Nothing that could\ninterest, edify, or amuse was thought too trivial to be recorded, if it\nwould tend to strengthen the bonds of family affection. \"I believe the\nlove of _home_ to be the best safeguard to man and woman for life,\"--she\nonce said; and she used every opportunity of cherishing that love, in\nthe hearts both of the present and the absent. She had no habit of\nreservation or concealment with those about her, unless in regard to her\nown pains and trials. And as those pains and trials increased, we find\nno decline of general interest or free communion. More and more freely,\nrather than less, does she speak of herself, her expectations as to this\nlife and another, her concern for her own strength and resources, and\nthe character and prospects of her children. The following letter to her\nson was written some time in the summer of this year.\n\n \"_Milton, 1847._\n\n \"MY DEAR JOHN:--\n\n \" ... I am not now as able to keep school as I was then, poorly\n fitted though I always felt myself. My head has been a very\n troublesome member for a long time, and I have had in the\n course of the last year and a half two distinct attacks, which,\n if not actually paralytic, were sufficiently like it to be\n considered premonitory symptoms of that affection,--amounting\n to loss of sensation, and giddiness, followed by a great\n oppression in the brain, for a long time after. Since this I\n have found that I soon get overpowered and bewildered in the\n bustle of the school, and, after a few days' trial, it is only\n by going at once to sleep, that I can get my head clear for the\n rest of the day. Besides that, the sense of hurry which I have\n from the daily pressure of the necessity of adhering to certain\n hours, in order to get through the necessary business of the\n day, keeps my head in a state of tension which I often feel\n must end in some sudden change. I work almost constantly\n eighteen hours out of the twenty-four; but this I could bear,\n were it not for the sense of hurry I have, in my anxiety to\n spare E---- every thing that I possibly can, while she has the\n labor of the school. Nor is this all. I am sensible that the\n trouble in my side does _not_ diminish or stand still; its\n progress is slow, but evidently sure; and though there are\n often weeks, in which I am not reminded of it by any sensation,\n there are times when it produces great discomfort. I know from\n the nature of the case, that this may be so many years, and\n also, that at any moment it may suddenly come to a crisis, as\n in many cases I have known.\n\n \"And I feel that with the bare possibility (and it is much\n more) of having but a few years more to give to my children, I\n should be wrong to spend these few years in such a hurried\n life, that I cannot have time to give them an unfettered hour.\n This is the case now; whether from want of faculty, or an undue\n anxiety to spare others, or the necessity of the case, I cannot\n say. All I know is, that, of the eighteen hours in which I am\n awake, I have not one, commonly, free from the pressure of some\n necessary, imperative occupation. I may almost say, I _never_\n choose my employment; and as you find it, so do I with regard\n to my children at home,--I cannot give any of them a hundredth\n part of the time I would gladly devote to them.... You wonder\n that I cannot be more with you. You would not wonder, if you\n could see how little I have time to do with my children at\n home. This ought not to be so. But then comes the question, how\n am I to live, how educate my children, and pay my debts, if I\n give up so much of my income?\n\n \"I answer myself in this way, and I feel satisfied with the\n answer. If I am not to live, what now supports me will help\n towards this end; and if I do live, I feel justified in\n creating a debt for my children to pay by and by, when they are\n old enough to work, in order to give them the means of working\n to advantage. I trust they will all find a mission to fulfil,\n which will keep them free from dependence, and do good to their\n fellow-men. I will trust that I shall be taken care of; for I\n think the case of duty is clear,--at least it is so to me, and\n I feel that I cannot turn from it.\n\n \"Now do not think that this uncertainty of life troubles me, or\n makes me nervous, and unnecessarily anxious. I have never felt\n more perfect peace of mind, than I have for the last three\n years, with respect to death. I have felt it a great blessing\n to be thus reminded of the uncertainty of my life. It is a\n constant check upon me, and, moreover, makes all the pleasures\n which lie in my path greater blessings. There is an elevation\n in such an habitual state of mind, which takes one beautifully\n away from the annoying perplexities of life. I could write on\n for hours, but I have said enough. You will understand me, and\n that is all I desire now.\n\n \"Affectionately, your Mother.\"\n\nAnother expression of a different kind was called out at this time, by a\ncase of bereavement in which she felt deeply concerned. We give the\nletter entire as to its object and argument, because in none of her\nletters, and in no others that we recall, is the question which is here\nraised so well stated and answered. It is a question which comes to\nevery conscientious sufferer,--pertaining to the conflict between a\nsense of duty to ourselves and duty to others, in the season of\naffliction and secret communion,--the desire for repose and the call for\nactivity. We well know what conflicts both Mrs. Ware and her husband had\nhad, in regard to this question; and we follow her with the greater\nsatisfaction, as she offers the result of her experience and conviction\nto one of another household, and of the other sex.\n\n \"_Milton, 1847._\n\n \"MY DEAR FRIEND:--\n\n \"My visit to you this afternoon was so broken, so\n unsatisfactory, my thoughts are so entirely with you, and my\n desire to help you, at least so far as sympathy can do so, is\n so strong, that I must indulge myself this once in intruding my\n poor written words upon you, for my own relief. Very grateful\n do I feel to you for uttering yourself so freely to me: you do\n not mistake, when you believe that I can understand all your\n doubts and fears, misgivings and contentions. I have felt them\n all; and in the knowledge which I have of all my husband\n suffered, I feel as if I had a double power to sympathize with\n you. Well do I understand that strange elevation of spirit\n which comes to one in the first hours of bereavement, when the\n heart is strong to endure, and the mind seems to act\n spontaneously. It would seem, when one with whose spirit ours\n had become as it were identified 'passes on,' as if we too had\n entered 'behind the veil,' and were also raised above the\n weakness and suffering of humanity. But this cannot last long,\n and the necessity of a return to the occupations of life\n dispels the illusion, and then comes the struggle from which\n you are now suffering. Two opposing duties seem to present\n themselves,--one claiming quiet seclusion, the other impelling\n to great activity. We long for rest, we doubt if we have a\n right to risk the loss of any portion of the benefit which may\n come to us from the life of meditation and self-communion to\n which our state of mind _naturally_ leads us, by going back to\n the busy bustle of external life. We feel that our soul has\n been moved to its very depth, as it never was before, and we\n long to 'hold the fleet angel fast, until he bless us' with an\n increase of spiritual life, proportionate to the demands of our\n condition. But on the other hand, there lie the duties of life,\n appointed by God for _us_ to perform; in their performance lies\n our mission to the world; have we any right to neglect them for\n any object of self-improvement? How shall we decide, when two\n duties, apparently of equal importance, seem to us perfectly\n incompatible?\n\n \"But here, I think, lies our great mistake. We separate that\n which God has joined together; there can be no opposition in\n his requisitions, and if both duties are required of us, it\n must be that they may be united. What is spiritual progress?\n What is the benefit we believe to be intended for us by the\n discipline of bereavement? Is it increased love of God,\n reliance upon him, union of soul with him? How shall we gain\n these by any process of meditation, so entirely as when,\n contending against our desire for repose, conscious of our\n utter weakness, throwing ourselves with the reliance of filial\n affection upon a Father's love, we go forth to execute His will\n in the fulfilment of the duties He has assigned us, believing\n that His promises of strength will not fail? And did they ever\n fail? And do we not by this act of faith bring our souls into\n that union with God which we so much desire, more truly than by\n any abstract thought? How can it be nearer than when, in the\n consciousness of our human weakness, we feel that whatever\n strength we have is His,--that He is indeed present to us,\n acting in us,--and we know that, while we have this faith, He\n will never cease to aid us.\n\n \"But you will say you have tried this, and strength does not\n come; you find yourself more and more averse to effort, more\n and more incapable of it. But are you sure you are not aiming\n at impossibilities,--that you are not requiring from the nature\n God has given you more than you have a right to expect, and\n that, by striving after more than you can reasonably hope to\n obtain, you render ineffective the power given? Do not\n misunderstand me. I would not bring down in the very slightest\n degree the high standard of Christian excellence at which you\n aim; but I would have you understand truly the nature of the\n means which the Creator has given us by which to attain it.\n 'Deal gently with thine infirmity, wait God's time.' You desire\n at once to rise to the height to which you believe a Christian\n faith may elevate its possessor, and you are discouraged that\n the work is not accomplished when _you_ think it ought to be.\n Put aside, my dear friend, this desire to regulate the\n operation of God's providence. You say you have never for a\n moment felt that you were hardly dealt with, in the outward\n circumstances of this affliction. Apply the same faith to its\n internal circumstances; give up your own will as fully in the\n one case as in the other; go on, meekly relying upon Almighty\n wisdom, with your appointed work, not attempting too much at\n once, but selecting just that which seems most important,\n increasing your labors as you may find strength comes to aid\n you, and be content to use such measure of strength as God\n shall give, without repining that it is not more; and this will\n bring you that 'peace' for which you now sigh. Waste not one\n moment in vain regret that you cannot do all you desire. O, I\n could read you such a page of suffering from this source, as\n would make you weep for the sinfulness of your monitor! If I\n cannot be an example, let me be a warning to you. May I be an\n efficient one!\n\n \"Ever your friend.\n\n \"M. L. WARE.\"\n\nHow much is told in that last confession and prayer! She who thus wrote\nwas then in the midst of a fatherless and dependent family, bearing a\nload of duty never discharged to her own satisfaction, wearing a face of\nunvarying cheerfulness, and struggling with a fatal disease, whose\nprogress could not be hidden from herself, though hidden from others.\nThat equanimity, which had always been marked as a distinguishing trait,\ncame out now more and more, as the demand increased, and the difficulty\nalso. Every one knows the tendency of disease to produce\nirritation,--sometimes imperceptibly to the sufferer, sometimes\nunavoidably, and with a painful consciousness. In no duty or sympathy\nfor the sick is there more need of kind allowance; and in none, perhaps,\nis it more wanting. Here, it was not needed. No irritation ever\nappeared. We say this, not from that cursory and friendly observation\nwhich so often mistakes, but from those who knew. One near her thus\nspeaks of her equanimity: \"Taking her life through, as I knew it, there\nwere disturbing _causes_ enough. Neither the lesser nor the greater\nseemed to throw her off her balance. I cannot recall a word or act of\nharshness. Disturbed, moved, sad, I have seen her, but nothing of\nirritation; and the first, where others were concerned, or some\nprinciple, or morality, rather than where she was herself personally\ninterested.\"\n\nAnother _affliction_ came, and came nearer than any other could, out of\nher own family circle. The decline which she had so anxiously watched in\n\"Emma\" terminated as she had long known it must; and that true friend\nhad gone before her to a purer sphere. Deeply must Mary have felt this\nat any time,--how deeply then! Toward the end, all the time that could\nbe spared, day and night, had been passed in that sick-room, where she\nenjoyed a communion, and exerted an influence, that few could. Perfect\ncongeniality, perfect confidence, an intimacy of years and souls, a\nunity of faith and hope, with an affection unreserved and undimmed,\nbound them as one; and when the tie was severed, the world seemed\nanother abode,--fast passing away.\n\nThe letters in which Mrs. Ware speaks of this change are most tender,\nand reveal as much of the character of the writer as of the subject. But\nthey are too personal to admit a free use. A brief account we may take,\nfrom a letter which we ourselves received.\n\n \"I do not remember that I have written to you since dear cousin\n Emma's death. I should love to tell you of the pleasant hours\n passed in her chamber after her return from Europe, the\n precious hours of her last week with us. Her state of mind was\n a most elevated one, but her words were few. She could not\n overcome the habit of reserve upon spiritual subjects, and it\n was only in moments of the most private intercourse that she\n would utter herself freely. It was a beautiful case of great\n humility, united with perfect trust. She never for an instant\n faltered in her faith, but laid down her almost unequalled\n power with as perfect readiness as if she had never loved its\n exercise. You may suppose that her loss is daily, hourly felt,\n by all who belonged to her. This is not the same place without\n her. We constantly miss her wisdom and her disinterested\n kindness. Do you know that she made this cottage mine,--and\n more? I never received any gift which was so unexpected, or so\n touching. It has made this place more beautiful than ever; for\n the very walls have now a sacred association.\"\n\nOn Christmas Eve, 1847, Mrs. Ware, with some of her children, joined a\nfamily gathering at Cambridge, in the same house that they occupied\nduring those twelve eventful years. And many were the recollections\nawakened there. \"O, how strange it seemed to me, to be 'guest' in that\nhouse, on such an occasion! I could scarcely help a sense of\nresponsibility, as if it were my affair. And my heart turned\ninstinctively to the thought of all my responsibilities there, and the\nthought of how much _he_ would have enjoyed, and added to the enjoyment\nof others. There was a sense of the want of his visible presence, such\nas I never expected to feel again, so familiar have I become with the\nidea of the invisible.\" On the last night of the year, she writes in a\ntone more like sadness than was common with her, though with the same\ntranquil trust:--\"I live now so entirely among the young, who could not\ncomprehend the results of an old woman's long experience, that I am\nunconsciously led to shut up the thoughts which mostly occupy me, lest\nany should be annoyed by what they might not understand. And there are\nconsequently periods when it seems as if I should _stop_, from want of\nthe sympathy and counsel of some contemporary who knew the past as well\nas I do myself. In the various questionings about my children, and the\nmany doubts which will come to an insulated mind, how have I craved your\near!... It has seemed to me, since Emma's death, that every thing was\ngiving way around me. I cannot tell you what a sense, a perpetual sense\nof uncertainty, appears to pervade every thing. It seems as if not\nmerely one strong being had failed by the way, but as if strength\nitself, the very thing, had become weakness. And I find myself clinging\nmore than ever to the things that remain, and more and more impatient to\nuse opportunities of intercourse with those I love, feeling that the\ntime is short both for them and myself. Little did I think, at this time\nlast year, that I should be here now; and when I look back upon the\ninterval, and remember that, instead of the sickness I anticipated, not\none day of actual suspension of labor have I had, I am amazed at the\nsmall amount I have accomplished, and wonder why it is I am left. The\nyear has been marked by less external change than usual, and yet it has\nbrought some important changes in the progress of my children's\neducation.\"\n\nAnd if Mrs. Ware had not expected to see the end of that year, she could\nhave little idea of seeing the whole of another. Yet this was granted\nher,--and a little more. And whatever the inward change, there was none\noutward, unless in greater diligence in duty, and a more earnest\nendeavor to make others happy. This, too, was evident, in conversation\nand in letters,--that while life in the present was still full and\nbright, there was a growing conviction of life beyond and above. It was\nseen particularly, as one and another of her friends departed,--when the\nemotions expressed were more of joy than of sadness, as in the case of a\nbereavement not long before. \"O, how the holy band is gathering in that\nother state! And how near does it seem to us, when those with whom we\nhave been wont to have daily intercourse enter it! I think, as I grow\nolder, no part of my experience satisfies me so much, as the\nconsciousness of an increasing _sense of union_ with a purely spiritual\nstate. Not that one loses all interest in this state, but there comes a\nfuller sense of the reality of another.\"\n\n\n\n\nXIV.\n\nTHE END.\n\n\nOf Mrs. Ware's last months and days we have nothing remarkable to\nrecord. They did not differ from the months and years that preceded\nthem, except that they _were_ the last, and she knew they must be. But\nshe did not on that account seek to impart to them any new aspect, or\nnew occupation. She had no formal preparation to make for a change,\ngreat indeed and momentous, yet perfectly familiar to her thoughts, and\nnever dismaying. She had not left the work of life to be done after the\npower to do it had gone, but had used that power as one responsible for\nthe use of all that was given her, and she continued to use all that\nremained, diligently and tranquilly. Had she been asked, as another once\nwas, \"What would you do, if you knew you should die to-morrow?\" we\nsuppose her reply would have been the same,--\"That which I am doing\nto-day.\" And she was doing a great deal,--as much perhaps as she had\never done, in all that pertained to family and friends, the destitute\nand suffering. And she was enjoying a great deal, both at home and\nabroad, with apparently more, instead of less, freedom from that sense\nof \"hurry\" which had so troubled her. This she expresses in a note that\nwe received from her in the month of May, 1848, which shows likewise\nhow fresh and full was her enjoyment of the opening year. \"We are\nbeginning to look lovely here. It seems to me the spring was never so\ncharming; but perhaps it is that _I_ am more charming than usual!\nCertain it is, that I have seldom been in so favorable a state to enjoy\nit, so free from the pressure of care and the sense of hurry, which has\nbeen the bane of my life. I am more willing to leave some things undone\nthan I was. Is not this a great virtue in a housekeeper, whose\nspring-cleaning is not done, or likely to be these three months? Our\nschool has not yet adjourned, and I shall not be quite settled until it\nhas.... Thanks for your letter; I shall answer it, if I ever have a\nquiet hour that has no peremptory demand for other employment.\"\n\nIn those last words we see a trait which many have noticed in Mrs. Ware,\nand which one of her own sex, who had seen her in many situations, thus\ndescribes: \"I never knew any one who had a more just idea of the due\nproportion which various duties and interests should bear to each other.\nShe was never one-sided in her views, never lived for one idea alone,\nbut took a comprehensive view of all her duties and of all her relations\nto her fellow-beings, and gave to each its due portion of time and\nattention.\" This habit is not uncommon, perhaps, in health and active\nlife; but not every one attempts to maintain it in sickness and the\napproach of death. That Mrs. Ware was fully conscious of that approach,\nthough yet in apparent health, appears from many circumstances. But she\ndid not talk of it, and few knew it. She preferred not to communicate it\neven to her family until it was necessary, lest it should check the\nfreedom or disturb the serenity of a happy household, preventing rather\nthan promoting the performance of duties all the more imperative if the\ntime were short. From a letter to an absent daughter, we take the\nfollowing, so pleasantly written.\n\n \"_Milton, May 2, 1848._ Dear E----: Have not I got some pretty\n little paper upon which to indite my loving thoughts of thee?\n It becomes me to have a fine pen, and to try and be rather\n refined than otherwise in my chirography! Alas for me, who have\n to write with quill-nibs without mending! But I have rather a\n fancy for these close lines, which remind me of the days of my\n youth, when I used to write as closely without lines. I am\n particularly reminded of those days, by having received to-day\n my own letters to Cousin Emma; and to decipher some of them\n would try better eyes than most people possessed in her days,\n so closely written, so crossed and recrossed are they. I read\n one of them, and have been living over again all day those\n singular Osmotherly experiences. I do sometimes wish that I\n could have had the leisure, while I had the power, to write out\n for the information of my children that page of my life. It was\n so powerful a lesson of faith and trust, that it could not fail\n of producing in them, in some degree, the same effect that it\n did upon me. In looking back upon it, I cannot but feel that it\n was a peculiar blessing to me, as preparatory to the trials\n which were to follow; without just such a teaching, it seems to\n me they would have overwhelmed me. I often wish I could convey\n to the minds of those who are coming upon the stage of life,\n the utter insignificance into which outward circumstances sink\n in retrospect, other than as the occasion for the cultivation\n of the inner being. One almost forgets whether outward things\n were agreeable or not. The spiritual, intellectual life is the\n most prominent; the progress of our own characters, the\n affection which met our affections, the satisfactions of the\n soul, are all that leave any lasting impression upon the\n memory.\"\n\nBy the middle of that summer, her strength had declined very perceptibly\nto herself, though not to common observers, and she felt that the time\nhad come for an explicit communication. And never can we forget the\nperfect composure and natural cheerfulness with which she spoke of it to\nsome of us who had little idea of the whole truth,--showing a paper that\nshe had written to one of her children, and asking counsel in regard to\nit. The paper is of too private a character to be given here, except a\nfew of the more general passages. \"I have not thought it worth while to\ntrouble you, or any one else, with the knowledge of this, while I was\nwell enough to go on as usual, and had no reason to expect change. The\ndoctor has always said I might live, as many had, for years, and die\nfrom some other cause, before this became very troublesome; and it may\nyet be so. But within a few months the course of the thing has changed,\nand I cannot but feel that it may come to a crisis at any time, and I\nbe suddenly prostrated. With these views, I wish not to hide from myself\nmy danger; and I thank God for the influence which this consciousness\nhas had upon my mind for a long time past. I have felt it good for my\nsoul to know that I carried about with me a disease which must be fatal.\nIt has helped me more than any thing else to put the things of this life\ninto their true relative position. And while it has not for a moment\nlessened my interest or my enjoyment of any thing around me, it has\nsaved me from many painful moments and anxious cares, by showing me the\ninsignificance of much that I once cared too much for. The only evil I\nhave found in it is a sense of hurry; feeling that I may have but little\ntime to work in, I am tempted to work hurriedly, and thus with less\ncomfort. I cannot tell you the many thoughts I have of the future\ndestiny of my children.... I need not tell you how inexpressibly nearer\nand dearer all the children are to me every day I live, or how earnestly\nI pray that they may be such as their father's children ought to be.\"\n\nIn the early autumn, she spent much of her time at the house of her son\nin Cambridgeport, in whose family there occurred a case of sickness and\ndeath, which engaged her deepest sympathies and tasked her strength.\nOnce more she became a nurse and laborious helper. After it, she sank\nfor a time, but again rallied, and through the greater part of the\nwinter continued strong in spirit, with great energy of will and action,\ninterested in every thing, grateful for every thing, busily and happily\noccupied. Of the accounts given us by others, beside what we saw and\nheard of her whole bearing and conversation that winter, we can use\nlittle, lest it should seem like eulogy,--which we desire to avoid,\nparticularly in connection with her death. But should this prevent all\nfreedom of expression? If we may not speak from our own mind and heart,\nmay we not from the testimony of those who were near enough to\nunderstand the whole, yet with no relation or interest to mislead them?\n\nA lady writes: \"It was my great privilege to pass a few weeks with her\nin the sanctuary of her own home, in the early progress of the malady\nwhich terminated her natural life. Words fail me to convey my impression\nof her at this period. Always serene and cheerful, there was yet a\nseriousness in her manner, and a depth of purpose in her words and acts,\nthat were to me very impressive.... Every duty was to her always a\nreligious duty; and hence we saw in her the same fidelity and\nperfectness in every household care, however humble or distasteful, as\nin employments of a more congenial character.... While her life was to\nme highly inspiring, it was also deeply humiliating. She seemed to me\nalways sufficient to herself in her great resources, and I felt that I\ncould be nothing to her. I once told her so; she smiled, and said, 'You\ndon't know how weak I feel, and how I long to lean upon some one, and be\ncaressed and petted like a child.'\"\n\nA near neighbor and privileged friend says: \"When we learned that her\ndays were numbered, as we did some months before her death, we of\ncourse looked upon every thing connected with her with a more subdued\nand chastened interest. She seldom, almost never, alluded to her\ncondition. But there were little valedictory acts to be remembered when\nshe was gone, that showed her thoughtfulness and love. The last time I\nsaw her at church was on Thanksgiving day, the great family festival of\nNew England. During most of the services she was in tears, doubtless\nthinking of those whom she was soon to join, and of those now with her\nwho must spend their next Thanksgiving alone. But her tears were tears\nof endearment and tenderness, more than of sorrow.... Gradually her\nwalks were given up. Some unusual calls on her sympathy and strength may\npossibly have shortened her sufferings. 'But if I had foreseen it all,'\nshe said, 'I should have done the same.' There was no shrinking from\nwhat lay before her, but that entire humility which neither presumes nor\nfears, and is content with what God appoints.\"\n\nBut we need not rely on others for a knowledge of Mrs. Ware's condition\nand temper at this time. Her own words still speak for her, and speak\nwith the same clearness and calmness as ever. Letters and notes were\nwritten to all who had any claim, through the winter. The year was not\nsuffered to close without one more \"annual,\"--the last seal to that firm\nfriendship. Portions of these letters and notes will serve as the best\nindex to the progress of her life,--for we cannot call it the decline.\n\n \"_December 26, 1848._ Dear John: You must wonder why I have not\n written to you in all this age of a week since you were here.\n In truth. I have not been able to do so, for I had to give up\n and go to bed. I should have been wise had I done so when I\n first came home, I suppose; but I was so sure that I had no\n right to expect to feel better, that I could not think it worth\n while. I am better now, and am going to venture to town\n to-morrow. I have had but one hour yet for accounts, and as my\n arm is becoming more and more useless, I dare not put off doing\n what that arm alone can do. I desire so to arrange matters that\n I may have only tranquillity,--no hurry, no bustle, no\n irritation anywhere.... I have none but cheerful views for\n myself, and I desire to be spared anxiety about the outside to\n mar that cheerfulness.... I have promised to go into Mr.\n B----'s, New Year's eve, and can do that with little fatigue.\n Kiss Henry boy for his grandmother, and wish him a 'happy new\n year' for me when the time comes.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_December 31, 1848._ Dear N----: Once more I will make an\n attempt to write to you, for I cannot let this season go\n without giving you some record of what is passing,--as my\n reason tells me it is in all probability my last annual\n missive. Do not, my dear friend, shrink from this idea, as if\n it were some dreadful fact which you wished not to realize. I\n can write it, I trust I can bring it home as a truth, without\n the slightest quickening of the pulse, without a wish to decide\n my own fate. I would bless God, that in His tender love He has\n so gradually brought me to the consciousness of the great\n uncertainty of my own life, that all connected with that\n uncertainty has been familiar to me through the softening\n influence of distance, and my vision can now bear the strong\n light of the nearer presence without dismay. In recalling the\n various circumstances in which I have written my many annuals\n to you, I cannot remember one in which I have had less anxiety\n about the future. I feel strangely perplexed sometimes at this;\n I know that while it is _possible_ my life may be prolonged\n many years, yet they would be years of suffering, of\n comparative uselessness, and perhaps of great discomfort to\n those around me; and still more, that the more probable\n prospect is a rapid, if not sudden, annihilation of life. I\n have children for whose welfare I have lived, and cared only to\n live for the last five years; and of whose fate when I am gone\n I cannot even guess. I have felt that my life was important to\n them; and when the idea of being obliged to leave them first\n came to me, I thought I must be a great loss to them; but now I\n cannot make it seem so by any process of thought. Why is this?\n how is this? I cannot tell. I do not love them less; on the\n contrary, my tenderness of feeling towards them increases every\n day. I never cared so much to have them with me, I never\n enjoyed their various powers more. Is it that I am under a\n delusion,--that death is not the reality to my mind which I\n conceived it to be? I confess I cannot answer satisfactorily. I\n seem to myself, as I did at sea in a dangerous storm, quiet,\n confiding, sure that no human help can aid, and not anxious to\n look beyond the present. But it may be that it is only because,\n while we are able to exercise both mental and physical powers\n in some way all the time, it is impossible to bring home the\n conviction that all may stop at any moment.\n\n \"One solution of the mystery comes to me sometimes. You know I\n have felt, ever since my husband's death, that it was the most\n inexplicable mystery that my children should have been left to\n my sole care instead of his, when I was so deficient in the\n power to do for them what a parent should. I could only satisfy\n myself by the fact, that the All-wise, All-powerful, could\n overrule my mistakes, and I had no right to ask why. This\n consciousness of inefficiency has never left me, and I cannot\n therefore feel that my withdrawal will be to them an essential\n evil. I have seen many instances of children left, as mine will\n be, to their own guidance, who have evidently made much\n stronger characters for that self-dependence. And though they\n may suffer, perhaps, as I did, from the loss of that affection\n which a parent only can give, we see so many suffering quite as\n much from the misdirection of that affection, where the tie is\n not thus broken, that we dare not say, in any given instance,\n which fate would be the best for a child. Of one thing we are\n certain; we are short-sighted, finite beings, our minds can\n fathom but part, 'one little part,' of the plan of Providence;\n and we cannot tell but what the most adverse circumstances may\n be made instrumental to the education of the soul, by that\n overruling Power which sees the end and the beginning. We\n understand so little of the true character of each individual\n mind, that we know not but that what seems most adverse is in\n reality best adapted to its wants. Why, then, can we not be\n content to give up our own desires, our own judgments, all\n anxieties, all plans, and trust that all will be ordered right?\n Not certainly to sit down passively and do nothing; but,\n carefully watching the indications of Providence, to exercise\n our best judgments in trying to further its designs, and be\n content with the issues.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_January 21, 1849._ Dear Louisa: I send the above just as it\n has lain in my desk these three weeks, to show you that I have\n 'made an effort.' I devoted that last evening of the year to\n writing to you and N----, and began your letter first; but my\n arm was so painful that I soon found I could not accomplish\n both; and I laid aside yours, because I was reluctant to omit,\n for the first time in more than thirty years, my annual to her,\n feeling as I did that it would probably be my last. This you\n will pardon; but, in justice to myself, I must go back and tell\n you why I had not before even commenced an answer to you,\n because I consider the mere fact of _seeming_ neglect of such a\n letter ought to be fully explained, for the credit of human\n nature in general.... I have been greatly blessed in finding,\n that, as the reality of what lies before me has become more and\n more distinct to my consciousness, I have lost nothing of the\n tranquil faith which made me willing to acquiesce in it. My\n nervous system is not touched yet in a way to affect the\n firmness of my views of the future. My great study now is, how\n to do my part towards making this experience of most value to\n my children. While I wish not to withhold from them any\n benefit they may receive by free and full knowledge of my\n condition, I am sure it must be introduced with a judicious\n reference to their different casts of character. I am feeling\n my way, and earnestly pray to be guided aright.... As to my\n visiting you, I have not been a mile from home for many\n weeks,--can only ride a little in a very easy vehicle without\n suffering for days after it. But I am content to be quiet.\n After such a life of activity, I enjoy the right to be still,\n more than I can tell; and I have home employment enough to fill\n all the time, if it prove ten times as long as I think it will.\n I hope to see you here when the weather is warmer, if God\n should spare me until then. God bless you, dear L.! I love to\n have your letters, but cannot promise to answer them very\n punctually.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_January 28, 1849, Sunday Evening._ My dear Lucy: Strange\n indeed must it seem to you, that your kind, sympathizing\n letter, written more than two months since, should not have\n received an answer long before this; and if you have not,\n through some of your mutual friends, heard something of the\n progress of things with us since then, you must think it\n perfectly unpardonable. But in truth, dear Lucy, I have thought\n much of you, and longed to write, and still more to see you;\n and nothing short of physical inability has prevented me from\n long ago reporting myself to you. It is not worth while now to\n go back to the various causes which at first prevented my\n writing.\n\n \"I have lost ground greatly in the last three months, and\n should I continue to do so for the next in the same proportion,\n I shall be a mere burden; but no one can form any calculation\n about it, and I desire not to attempt it. I have no wish to\n penetrate the future. I know all will be ordered as it had best\n be. What more can I need to know? I feel that I have special\n cause for gratitude in the length of time given me to make the\n subject familiar to my mind; and not less so, that the disease\n so far does not disturb the perfect tranquillity of my mind, or\n take from me any of the advantages of this long preparation. My\n faith is strong that He who has been the Father of the\n fatherless, and the widows' God, will protect and guide the\n orphans I must leave behind me. It is not in vain that I have\n had an orphan's experience. HE guided me in safety through the\n many perils which beset the lonely one; I may surely trust Him\n for those to whom He has vouchsafed the aid of kindred so near\n and dear. My only care now is, how to do my part in giving them\n the full advantage of this discipline, and I earnestly pray to\n be guided aright.... I should love to see you, and hope to do\n so in the course of the winter or spring. I sit quietly at\n home, but have seldom a day without visitors, sometimes to\n weariness; but I love to see my friends, and they are many; I\n cannot say nay to them. I have not been to Cambridge since I\n first came home, and to Boston only twice for two months, and\n could not do it now. But perhaps, when I can take more air, I\n may gain a little more strength, and stay a little longer than\n seems probable now. Of this you may rest assured, that, come\n when it may, I can say with perfect truth, 'Not as I will, but\n as Thou wilt.'\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"_February 3, 1849._ Dear Friend: I know you will be glad to\n have a word directly from us of our welfare, and I therefore\n gladly avail myself of a kind offer to take a note to you,\n though I have time only for a short one. I have had my ups and\n downs since you were here, but on the whole do not think there\n is any material change;--some days of great suffering, and then\n again days and nights of perfect ease. So I have had much for\n which to be grateful in the alternation, for the days of\n suffering made the seasons of relief more delightful, and the\n rest enables me the better to bear the suffering. Much indeed\n have I to be grateful for. Never was kindness bestowed upon\n mortal, I believe, such as is every day showered upon me, and\n nothing yet has come to disturb the serenity of my mind. I find\n myself as free to enjoy all that is passing as ever, and the\n 'daily duty,' small though it be to me now, interests and\n satisfies me.... I have an almost incessant influx of visitors,\n which sometimes wearies me; but then I love to see them, and I\n enjoy the occasional quiet hour all the more. My wakeful hours\n at night are the most precious, being happily free from all\n nervous restlessness; and often do I wish I had some other\n wakeful spirit at my side with whom I could commune of the\n passing visions. But enough of self.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"Dear Maria: I did not like, in your short visit, to occupy any\n time with self; but I should love to tell you of the blessed\n peace which is given me in relation to the trial which lies\n before me, and of the faith and hope which shed their tranquil\n light upon the future, even in respect to that most trying\n point, What will become of my children?... For while I feel\n that every day which is spared me makes them all more and more\n dear to me, I realize more and more that I _cannot_ be\n separated from them.\"\n\nThe friend to whom those last words were written, then a wife and mother\nherself, and once a cherished parishioner of Mr. and Mrs. Ware, has\nsince joined their communion above. And her part of this correspondence\nshows how beautiful had been the influence of the life whose close she\nnow witnessed. Indeed, the fact itself should be stated, if nothing\nmore, as belonging to the actual character of Mary Ware, that the many\nletters and notes which came to her in these declining days, from\nfriends near and friends abroad, are filled, not with empty praise, nor\nyet useless and distressing grief, but with expressions of grateful joy\nfor the power of her faith in the present struggle, and its power upon\n_them_, in the past and always. If ever there was evidence of the\nreality and influence of the Christian faith in itself, or of a peculiar\nform of it, it might be shown here. The believer and sufferer thought\nless of any peculiarities, than of the essential spirit and power. But\nall that she had held, she retained, and found sufficient,--unfailingly,\nabundantly sufficient. And it was a blessing to her in her last days, to\nknow that others of the same faith felt its sustaining power, and shared\nwith her in its peace and joy. The friend to whom we have just referred\nwrites: \"Scarcely an hour passes in the day, that I do not think of you\nwith so much tenderness and sympathy as I have no words to convey to\nyou. The thought of you does me good. I know what is passing in the\ndepth of your soul, and it gives me strength to go on. Will you pray for\nme, that while I live I may do what is right, cheerfully and\nsubmissively, if not joyfully?\" She begs Mrs. Ware to write down, or let\nanother write, some passages of her life. \"Your experience has so\nblessed me, that I long to spread its influence. I can never thank you\nfor what you and our sainted friend, with whom you seem now more than\never 'one,' have done for my soul.\" Another, who was herself the widowed\nwife of one of the best of men, writes to Mrs. Ware of their former\nintercourse and communion: \"There has been no alloy mingled in this cup\nof blessing; we can carry it all with us to our Father's house. With my\nwhole heart I rejoice that you are able to act out your highest\nconvictions, that your disease so gently looses the bonds to earth, as\nto leave your spirit free to bear its testimony to the last to the power\nof your faith in the goodness of God, and the reality of everlasting\nlife. 'He that liveth and believeth shall never see death.' With you and\nme death has lost its sting. Are we not willing to go where those we\nhave loved so truly are gone? Shall we not gladly make their home our\nhome? It is not the fear of death that ever presses upon me, but the\nfear of not being worthy of the unutterable happiness of a reunion with\nthose that have gone before me; so I welcome pain, hoping it may purge\nme of my sins, and make me more fit for heaven. Sometimes, when the\nidea is very clear and strong in my mind of eternal life with the good\nand great souls that I have known here, I gasp for breath, and, like the\ndisciples, 'cannot believe for joy.' And surely, dear Mary, the love\nthat has been perfect love cannot be quenched or turned from us in the\nland of spirits to which we are tending,--in which you seem to me now to\nbe living.\"\n\nThese sentiments are the reflection of her mind, who had done so much to\nform or invigorate them. They were some of the blessed fruits of the\nfaith that she and her husband had cherished,--the faith that still\nbound her to him, and to all whom she loved. As such, she welcomed them.\nBut the moment the partiality of friends carried them beyond this, and\nimplied the least merit or power of her own, she was pained. \"I thank\nyou for this note; yet--shall I say it?--it pained me. I do not like to\nfeel that my friends are attributing to _my_ efforts that which I feel\nis the direct action of a higher power. Knowing as I do how great are my\ndeficiencies, how far I fall short of the 'perfect stature,' I cannot\nbut feel humbled by such expressions.... Please thank Mrs. ---- most\ngratefully for her kind offers of aid. I seem to be so overwhelmed with\ncomforts, that I have nothing to ask for myself. O, how great is the\ngoodness of God towards me!\"\n\nIt is a touching incident, that one letter came from England just too\nlate. It was from 'little Jamie,' the motherless boy, now a man, whose\nlife Mary Pickard had been instrumental in saving, during the dreadful\nsickness at Osmotherly. She had never heard from him. But he now wrote a\nlong and grateful letter, thanking her for her kindness to his dying\nparents and to himself, of which he had heard so much, as well as for\nher continued remembrance of his aged grandmother as long as she lived.\nHad the letter come a few days sooner, it would have rendered still more\nfervent the thankfulness which filled and animated that deathless heart.\n\nWe offer nothing more from Mrs. Ware's pen. She used it as long as she\nhad strength, forgetting no friend, keeping her personal and domestic\naccounts, and leaving nothing to others that she could do herself.\nAttention to things temporal was with her not even secondary, but part\nof religion, all of which was primary and essential. Essential also, in\nher view, was the duty of cheerfulness, and of making others happy.\nThoughtfulness for others, and a participation in all their joys, were\namong the latest manifestations, as prevailing in sickness as in full\nhealth. She wished no household duty to stop for her, no happy face of\nyouth or manhood to lose its brightness. The song of the birds, and the\nsong of the children, were glad notes even to her decaying sense. \"Never\ndid a sick-room have less of the odor of sickness than that,\" says one\nof her children. \"It was the brightest spot on earth. Nothing was shut\nout from it, but the door stood wide for all the joys and hopes of all,\neven to the last.\"\n\nIn this connection it deserves to be mentioned, that Mrs. Ware found a\ntrue and most devoted friend in her physician. She knew the worth of\nsuch a friend; and it was one of her last acts of thoughtfulness and\ngratitude, to beg her children to remember the kindness of the\nDoctor.[6]\n\n[Footnote 6: Dr. C. C. Holmes, of Milton.]\n\nThe last letter that Mrs. Ware wrote, or rather dictated, was in behalf\nof an aged and destitute clergyman, whose family she had often taken to\nher home, and for whose benefit the provision made by some generous\nfriends, partly as a solace to her own departing spirit, shed upon that\nspirit a serener and brighter radiance. To him who told her of it, she\nsaid, joyfully, \"I hope to have some spiritual ministry given to me; I\nhave been able to do little here, but I hope to do more.\"\n\nWith great clearness, and in words that were retained, she had defined\nto a friend and clergyman, a short time before, her views of the world\nto which she was drawing near. \"I find myself thinking very little of\nthe future world as to its 'circumstances.' I mean, I am surprised to\nfind how little _curiosity_ I feel about it. I trust myself with my\nFather, both now and hereafter. Whatever is best for me then, as now, I\nfeel sure will be ordained.... If we suffer here, it is by a Father's\nhand, it is in wisdom and mercy. If we suffer there, it must be no less\nso. No, I desire to suffer in the coming world, as in this, if He\npleases, if He will that I should. I have a perfect trust and confidence\nin God.... Ah, Mr. H----, it is the _self-surrender_, a renunciation of\nour will for God's, which is the thing. If we can only do this truly, it\nis all. But how much it means! It has relation to the whole of life. It\nin eludes action as well as endurance. It is a perpetual act. At times\nwe feel strong to do it,--to do it in one great act. But in the details\nof life we come sadly short.... There are some who seem to think of\nself-surrender as implying and inducing a certain weakness of the\nspirit, a giving up of power, a lessening of the soul's activity. But it\nis not so. Far from it. It implies no lessening of activity, of energy\nor power of character. It is that these are out of _self_, and in and\nfor GOD.\"\n\n\"The afternoon of the day before she died,\" writes her pastor, \"I was\ntold that she had expressed a desire to see me. As I entered the room,\nher face was perfectly radiant. She knew that her hour had come, and she\nwould say a few last words of kindness to us all. 'I wish to thank you,'\nshe said, 'for all that you have done,--every thing. And it is all\nhere,' placing her hand on her breast, 'it is all here. This peace, this\npeace! it is all here.' 'Yes,' I replied, 'if we seek we shall find it.'\n'I have not sought it,' she said quickly. 'It came. It was sent.' ...\n'Come with a _smile_,' she said to one whom she had called to bid her\nfarewell. And her chamber then seemed to us more as a forecourt of\nheaven, than a painful approach to the tomb.\"\n\nOn a lovely April day, the windows of her room all open that she might\nbreathe freely, she looked up at one who entered, and said with a smile,\n\"What a beautiful day to go _home_!\" Near the end, one at her side said\nto another, in tears, \"How much stronger she is than we are!\" \"I am so\nmuch nearer the Source of strength,\" she whispered. Her suffering was\nacute, but her thought and care were more for others than herself, to\nthe last. Much of the time she held in her hand that sacred note which\nher husband had written to her when he thought himself dying, at a\ndistance. And precious, very precious, must have been to her those last,\nparting words from one to whom she was now going. \"Dear, dear Mary, if I\ncould, I would express all I owe to you. You have been an unspeakable,\nan indescribable blessing. God reward you a thousand fold! Farewell,\n_till we meet again_.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn the evening twilight of another balmy day,--GOOD FRIDAY,--that spent\nframe was laid by the side of _his_, in the hallowed rest of Mount\nAuburn. And as we turned away, we felt that another tie to earth was\nbroken, and heard another voice calling us to heaven.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWith regret, rather than gladness, we lay down the pen which has\nattempted to record the life of a humble Christian. Delightful has it\nbeen to renew our communion, and extend our intimacy, with one whose\npresence was always felt as a blessing. If we have transgressed the\nbounds we set for ourselves in the beginning, and given expression to\nfeelings as well as facts, we can only say that we have repressed more\nthan we have disclosed of the recollections and emotions awakened by\nthis intercourse. A true portrait may seem to be praise, but less than\nthat would be injustice.\n\nWe draw no character, in the end, but only refer to the two facts which\nseem most worthy of note. First, the amount of happiness enjoyed by one\nwhose life was passed in the midst of sickness and trial, and who for\nsix years felt that a fatal and distressing disease was consuming her\nlife,--yet could say of the whole, \"It has been a beautiful experience.\"\n\"I have been so happy,--no one can tell how happy.\" And, next, the\nillustration here seen of the large sphere, the vast power, and\nimperishable work, of a woman who never left the domestic relations, nor\naspired to any thing that is not possible to every daughter, wife, and\nmother. If this appear, it is enough,--that religion, with or without\nrank, wealth, beauty, rare endowment, varied accomplishment, or any\nsingularity, can lift WOMAN to the highest distinction and confer the\nmost enduring glory,--that of filling well, not the narrow, but the wide\nand divine realm of HOME.\n\n\n\n\n\n
","title":"Memoir of Mary L. Ware, Wife of Henry Ware, Jr.","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":134889}