Memoir of Mary L. Ware, Wife of Henry Ware, Jr. Part 22

But if she could not or did not talk much, in the way of solace, she wrote freely; and her letters, though not original or remarkable, are drawn from the depths of experience and faith. We offer none entire, but only the parts that indicate her manner of urging upon others the great truths and principles on which she herself relied. The extracts that follow are not all of one character, but such as were called forth by different experiences near the same time,--all showing the serious cast of her own thoughts, and her deepening interest in others' moral condition. The first was written to her son in the ministry.

"_February 9, 1846._ Dear John: Oh! you are but just beginning to know what life truly is in its solemn discipline. The great book of religious experience is now but opening to you; and, believe me, you will find in it treasures of happiness of which the heart of man _cannot_ conceive without such experience. You say you feel something of 'fear' coming over you. I will not say, put away all apprehension; uncertainty does hang over you, but let it not produce fear. I would advocate a courageous contemplation of possibilities, for in this way, I believe, the benefits of all trial may be made greater. But let it be with a quiet trust and hopefulness, such as we as Christians have a right to feel; let it be with a steady faith, that whatever G.o.d permits has a beneficent end and object, kindly to aid us in the great work for which we were placed in this world of trial,--the preparation of our souls for that spiritual life which may be lived even while we are still in this world. Does not our Father love us with a perfect love? Does he not know better than we can what is best for us? Has he not power to fulfil all his designs of good for us,--and shall we not, if with childlike faith in that love and power we surrender our will to his, find a peace which cannot be moved? I was once most forcibly checked in some fruitless attempt to obtain peace under great difficulties, upon false principles, by happening upon these verses of Watts (I believe):--

'Is resignation's lesson hard?

On trial we shall find It makes us give up nothing more Than anguish of the mind.

Believe, and all the ills of life That moment we resign,' &c.

And I never find myself trying to argue myself into acquiescence to any dispensation by reasons other than those implied in these lines, that they do not rise to my memory as a rebuke. But still the struggle,--O, that struggle is great, and we must not be discouraged that we find it so; that is part of the discipline. Strength comes by effort; and only think what precious teaching this is for _your_ work."

All who have read the beautiful Memoir of Robert Swain will feel the greater interest in the following, written from his favorite island-home, to a son in England, about the age of Robert, when he died.

"_Naushon, September 13, 1846._ I am glad, dear William, to write to you from this place, not only because I am happy in being here, but because it must remind you of him with whose memory this place is so strongly a.s.sociated, that one cannot hear its name without having his beautiful character brought up before the mind. I have thought much of you since I have been here, in tracing Robert's life by the memorials which are everywhere around me, in hearing his parents talk of the formation of his character, in reading the record of his death, and contemplating at his grave his present life. O, I have felt, dear William, that to have such a child was the highest happiness this world could give; and however great must have been the pain of parting, and dreary the void which his absence made in the earthly pilgrimage of his parents, it was all more than compensated, by the satisfaction of having begun here such a relation to so pure a spirit, which can never cease while the soul lives. And how earnestly I have prayed, that my child, too, might so understand the true object of existence, as to make his spiritual progress the first aim under all circ.u.mstances! We see in Robert's case how beautifully he was training himself for heaven, while he lived the simple life of an active boy, following all the common pursuits which belonged to his age, but doing all with a conscientious reference to the law of right. With the most devoted love towards his parents and friends, he loved his G.o.d above all, and sought first of all to obey Him. His grave is in one of the sweetest spots on the island, in a little opening surrounded by trees which he had named his 'mother's parlor'; and upon a seat which he had made there for her I have spent some holy moments, with which the thought of you was tenderly mingled. Dear son, may I have the same satisfaction in your life, which these parents have in that of their son! and should G.o.d in his providence call you also thus early to himself, may I have reason to believe, as they do, that for you the work of life was accomplished!...

"I trust you will come home ready to _begin_ the work of life in earnest. When you look forward and consider that you must depend on your own efforts for subsistence, that you have a gift of mind for the use of which you are accountable to your Maker, and that the person with one talent is equally responsible with him who has ten, you will see that nothing short of physical inability can excuse you from beginning at once the work of self-education. All that can be done for you is nothing, all the advantages with which you may be surrounded are as nothing, if you do not set yourself to a conscientious improvement of all. I care little what path you follow as to external life, if you only follow it upon the basis of right principle, which shall produce in you a manly, disinterested regard to the accomplishment of all the good you may have it in your power to perform."

A letter from England informed Mrs. Ware of the death of an excellent kinswoman, who may be remembered as "Cousin Bessie," the wife of George Lovell. And she wrote of it to Emma, then in New York, who had been her fellow-traveller in England, and whose own health was gently but surely declining.

"_Greenhill Cottage, December 18, 1846._ ... Dear Bessie's pure spirit pa.s.sed away in peace, the 22d of November. Her mind remained perfectly clear to the last moment, calm and cheerful.

Hers was a sweet spirit, and I love to remember the intimate intercourse I had with it in times past, for there was more in her soul than appeared to the casual observer. Her departure has added one more attraction to that spiritual state in which I hope to renew the interchange of kind affection and holy thought. How beautifully is it arranged for us, that, as we approach nearer and nearer to the exchange of worlds ourselves, our interest in that to which we are going should be so increased by the removal of so many loved ones before us.

"It can be no new thought to _you_, that all sickness must be of uncertain result, and you understand too well the object of all the discipline of life, to shrink from any form of it which Providence may appoint. To you and me, strength and power seem so much our birthright, that we hardly know how to understand ourselves when they fail; but it certainly is not difficult to see why we peculiarly need the gentle monitions which sickness brings to us. It would seem as if some of the capacities for the enjoyment of the purely spiritual could not be formed in us without them; we should be too self-dependent, too confident in our own strength, to learn how to be the meek and lowly disciples, to whom are promised the fruits of faith and trust.

I am sure that the sense I now have of liability to the development of fatal disease at any time, is the source of some of the most exalted moments of my present existence. So far from its lessening our enjoyment of all that we ought to enjoy belonging to life, it gives a keener sense of it, inasmuch as it puts in their true position all the trifles which are so apt to mar our comfort under common circ.u.mstances. I cannot but believe that you will derive great relief from this experiment; and if it does not reach all the difficulty, it certainly will do this good,--that, by removing some of the causes of irritation and consequent exhaustion, it leaves you more strength to contend with what may remain of disease,--and, after all, that is the main thing.

"... I have had a very kind note from Miss Sedgwick, inclosing a letter from Madame Sismondi after reading Henry's Life. It was a most gratifying testimony to the influence of the truth upon a mind which had been educated to undervalue every thing proceeding from our form of faith."

The younger son, to whom Mrs. Ware had written from Naushon, had now returned from England, where he had been for his health, and was placed at school in Exeter, in the well-known Phillips Academy. From his mother's letters to him while there, we should be glad to borrow largely, but must abridge. The number and fulness of these letters, when we remember the state of her health, the care of her family, and all else that she was doing, would surprise us, if we had not seen the same, virtually, in every period and position of her life. The letters themselves are written without effort or ornament, and contain much that would be called "common-place," because they aim only at those simplest truths and counsels which lie at the root of moral character.

During the time of writing the extracts that follow, Mrs. Ware went herself to Exeter, alone and at the shortest notice,--finding that some questions in regard to the course of study to be pursued by her son could be best determined by her actual presence. It was one of her last journeys, and, being in mid-winter, must have required resolution, if it did not cost suffering.

"_January 1, 1847._ The clock has just struck one, so I may fairly date 1847. And with the recollections of the old year which has just pa.s.sed away, and the antic.i.p.ations of that upon which we are entering, come many thoughts of you,--affecting thoughts, for I remember my own experience at your age, and I feel that this year must be to you one of the most important of your whole existence, in its influence on your character and happiness, both for this life and for that long future which can be measured only by one word,--Eternity. It must bring to you many trials, both of feeling and principle; it must bring to you many deep spiritual exercises, and anxious thoughts with regard to your religious progress. You have come to that period of life at which one cannot escape from a deep sense of responsibility for the formation of one's own character; when, with every power and faculty in a peculiarly excitable state, every nerve vibrates to the slightest touch of joy or sorrow, and one feels perpetually in danger of being led by feeling rather than by judgment. It is a period of intense enjoyment, and for the same reason may be one of intense suffering; and while it must depend much upon circ.u.mstances which shall predominate, I believe it depends still more upon our own self-discipline, in enabling us both to avoid many occasions of suffering, and to meet with a calm spirit those which are unavoidable. You are in a new position of independent action; and while, with the deep sympathy which is the result of experience, I can suffer and enjoy with you, in antic.i.p.ation, I feel the satisfaction of a quiet trust that 'all will issue well.' I believe that you mean to govern yourself by the highest principle, and in that faith I can leave you to the guidance of your own conscience; hoping that you will never forget, that principle, to do its perfect work, must be applied to small things as well as great; that then only is it true principle when it regulates even the tone of the voice, as well as the most heroic action. Your mother's prayers are for you, at this solemn turning-point of life, that, when this anniversary next arrives, it may find you, whether in the body or not, able to look back with satisfaction upon the past, conscious that a true progress has been made towards that perfection of the soul for which it was created....

"You will say, you have much to struggle with in your own character, and that nothing can satisfy you while you have to contend with self so continually. But your greatest temptation is to dwell too much upon your internal trials, leading you almost insensibly to that most insidious and deceptive form of self-love, a too constant thought of self even in regard to one's faults. You will find your intellectual occupation a great help in preventing this. Do not think too much about your own deficiencies, be content to live along in the constant thought for others' good, and you will find that you have done more for yourself by your disinterested action, than you could have done by all the thought you would have given to the subject in twice the time."

"_January 24._ ... Cultivate in yourself a religious spirit; read G.o.d's word to learn what he would have you do; pray to Him for power to do it,--and you _will_ succeed. Here lies the only sure foundation. Religious principle is the rock upon which alone you can build any superstructure; all other will be like the sand on the sea-sh.o.r.e,--the next tide of temptation will sweep it away. And do not think that it will interfere with any of the pleasures of youth, or restrain the spirit of mirth which belongs to your age. So far from it, it will promote all enjoyment; for when we engage in that which we have decided by the standard of principle to be right, we go forth with a free spirit, to enjoy to the utmost,--without any of that under-current of misgiving which is a perpetual check upon us when we are engaged in a matter of doubtful expediency.

Experience must have already taught you this in some things, and, believe me, it is equally true in all. You will have many temptations in your little world, composed, as well as the great world, of various characters. But if you once establish it with yourself to pursue only the right, and to have a strong moral courage to say 'No' to any measure of even doubtful character, you will find that you not only gain peace of mind, but win the respect even of those who may at first laugh at you. Never fear for the result, if you only do _right_."

"_January 26, 1847._ Well, it was an event for me to go to Exeter. All my a.s.sociations with the place are of the most interesting kind. All the romance of my youth was connected with it; my first knowledge of your father was during his residence there, through the medium of the admiration of that brilliant circle of young ladies, in whose society he found poetical inspiration. It was the home and the death-place of the first specimen of the highly intellectual and spiritual form of humanity that I had ever known intimately, in the person of your father's dear friend, John E. Abbot; and the very name of Exeter was sacred to me, from its connection with the daily details of his last sickness, which I received from Mrs. P----, then residing in her Aunt Abbot's family. I had been there, however, only once, twenty years ago with your father, when together we visited John Abbot's grave, and gave ourselves up to the emotions connected with his memory. You may believe that it was with no common feelings that I went alone, upon such an errand, to that spot. The sense of my sole responsibility in the care of my children presses upon me at all times; but it bore with peculiar power at that time and at that place, reminded, as I could not but be, how little qualified I was to decide the question, in comparison with a father's knowledge and experience."

"_February 2._ ... This has been an intensely interesting day to me. What a thing is this _gift_ of life,--this strange, first union of the spiritual and the material! How closely such an event brings one near to the great Origin of all, and in what an interesting, affecting relation! The tender Father, watching over, protecting, sustaining, a feeble, mortal child in the greatest work of creation, the introduction of a new heir of immortality to the path which is to lead it to receive its inheritance!"

"_March 3._ ... Do not for a moment lose sight of your dear father's example. He was what he was, not by the bestowment of great natural powers, but by the religious industry with which he used his powers, the high standard of moral and religious character at which he aimed, the disinterested devotion with which he labored for others' good. _He cultivated his conscience_, and by its light he cultivated his intellect; marking out for himself that path in life in which he felt himself most likely to be useful. And this was the secret of his great success. He was willing to do any thing he could; and he regulated that 'could' by the most unwearied industry. What cannot one do, with such a lever?"

We have not thought it necessary to speak of Mrs. Ware's peculiar interest in the public ministrations of religion. Such an interest, in a woman even of practical good-sense, is a matter of course. She could not, in any possible circ.u.mstances, think lightly of public wors.h.i.+p, for others or for herself. Nor was she dependent upon the form and medium of wors.h.i.+p; since, whatever her choice or taste, she thought more of the spirit than of the letter or manner. Either from hearing her quote the couplet, or from a knowledge of her feelings, we often think of her in connection with the quaint lines of old Herbert:--

"The worst speak something good; should all want sense, G.o.d takes the text, and preaches--patience."

Patient she was, even interested, in all preaching that evidently came from the heart, however homely, and in all preachers who were sincerely engaged in their Master's cause. But for the lukewarm and the selfish, for those who preached not Christ, but themselves, and offered stones rather than bread to the hungry soul, she found it difficult to maintain her respect, or refrain from expressing a very different sentiment. Her indignation at some kinds of preaching, and the abuse of sacred time, was as strong and almost as terrible as that which we sometimes heard from even the gentle spirit of her husband. It was to him that she once wrote: "Mr. ---- gave us a philosophical disquisition on the nature and properties of mind and matter, containing (I suppose) a conclusive argument against Materialism, abounding in technical phrases and abstruse quotations,--which, to a certainty, not one in fifty of his audience could understand. What food for sinful, accountable, half-asleep souls! If an inhabitant of the insane hospital had called such a production a sermon, he might be excused the misnomer. But in a minister of Christ to an erring world, it is nothing short of profanation." She loved simplicity of manner, as well as matter. She loved a fervid, but quiet utterance. Of one of the popular preachers she says: "Such grand and momentous views as he brings together do not seem to me--it is a matter of taste, I suppose--to need the fact.i.tious aid of such a declamatory style of writing or studied mode of delivery. I want to strip them of all this, and cannot help thinking, that in their simple, naked sublimity they would be quite as effective,--to many minds more so."

As life advanced, Mrs. Ware felt more and more the value of religious connections; and both in Framingham and Milton she found great satisfaction. Such a hearer and paris.h.i.+oner gives more than she receives. Would that all knew how inestimable is the blessing to a minister! We cannot withhold the testimony of one pastor to her character in this single relation:--"None could be more candid, more kind, more sympathizing, or more appreciating. Her seat at church scarcely ever vacant, her interest warmly expressed by word and deed in every event and place connected with our spiritual growth and prosperity; reverent, and almost punctiliously faithful in her attachment to the church, its forms and its order were cherished with a true-hearted veneration and love,--while none could have exceeded her in the spirituality of her religious views, or have risen more entirely above a mere formalism.... On those occasions, too, of trial, which will at times arise in a minister's service, when he may be called to speak or act with boldness, or adventure upon untried experiments, she was ever prompt and hearty in expressions of encouragement. Instances of this nature occur to me, where she would stop at my house on her return from church, and leave the benediction of a kind word of sympathy and G.o.d-speed, uttered with all the emotion of her sympathetic nature, to a.s.sure me that one heart at least was in unison with my own."

Of the "church in the house" we dare not speak,--except to say, that she who was for so long a time its only head did not believe that all religious service must wait for a priest, nor even for a man. Never will the sweetness of _that_ voice, in devotion, Scripture, or hymn, die away from the heart. Never will those cherished words, "To prayer, to prayer! for the morning breaks,"--be so moving and uplifting, as in that dwelling, where the thought of death, just past or just approaching, served but to quicken the spirit of Devotion.

At the period now reached, 1847, the letters of Mrs. Ware continued to be nearly as many as formerly, and quite as cheerful. There is a large cla.s.s of letters that have been scarcely represented in this sketch; those which are filled with details of domestic life, personal and private incidents, and playful communications. No absent child was left in ignorance of that which occurred at home. Nothing that could interest, edify, or amuse was thought too trivial to be recorded, if it would tend to strengthen the bonds of family affection. "I believe the love of _home_ to be the best safeguard to man and woman for life,"--she once said; and she used every opportunity of cheris.h.i.+ng that love, in the hearts both of the present and the absent. She had no habit of reservation or concealment with those about her, unless in regard to her own pains and trials. And as those pains and trials increased, we find no decline of general interest or free communion. More and more freely, rather than less, does she speak of herself, her expectations as to this life and another, her concern for her own strength and resources, and the character and prospects of her children. The following letter to her son was written some time in the summer of this year.

"_Milton, 1847._

"MY DEAR JOHN:--

" ... I am not now as able to keep school as I was then, poorly fitted though I always felt myself. My head has been a very troublesome member for a long time, and I have had in the course of the last year and a half two distinct attacks, which, if not actually paralytic, were sufficiently like it to be considered premonitory symptoms of that affection,--amounting to loss of sensation, and giddiness, followed by a great oppression in the brain, for a long time after. Since this I have found that I soon get overpowered and bewildered in the bustle of the school, and, after a few days' trial, it is only by going at once to sleep, that I can get my head clear for the rest of the day. Besides that, the sense of hurry which I have from the daily pressure of the necessity of adhering to certain hours, in order to get through the necessary business of the day, keeps my head in a state of tension which I often feel must end in some sudden change. I work almost constantly eighteen hours out of the twenty-four; but this I could bear, were it not for the sense of hurry I have, in my anxiety to spare E---- every thing that I possibly can, while she has the labor of the school. Nor is this all. I am sensible that the trouble in my side does _not_ diminish or stand still; its progress is slow, but evidently sure; and though there are often weeks, in which I am not reminded of it by any sensation, there are times when it produces great discomfort. I know from the nature of the case, that this may be so many years, and also, that at any moment it may suddenly come to a crisis, as in many cases I have known.

"And I feel that with the bare possibility (and it is much more) of having but a few years more to give to my children, I should be wrong to spend these few years in such a hurried life, that I cannot have time to give them an unfettered hour.

This is the case now; whether from want of faculty, or an undue anxiety to spare others, or the necessity of the case, I cannot say. All I know is, that, of the eighteen hours in which I am awake, I have not one, commonly, free from the pressure of some necessary, imperative occupation. I may almost say, I _never_ choose my employment; and as you find it, so do I with regard to my children at home,--I cannot give any of them a hundredth part of the time I would gladly devote to them.... You wonder that I cannot be more with you. You would not wonder, if you could see how little I have time to do with my children at home. This ought not to be so. But then comes the question, how am I to live, how educate my children, and pay my debts, if I give up so much of my income?

"I answer myself in this way, and I feel satisfied with the answer. If I am not to live, what now supports me will help towards this end; and if I do live, I feel justified in creating a debt for my children to pay by and by, when they are old enough to work, in order to give them the means of working to advantage. I trust they will all find a mission to fulfil, which will keep them free from dependence, and do good to their fellow-men. I will trust that I shall be taken care of; for I think the case of duty is clear,--at least it is so to me, and I feel that I cannot turn from it.

"Now do not think that this uncertainty of life troubles me, or makes me nervous, and unnecessarily anxious. I have never felt more perfect peace of mind, than I have for the last three years, with respect to death. I have felt it a great blessing to be thus reminded of the uncertainty of my life. It is a constant check upon me, and, moreover, makes all the pleasures which lie in my path greater blessings. There is an elevation in such an habitual state of mind, which takes one beautifully away from the annoying perplexities of life. I could write on for hours, but I have said enough. You will understand me, and that is all I desire now.

"Affectionately, your Mother."

Another expression of a different kind was called out at this time, by a case of bereavement in which she felt deeply concerned. We give the letter entire as to its object and argument, because in none of her letters, and in no others that we recall, is the question which is here raised so well stated and answered. It is a question which comes to every conscientious sufferer,--pertaining to the conflict between a sense of duty to ourselves and duty to others, in the season of affliction and secret communion,--the desire for repose and the call for activity. We well know what conflicts both Mrs. Ware and her husband had had, in regard to this question; and we follow her with the greater satisfaction, as she offers the result of her experience and conviction to one of another household, and of the other s.e.x.

"_Milton, 1847._

"MY DEAR FRIEND:--

"My visit to you this afternoon was so broken, so unsatisfactory, my thoughts are so entirely with you, and my desire to help you, at least so far as sympathy can do so, is so strong, that I must indulge myself this once in intruding my poor written words upon you, for my own relief. Very grateful do I feel to you for uttering yourself so freely to me: you do not mistake, when you believe that I can understand all your doubts and fears, misgivings and contentions. I have felt them all; and in the knowledge which I have of all my husband suffered, I feel as if I had a double power to sympathize with you. Well do I understand that strange elevation of spirit which comes to one in the first hours of bereavement, when the heart is strong to endure, and the mind seems to act spontaneously. It would seem, when one with whose spirit ours had become as it were identified 'pa.s.ses on,' as if we too had entered 'behind the veil,' and were also raised above the weakness and suffering of humanity. But this cannot last long, and the necessity of a return to the occupations of life dispels the illusion, and then comes the struggle from which you are now suffering. Two opposing duties seem to present themselves,--one claiming quiet seclusion, the other impelling to great activity. We long for rest, we doubt if we have a right to risk the loss of any portion of the benefit which may come to us from the life of meditation and self-communion to which our state of mind _naturally_ leads us, by going back to the busy bustle of external life. We feel that our soul has been moved to its very depth, as it never was before, and we long to 'hold the fleet angel fast, until he bless us' with an increase of spiritual life, proportionate to the demands of our condition. But on the other hand, there lie the duties of life, appointed by G.o.d for _us_ to perform; in their performance lies our mission to the world; have we any right to neglect them for any object of self-improvement? How shall we decide, when two duties, apparently of equal importance, seem to us perfectly incompatible?

"But here, I think, lies our great mistake. We separate that which G.o.d has joined together; there can be no opposition in his requisitions, and if both duties are required of us, it must be that they may be united. What is spiritual progress?

What is the benefit we believe to be intended for us by the discipline of bereavement? Is it increased love of G.o.d, reliance upon him, union of soul with him? How shall we gain these by any process of meditation, so entirely as when, contending against our desire for repose, conscious of our utter weakness, throwing ourselves with the reliance of filial affection upon a Father's love, we go forth to execute His will in the fulfilment of the duties He has a.s.signed us, believing that His promises of strength will not fail? And did they ever fail? And do we not by this act of faith bring our souls into that union with G.o.d which we so much desire, more truly than by any abstract thought? How can it be nearer than when, in the consciousness of our human weakness, we feel that whatever strength we have is His,--that He is indeed present to us, acting in us,--and we know that, while we have this faith, He will never cease to aid us.

"But you will say you have tried this, and strength does not come; you find yourself more and more averse to effort, more and more incapable of it. But are you sure you are not aiming at impossibilities,--that you are not requiring from the nature G.o.d has given you more than you have a right to expect, and that, by striving after more than you can reasonably hope to obtain, you render ineffective the power given? Do not misunderstand me. I would not bring down in the very slightest degree the high standard of Christian excellence at which you aim; but I would have you understand truly the nature of the means which the Creator has given us by which to attain it.

'Deal gently with thine infirmity, wait G.o.d's time.' You desire at once to rise to the height to which you believe a Christian faith may elevate its possessor, and you are discouraged that the work is not accomplished when _you_ think it ought to be.

Put aside, my dear friend, this desire to regulate the operation of G.o.d's providence. You say you have never for a moment felt that you were hardly dealt with, in the outward circ.u.mstances of this affliction. Apply the same faith to its internal circ.u.mstances; give up your own will as fully in the one case as in the other; go on, meekly relying upon Almighty wisdom, with your appointed work, not attempting too much at once, but selecting just that which seems most important, increasing your labors as you may find strength comes to aid you, and be content to use such measure of strength as G.o.d shall give, without repining that it is not more; and this will bring you that 'peace' for which you now sigh. Waste not one moment in vain regret that you cannot do all you desire. O, I could read you such a page of suffering from this source, as would make you weep for the sinfulness of your monitor! If I cannot be an example, let me be a warning to you. May I be an efficient one!

"Ever your friend.

"M. L. WARE."