XIII.

"Framingham, October 6, 1843."My dear Mary:—"The first moment I can call my own since my return from Cambridge, I turn to you. I know no one to whom I can so freely pour out all that is in my heart, as for the first time I pause a little from the pressure of necessary action, and realize the change that has taken place in every thing about me.... I wanted you at my side, when I stood once more at that sacred spot where we had laid our dear sister's image. You and I can never forget that moment. And, though not near, you were in close communion with the spirit in that holy hour."As I glance back at the period which has elapsed since you were here, one single thought takes precedence of all the rest. It is astonishment at the power of the soul to sustain the pressure of circumstances, the tension and excitement of feeling, the necessity of positive, energetic action, when the very heart-strings seem riven asunder,—and the capacity of sustaining a tranquil, and even cheerful aspect, when 'the dull, heart-sinking weight' of a vital grief is bearing us down, down, down,—one can scarcely believe there are any soundings to thatdeepgulf. Yet so it is; and does it not open our vision to the glorious truth of the alliance of the soul with its divine origin? What but that inexhaustible, fountain of strength could sustain us, when the waves of trouble thus threaten to overwhelm us? Rich, blessed, indeed, is the experience which brings this conviction to our minds; holy is that season in which we can live as it were in the light of such a faith! And holy indeed has it been to me."I feel that my danger now is, that I reluctantly do any thing that shall remove me from the influence of the atmosphere which it seems as if death had created around me. Death? transition I would rather call it. And yet let usstrive to disabuse that word of some of the horrors in which education has wrapt it. O, could you have seen how mercifully it was stripped of all its terrors to us, how calmly that spirit left its earthly tabernacle, how sweet was the impress of peace and rest it left upon that face which had so long almost lost its own expression in the veil that sickness had thrown over it! Its last expression would have rebuked the slightest wish to recall the spirit, had we been so selfish as to have indulged one. We could scarcely be willing to be separated from that image of him we loved, so powerfully even in death did it express his character. Even the little children preferred being there, rather than anywhere beside; and will, I think, all, including even little Charlie, remember this first knowledge of a death-bed as a beautiful experience."The first part of Henry's sickness he seemed quite unconscious of what was around him; torpid, and at times wandering in his expressions. But the last three weeks, although still unable to exert himself to talk,—for it tired him, he said, 'even to think,'—his mind was perfectly clear; indeed, I had reason to suppose his mind was never as much clouded to himself, as it appeared to be to us. The pressure upon his brain was so great, as to produce great difficulty of action of any kind; his ideas were often clear, but the power of finding words to convey them was paralyzed. He said little at any time, and yet I find, in surveying the whole period, that I have many satisfactory views of the whole state of his mind in relation to the change that he was making. He never had but one view of his own situation; he felt decidedly that the time for going home was come,—'the fitting time,' 'the best time'; and he was grateful that the toil of sickness and inability was at an end. And so convinced was I, that, if he should revive from that attack, it could only be to continue to suffer still more thanhe had done, from inability to do what he had hoped to, this autumn, for the good of his fellow-men, that I too felt that it was indeed the fitting time. And so intense was my suffering from the apprehension of his continuing, for years perhaps, in the half-paralyzed, half-torpid state in which he lay for so many weeks, that it was not only with resignation, it was with a sense of relief, that I saw the doubt was at an end, the prisoner was released. So strange is it, that that event to which I had ever looked forward as the one thing that could not be borne in life, came at last under circumstances which made it welcome! Do I live to say it, to feel it? But O the chasm left in my lot, in my heart! Who can estimate it! No one. No, 'the heart knoweth its own bitterness'; no human being can enter into it.... But I must stop. I hope to see you, or at least hear from you."Yours with much love."M. L. W."

"Framingham, October 6, 1843.

"My dear Mary:—

"The first moment I can call my own since my return from Cambridge, I turn to you. I know no one to whom I can so freely pour out all that is in my heart, as for the first time I pause a little from the pressure of necessary action, and realize the change that has taken place in every thing about me.... I wanted you at my side, when I stood once more at that sacred spot where we had laid our dear sister's image. You and I can never forget that moment. And, though not near, you were in close communion with the spirit in that holy hour.

"As I glance back at the period which has elapsed since you were here, one single thought takes precedence of all the rest. It is astonishment at the power of the soul to sustain the pressure of circumstances, the tension and excitement of feeling, the necessity of positive, energetic action, when the very heart-strings seem riven asunder,—and the capacity of sustaining a tranquil, and even cheerful aspect, when 'the dull, heart-sinking weight' of a vital grief is bearing us down, down, down,—one can scarcely believe there are any soundings to thatdeepgulf. Yet so it is; and does it not open our vision to the glorious truth of the alliance of the soul with its divine origin? What but that inexhaustible, fountain of strength could sustain us, when the waves of trouble thus threaten to overwhelm us? Rich, blessed, indeed, is the experience which brings this conviction to our minds; holy is that season in which we can live as it were in the light of such a faith! And holy indeed has it been to me.

"I feel that my danger now is, that I reluctantly do any thing that shall remove me from the influence of the atmosphere which it seems as if death had created around me. Death? transition I would rather call it. And yet let usstrive to disabuse that word of some of the horrors in which education has wrapt it. O, could you have seen how mercifully it was stripped of all its terrors to us, how calmly that spirit left its earthly tabernacle, how sweet was the impress of peace and rest it left upon that face which had so long almost lost its own expression in the veil that sickness had thrown over it! Its last expression would have rebuked the slightest wish to recall the spirit, had we been so selfish as to have indulged one. We could scarcely be willing to be separated from that image of him we loved, so powerfully even in death did it express his character. Even the little children preferred being there, rather than anywhere beside; and will, I think, all, including even little Charlie, remember this first knowledge of a death-bed as a beautiful experience.

"The first part of Henry's sickness he seemed quite unconscious of what was around him; torpid, and at times wandering in his expressions. But the last three weeks, although still unable to exert himself to talk,—for it tired him, he said, 'even to think,'—his mind was perfectly clear; indeed, I had reason to suppose his mind was never as much clouded to himself, as it appeared to be to us. The pressure upon his brain was so great, as to produce great difficulty of action of any kind; his ideas were often clear, but the power of finding words to convey them was paralyzed. He said little at any time, and yet I find, in surveying the whole period, that I have many satisfactory views of the whole state of his mind in relation to the change that he was making. He never had but one view of his own situation; he felt decidedly that the time for going home was come,—'the fitting time,' 'the best time'; and he was grateful that the toil of sickness and inability was at an end. And so convinced was I, that, if he should revive from that attack, it could only be to continue to suffer still more thanhe had done, from inability to do what he had hoped to, this autumn, for the good of his fellow-men, that I too felt that it was indeed the fitting time. And so intense was my suffering from the apprehension of his continuing, for years perhaps, in the half-paralyzed, half-torpid state in which he lay for so many weeks, that it was not only with resignation, it was with a sense of relief, that I saw the doubt was at an end, the prisoner was released. So strange is it, that that event to which I had ever looked forward as the one thing that could not be borne in life, came at last under circumstances which made it welcome! Do I live to say it, to feel it? But O the chasm left in my lot, in my heart! Who can estimate it! No one. No, 'the heart knoweth its own bitterness'; no human being can enter into it.... But I must stop. I hope to see you, or at least hear from you.

"Yours with much love."M. L. W."

"Framingham, November 5, 1843."My dear Emma:—"This has been a day of peculiar trial to me. At no period, since the commencement of Henry's last sickness, have I found it so difficult to adhere to my determination not to trouble those around me by the want of self-control. This first communion service since that sacred occasion, when we together witnessed that celebration of the rite by him who can now be present only in spirit! I feel as if I needed the relief of utterance; and to whom can I go for this relief so naturally as to you, who are strongly associated with the remembrance which so deeply agitates my spirit? It frightens me, when, upon such an occasion as this, I am led to probe the nature of my feelings, to find how much the reference to him in his spiritual state isbecoming to me a substitute for all other thoughts of heaven. Great as was my absorption in him while he was with me here, I find it is so far from being lessened by the removal of his visible presence, that it has only changed its character into an idolatry of a more alarming nature. It is so much easier for me to conceive of his presence than of that of any other spirits, that it is the thought of his inspection of my inmost soul that dwells perpetually on my mind, whatever I do, or say, or think, to the exclusion, except by an effort, of the idea of even a higher presence. What shall I do, if this grows upon me? How shall I root out this enemy to Christian improvement? It may be only the first effect of the blow. Time may modify or rectify this infidelity,—I trust it will; but at present it is overwhelming. O, how deeply do such seasons of strong emotion make me realize my loneliness, now that I have no longer that ever-ready sympathy, that composing, strengthening counsel to turn to, with the certainty of comfort and peace in the turning! I do indeed feel his presence with me, but my heart calls and he 'answers not again'; there can be no response to my application. How deeply, how tenderly, is he associated with all the holiest hours of existence! It seemed to me to-day I could hear his voice in the hymn which had so often been read by him on the same occasion; I could anticipate the words which would fall upon my ear as we should leave that service together, rejoicing, as he was wont to do, that such a service had been ordained for weak, sensual mortals, to take their souls sometimes away from flesh and sense to the unfettered contemplation of heavenly love. Fully do I realize, that the sense of loss is to grow with every added day of my existence; nothing can come near enough to supply it in the least degree; nothing else can become so a part of one's own self. This consciousness of desolation must press perpetually like aweight upon my heart, as long as life lasts. And yet how strange! I go on, and every thing goes on outwardly as before. I eat, drink, sleep, talk, and laugh with others, whenever it is important for their comfort to do so, as if nothing had changed. In the midst of all, I stop and ask myself, 'Am I dreaming?' Or is it really true that I am alone,—that that point has been actually passed, which in anticipation had always seemed impossible in the possession of any power of action? I have thought that the trial could not be borne and sense left!"But why indulge myself in this strain? I find I cannot write, or even think, connectedly; so I will stop."Your ownMary."

"Framingham, November 5, 1843.

"My dear Emma:—

"This has been a day of peculiar trial to me. At no period, since the commencement of Henry's last sickness, have I found it so difficult to adhere to my determination not to trouble those around me by the want of self-control. This first communion service since that sacred occasion, when we together witnessed that celebration of the rite by him who can now be present only in spirit! I feel as if I needed the relief of utterance; and to whom can I go for this relief so naturally as to you, who are strongly associated with the remembrance which so deeply agitates my spirit? It frightens me, when, upon such an occasion as this, I am led to probe the nature of my feelings, to find how much the reference to him in his spiritual state isbecoming to me a substitute for all other thoughts of heaven. Great as was my absorption in him while he was with me here, I find it is so far from being lessened by the removal of his visible presence, that it has only changed its character into an idolatry of a more alarming nature. It is so much easier for me to conceive of his presence than of that of any other spirits, that it is the thought of his inspection of my inmost soul that dwells perpetually on my mind, whatever I do, or say, or think, to the exclusion, except by an effort, of the idea of even a higher presence. What shall I do, if this grows upon me? How shall I root out this enemy to Christian improvement? It may be only the first effect of the blow. Time may modify or rectify this infidelity,—I trust it will; but at present it is overwhelming. O, how deeply do such seasons of strong emotion make me realize my loneliness, now that I have no longer that ever-ready sympathy, that composing, strengthening counsel to turn to, with the certainty of comfort and peace in the turning! I do indeed feel his presence with me, but my heart calls and he 'answers not again'; there can be no response to my application. How deeply, how tenderly, is he associated with all the holiest hours of existence! It seemed to me to-day I could hear his voice in the hymn which had so often been read by him on the same occasion; I could anticipate the words which would fall upon my ear as we should leave that service together, rejoicing, as he was wont to do, that such a service had been ordained for weak, sensual mortals, to take their souls sometimes away from flesh and sense to the unfettered contemplation of heavenly love. Fully do I realize, that the sense of loss is to grow with every added day of my existence; nothing can come near enough to supply it in the least degree; nothing else can become so a part of one's own self. This consciousness of desolation must press perpetually like aweight upon my heart, as long as life lasts. And yet how strange! I go on, and every thing goes on outwardly as before. I eat, drink, sleep, talk, and laugh with others, whenever it is important for their comfort to do so, as if nothing had changed. In the midst of all, I stop and ask myself, 'Am I dreaming?' Or is it really true that I am alone,—that that point has been actually passed, which in anticipation had always seemed impossible in the possession of any power of action? I have thought that the trial could not be borne and sense left!

"But why indulge myself in this strain? I find I cannot write, or even think, connectedly; so I will stop.

"Your ownMary."

Language so strong as this, from a nature so calm as Mary Ware's, means a great deal. Nor can we marvel. For what a change is that through which a true woman passes,—from wife to widow! Is it not greater than even the first change? Often has Mary referred to the difference, which few could feel as she had, between her former isolation as to natural ties, and her adoption into a large and united family circle. Butnowshe felt the change through which she was passing still more,—inasmuch as she had a more profound and pervading sense of all that is comprised in conjugal affections and parental responsibilities. And while none can have a higher standard of duty and obligation, very few have a meeker estimate of their own powers; particularly as regards the care and the training of Children. This was to be now her great work,—the chief object and anxiety of her remaining days. And unfeignedly did she shrink, not from the task, but fromthe vastness of the trust and the burden to be sustainedalone. "When I think of this large family of little children to be left to my care, instead ofhis, it requires a process of thought to feel so assured that God can bring good out of seeming evil, and work out his purposes by the weakest instruments, as to be able to calm the throbs of anxiety, and say, 'Peace, be still!' to the troubled spirit." True, her ideal was high, and she could never be satisfied with that which would more than satisfy many parents. Years before had she said of one of her children: "For her intellectual progress I have no anxiety, that is, so far as the acquisition of knowledge goes; but how to cultivate the moral, so that it shall govern and guide this intellectual progress into the right channels, and establish the supremacy of thespiritualin the character, I know not." Again, she exclaims: "And these are Mary Pickard's children! When I go back in recollection to Pearl Street days, to its long hours of lone watching, when my mind dwelt upon the deficiencies of my condition until it had exaggerated to a more than earthly possibility the happiness of having something to love which would satisfy the desires of my mind and heart,—and then compare that longing with the present reality,—is it strange that I can scarcely realize my identity with that same lone one?" The time had now come when she was again a "lone one." And this is what we would say,—that the loneliness whichfollows, is far greater than that which precedes, the knowledge and enjoyment of such communion and coöperation as she had known. Nor is there anything inexplicable in the fact, that the most conscientious, even the strongest in character and highest in aim, suffer most from a sense of their own deficiencies, and use language which seems to many exaggerated and hardly sincere. "I am so perpetually oppressed," writes Mary at this time, "with the sense of nothingness, it is so very difficult for me to realize that I am to be regarded even by my children as the leader in any matter, that it all but frightens me to have any one look to me as one who is expected to have some influence. This is no mock humility; I think as well of myself as I deserve. I am aware that it grows in some measure out of the newness of my position, and know that time and habit may bring somewhat different feelings; but it is only these whichcando it, and I must suffer for a long time yet from this as well as from the other effects of isolation."

We are the more willing to disclose such feelings, in connection with such character, from the fact that the world is severe in its judgment of those, whose affliction is not worn as a garment or an altered visage, but whose whole aspect and demeanor, even their occupations and apparent enjoyment of life, are nearly the same as at other times. At the time of her writing the words which we last quoted, Mrs. Ware had just exerted herself to collect in her own desolate home a little circle of children and youth for their social enjoyment, in which she freely mingled, and doubtless seemed cheerful and happy. And yet she said of it soon after, that at no moment since her trial had she felt so intensely or suffered morepoignantly. "Every word was an Herculean labor; and I was conscious that all were disturbed by it. For once, I must say,I could not help it. And shall I tell you all my wickedness? I have in vain tried to look at life with sufficient interest to care about living. It has seemed to me that my children would be as well without me, as they could be under my imperfect guidance. I could not excite in myself any of that zest in the pursuit of an object which alone could satisfy the heart. I felthomesickwhen I waked up in the morning, and would fain shut my eyes and forget that there was any thing for me to do."

How much shedid, particularly in regard to that which we see was most upon her heart, the care and culture of her children's minds, will appear in larger extracts which we make from letters of this and the previous year, brought together as referring to the same great subject of education and domestic discipline,—the first having been written to her husband, the others to her children.

"My dear Henry: ... When I am left to the sole care of my family, there is nothing that exercises my mind more than the right performance of family worship. It seems to me that it ought to be more peculiarly adapted to the capacities of children than we are apt to make it. For the older and well-educated part of a family, other means of instruction and communion with God are open and acceptable every day; but the children and domestics must of necessity depend upon this exercise for nearly all the religious influences of the day. The simplicityof diction which would fix the attention of even little children, would not be too plain for the generality of domestics; and we all feel that the most simple is often the most sublime and affecting expression in relation to the soul's connection with its Creator. I think, therefore, that the main object should be to excite in the minds of those present some clear ideas, which will be likely to stay in their minds through the day, and work there to some definite result; and that the choice of subjects should grow as far as possible out of the peculiar circumstances of the family,—not merely the general, but particular circumstances. For instance, if they are about separating, to dwell upon the use to be made of such an event, reminding us offinalseparation and the tenderness which should grow out of that thought towards all that are left. Is one child peculiarly out of humor? It will do no harm to any to be reminded of the importance of governing our passions; and, if done in the right way, subdue the rebellious spirit more than any arguments. So, too, with regard to reading the Scriptures; it seems to me the time is all but lost if a familiarity of the words only is gained, and that the book should never be closed without having the attention fixed upon some one at least of the useful passages read, either in the way of explanation or application to duty.... I have not time now to put into shape half that is in my mind, but I really feel that we do not do justice to our children in not acting more directly upon their religious characters every day. In many instances, I believe a wayward spirit might be checked byhaving a useful current of thought opened for it, which would take off the mind from the subject of irritation."

"Dear E——: ... Looking at affairs at home from a distance, I see many points in which we need improvement, and I want to talk and read more with you upon the subject of education."When we look back, and see and feel how much the circumstances by which we were surrounded, and the treatment of those about us, affected our views, we must bring it home to ourselves that whatweare now doing is having the same influence upon them. God has set us apart in families to mark out for us a specific line of duty; and however we may wish that our path had been different, or our duties less arduous, as they are of His appointment, we have reason to believe they are the best for us. The longer I live, the more I realize the value of love, affectionate interest; and I think that many things, which we are apt to consider of moment at the time, ought to give way whenever they interfere with the cultivation of the affections in children. Disagreeable manners, childish though annoying ways, may be remedied in after-life, and are, after all, matters of very secondary importance in comparison with the growth of love, which is often sacrificed to them. To children the perpetual irritation of a check in trifles keeps the temper in a turmoil, and, by their standard, makes small things as important as great ones. Fault-finding is blame to them, be the subject what it may, and they will have an association of jarring and displeasure with those who keep it up,let the cause be ever so small, as lasting as if it were larger. We need change in this thing; we want a more cheerful atmosphere, a more affectionate, interested one, in which the affections may grow, and have room to expand. I do believe in Mrs. ——'s doctrine to a great extent, thatvirtuethrives best in an atmosphere of love. We should gain our object better, if, instead of finding fault with an action, we set ourselves to produce a better state of feeling, without noticing the action. Children imitate the manners of their elders, more especially of their elder brothers and sisters; for of course they feel that they are similarly situated, not always making the distinction of age which is expected of them. And I have always observed that the younger members of a household take their tone from the character and ways of the first in their rank, more than from their parents. I could name many instances of this which have come under your notice, as well as mine, and it does, as you say, make the responsibility of an older sister great. But do not feel that it is too great; be contented with doing all that you can, and not discouraged because you cannot satisfy your own conceptions. It is best for us, it is said, to aim at perfection; even if it is not to be attained, it keeps up our efforts for something higher and higher."

"Dear E——: ... Looking at affairs at home from a distance, I see many points in which we need improvement, and I want to talk and read more with you upon the subject of education.

"When we look back, and see and feel how much the circumstances by which we were surrounded, and the treatment of those about us, affected our views, we must bring it home to ourselves that whatweare now doing is having the same influence upon them. God has set us apart in families to mark out for us a specific line of duty; and however we may wish that our path had been different, or our duties less arduous, as they are of His appointment, we have reason to believe they are the best for us. The longer I live, the more I realize the value of love, affectionate interest; and I think that many things, which we are apt to consider of moment at the time, ought to give way whenever they interfere with the cultivation of the affections in children. Disagreeable manners, childish though annoying ways, may be remedied in after-life, and are, after all, matters of very secondary importance in comparison with the growth of love, which is often sacrificed to them. To children the perpetual irritation of a check in trifles keeps the temper in a turmoil, and, by their standard, makes small things as important as great ones. Fault-finding is blame to them, be the subject what it may, and they will have an association of jarring and displeasure with those who keep it up,let the cause be ever so small, as lasting as if it were larger. We need change in this thing; we want a more cheerful atmosphere, a more affectionate, interested one, in which the affections may grow, and have room to expand. I do believe in Mrs. ——'s doctrine to a great extent, thatvirtuethrives best in an atmosphere of love. We should gain our object better, if, instead of finding fault with an action, we set ourselves to produce a better state of feeling, without noticing the action. Children imitate the manners of their elders, more especially of their elder brothers and sisters; for of course they feel that they are similarly situated, not always making the distinction of age which is expected of them. And I have always observed that the younger members of a household take their tone from the character and ways of the first in their rank, more than from their parents. I could name many instances of this which have come under your notice, as well as mine, and it does, as you say, make the responsibility of an older sister great. But do not feel that it is too great; be contented with doing all that you can, and not discouraged because you cannot satisfy your own conceptions. It is best for us, it is said, to aim at perfection; even if it is not to be attained, it keeps up our efforts for something higher and higher."

"My dear E——: ... The old saying, that 'children will be children,' might be improved by the substitution of 'should' for 'will.' I mean in the sense, that their natural characters, which are as different as their faces,oughtto be educated gradually; not requiring of one child any thing because anotherchild does it, to whom the thing may be perfectly easy, or more than we can in justice require of them at their age, in consideration of their peculiar circumstances. We are to judge and discipline a child simply in reference to its own individual character and circumstances, and deal with it with the single view to the improvement of its individual character, rather than to our own comfort or even its external improvement. Now, of course, the application of this principle, in detail, involves a great deal of thought, observation, and self-denial; but if we really desire to do good, and this opportunity of doing it is in our path, can we engage in a work of more extensive good, when we consider how these children's characters are to influence a still larger circle, and how great is our responsibility to future generations as well as the present, that we do all we can to prepare the way for their best instruction?... But to come down to our own case. We all take too much notice of meredisagreeables. The evil of doing this is obvious; if the child is dealt with in the same way for making a noise, or for carelessness, that it is for a moral delinquency, it soon learns to confound moral distinctions; and if it is fretted by being perpetually talked to about small things, it is easily worked up to a state of irritation which leads almost insensibly, and certainly without any design, to the commission of some moral misdemeanor. I think we may often see this with all children, and it is very clear, in such a case, that their sin is as much our fault as theirs. We should watch our own state very carefully, and see how farour desire to cheek them grows out of our own peculiar state at the time, and how far that influences our view of the offence. We all know that what at some times we feel to be a great annoyance, is of no consequence to us at others; and for the same reason, in a different physical state, it is sometimes easier for them to control themselves than at others."

"Dear E——: ... I think it is good for young people to have some variety in life. I suffered much from the want of it; and I trust that you have too much good sense and right feeling to be unreasonable in your wishes, or in any measure unfitted for the duties and enjoyments of home by the indulgence. I know it has formerly been a great trial of your patience to pass from the irresponsible position of a visitor, to the occupations and responsibilities of home. But I trust, as you grow older and look at life more and more with a clear appreciation of its use and end, you will take more and more delight in the consciousness of living for some useful object; and, despite unpleasant accompaniments, find, in using all your powers for the good of others, a pleasure beyond any to be derived from a mere indulgence of taste. We cannot, and we had certainly better not, if we could, choose our own lot in life; we know not in that matter what is best for us. It is happily under the guidance of a more perfect wisdom than we can attain, and we may rest in faith that our position in life is unquestionably the best one for us, or it would not have been appointed. Therefore, dear E., remember that He who appointed all 'knows what is in man,' and in wisdom and love adapts ourtrials to our wants; and the very fact that such and such things are particularly hard to bear, is a proof that we need to cultivate just those virtues which would make it easy to us to bear them."

"Most people think it as well that the young should 'fight their own battles,' as they term it, and find their own way out of their childish troubles. But I believe many a character is seriously injured by the want ofaidin its petty difficulties, at that period when the right principles of action are most easily taught; they are as necessary to the right adjustment of small matters as of great.... I do not think as much as I once did of the loss of constant intercourse in the daily routine of life, in cultivating family affection. I believe family attachments are sometimes increased by occasional separation. But I do think a great deal of the loss, to a girl, of all domestic education, for the whole of that period when domestic occupations can best be learned. Of all objects in life there is none more distasteful to me than amerelyliterary woman; no amount of learning is a fair balance, in my mind, for the feminine graces of a true woman's character. It is not merely that she looks better, clean and tidy, or that a careful use of the needle is a preventive of waste in the use of means,—although these are considerations worth weighing. But there are internal graces connected with these external habits; and there is no higher object for a woman's life than the cultivation of those powers which make the comfort of a well-ordered household."[5]

"December 31, 1843.The last day of this most eventful year! Dear Annie, how many precious, solemn thoughts does the very writing its date suggest! In all the future years of our lives, be they many or few, no one, it now seems, can bring to us so great, so affecting a change in outward things, as this year which is just passing away. It is not only that the outward circumstances of our lives are to take a new course, because he has left us who was to us the leading and controlling spirit in all that pertained to our life in this world, but that we shall no longer feel the perpetual action of his character in the daily detail of the education of our souls...."Your expressions of discouragement and anxiety about yourself touch me very much. I can enter fully into all your feelings, for at your age I was not only separated from the loved circle and influences of home, for a time, but I lost for ever my chief earthly dependence for aid and happiness in my mother's death. Thus, being left to myself, I was led to a self-inspection and care of my own character, which do not usually come for many years after. I know all the trials that beset one's path at your age, for I have had deep experience of them; and I can say with confidence to you, that they may all be overcome by a resolute will, united to a true spirit ofhumility. Not, perhaps, in one year or two; but I do know that, by the persevering use of the means which God has placed within our reach, in reliance upon and earnest seeking of the aid which he willgive, we shall make progress in the Christian life, the only life which can give us any satisfaction.... Seek thetruthin your own character, and see it in others. Fix for yourself a high standard of excellence, and never 'tire nor stop to rest,' until you have put yourself in the way to attain it. Stop not then; there is no stopping in this world (or in another, I believe).... Look your great difficulties full in the face; seek not to gloss them over, or find excuses for them. You have them as the means of excellence, by giving you something to do, a mode of applying Christian principle. Use them as such, and faint not...."One thing I would suggest. You have been in the habit from earliest childhood, and I trust are still, of praying before you close your eyes to sleep. I am not sure that you have always done the same when you first awake in the morning. I know that much good may be derived from thus commencing the day with some private devotional exercise. The time given to it must of course depend upon circumstances; yet there cannot but be, under any arrangement, opportunity for at least the offering of a petition for light and strength, to meet the duties and temptations of the day on which you are entering, and a thought and resolution in regard to some particular fault to which you know you may be prone. I cannot but believe, that, when the day is so commenced, there is less danger of yielding to temptation than if no such act were performed."

"Your expressions of discouragement and anxiety about yourself touch me very much. I can enter fully into all your feelings, for at your age I was not only separated from the loved circle and influences of home, for a time, but I lost for ever my chief earthly dependence for aid and happiness in my mother's death. Thus, being left to myself, I was led to a self-inspection and care of my own character, which do not usually come for many years after. I know all the trials that beset one's path at your age, for I have had deep experience of them; and I can say with confidence to you, that they may all be overcome by a resolute will, united to a true spirit ofhumility. Not, perhaps, in one year or two; but I do know that, by the persevering use of the means which God has placed within our reach, in reliance upon and earnest seeking of the aid which he willgive, we shall make progress in the Christian life, the only life which can give us any satisfaction.... Seek thetruthin your own character, and see it in others. Fix for yourself a high standard of excellence, and never 'tire nor stop to rest,' until you have put yourself in the way to attain it. Stop not then; there is no stopping in this world (or in another, I believe).... Look your great difficulties full in the face; seek not to gloss them over, or find excuses for them. You have them as the means of excellence, by giving you something to do, a mode of applying Christian principle. Use them as such, and faint not....

"One thing I would suggest. You have been in the habit from earliest childhood, and I trust are still, of praying before you close your eyes to sleep. I am not sure that you have always done the same when you first awake in the morning. I know that much good may be derived from thus commencing the day with some private devotional exercise. The time given to it must of course depend upon circumstances; yet there cannot but be, under any arrangement, opportunity for at least the offering of a petition for light and strength, to meet the duties and temptations of the day on which you are entering, and a thought and resolution in regard to some particular fault to which you know you may be prone. I cannot but believe, that, when the day is so commenced, there is less danger of yielding to temptation than if no such act were performed."

One is perplexed to understand how Mrs. Ware, who neglected no duty, found time to write so much;for the letters here published are a small part of all she wrote, and scarcely any do we publish entire. The explanation is, that they were written after every thing else was done, at night, and very late in the night. It shows the strength of her frame, that she could follow this habit through life, till near the end. We suppose it to have been very rare that she was not up and at work beyond midnight. So was it particularly during the winter after Mr. Ware's death; when her great solace and chief occupation were found in reading and arranging the immense mass of his manuscripts and unfinished works. She says in December: "The sense of the uncertainty of life, which is always awakened by the circumstance of death, made me anxious to do a great deal with respect to Mr. Ware's papers, which no one could do as well as I; the day was too full of movement to allow an opportunity of doing this before evening, and I found myself night after night poring over manuscripts until twelve, one, and two o'clock, for weeks together." This is not mentioned as an example to be followed; nor is there reason to think that it is ever done with entire impunity. But the work to which she thus gave herself, through that lone winter, was one of pure and high gratification. "It was a touching employment, not melancholy. This living life over again, when all its sands have been 'diamond-sparks,' not dazzling, but reflecting the bright hues of heaven, cannot be melancholy; it is but a type of future blessedness."

But not for her own pleasure alone was this done. She had yielded to the earnest desire of all thefriends of her husband, that a Memoir should be written, and many of his letters and private papers given to the public. Not, however, without long deliberation and great reluctance did she give her consent; for, as we have said in the beginning of this work, it cost a hard struggle, and even "agony," to open to the public eye that "sacred inner life" which seemed her own, and only hers. But here, as everywhere, she soon conquered all selfish feeling, and, taking the largest view of usefulness and duty, afforded every facility for a faithful exhibition of such a character. To her son she says: "I know that, if the picture of what he was is to be a true one, it must have all those beautiful lights and shadows thrown into it which come from the light of the soul; and I hope to be able so to lay aside all personal consideration, as to do what ought to be done in this regard to make the work asusefulas it can be. I trust you will feel so too. In our horror of gossip, do not let us go to the other extreme, and be too external and cold." In all such relations, it was a great part of her principle and power of action, that she had entire faith in her husband's knowledge of her motives; with the added conviction, that, whatever had been his thoughts and wishes under the burden of the flesh and of disease, he was now looking only at the highest and broadest aspect, the spiritual and eternal issues of every act. Her communion with his mind seems to have been as habitual and actual as it is possible to conceive. Again and again does she refer to it, and expresses regret and pain when a doubt is raised, or a checkgiven to the full, cordial assurance of the "fellowship of the spirit." And her enjoyment of this thought was never troubled, but rather enhanced, by the thought ofanother, with whom the sharer of her affections and her existence was now reunited in heaven. Distinctly does she refer to it, in writing to one of the children of those parents who were now restored to each other. "I never experienced the sense of continued union as fully as now. It may be visionary, but I know it is beneficial. Your mother and your father are as much really present with me, to my consciousness, as if Scripture had told me so, it seems to me. In his case, it is but a continuation of perfect oneness; in hers, it has always been the sense of accountableness, which has aided it."

We attempt no concealment of our wish to exhibit fully this rare and beautiful feature of a Christian's faith and love,—less rare, we would fain believe, in the reality of its existence, than in the courage that avows it. We value it, not only for its own sake, in a connection where it is needed and may be the source of peculiar happiness, but also for the evidence it affords of the power and glory of our religion. We find a letter written on the first anniversary, after Henry Ware's death, ofherdecease who had been the object of his earliest attachment, and whom every later change, in life and death, endeared the more. The letter was written to a child of that departed mother.

"Framingham, February 5, 1844."My dear John:—"I always feel, when I get your letters, as if I wanted tosit down and write to you at once, so much have I in my mind that I wish to communicate to you, and so much do I enjoy free communication with you. You may thank your stars that I do not give way to my inclination, for you would have more prosing than you would care to read. I am tempted now to depart from my usual custom of writing only once a fortnight, because I feel so much the want of some one with whom to commune upon the subject which cannot but occupy my mind upon this day. It is the first time for seventeen years that I have not had a delightful conversation with your dear father upon the event of which it is the anniversary. I loved to hear him tell me of your mother, for it helped to strengthen the feeling which I have loved to cherish, the sense of responsibility to her in my connection with her children. And her character was so fine a one, and her early experiences so much like my own, that I always felt that I gained wisdom as well as pleasure in contemplating it...."I have often wished I could convey to your mind, without the intervention of words, what I felt to be the tenderness of the relation in which I stood to you; for my views and feelings have always been so different from what I find to be general, that it was not to be expected that you should understand them without such communication. From the very commencement of my connection with your father, I have realized the truth of my long-cherished theory, that the strength of one affection does not interfere in the least with the strength of another; we love not one brother or sister or child the lessbecausewe have another to love; if there is any difference in the degree, it arises from other causes than number; and I know not why it should not be the same in all relations, where the soul is large enough to take so wide a range. I would thank God for this special blessing in addition, I might almost sayabove all others, for without it all others would have had a bitter ingredient. It has been one of the purest sources of happiness, that we could dwell together upon the memory of her who had gone, and feel an equal anxiety and interest in fulfilling her wishes towardsherandourchildren."With the love of your Mother."

"Framingham, February 5, 1844.

"My dear John:—

"I always feel, when I get your letters, as if I wanted tosit down and write to you at once, so much have I in my mind that I wish to communicate to you, and so much do I enjoy free communication with you. You may thank your stars that I do not give way to my inclination, for you would have more prosing than you would care to read. I am tempted now to depart from my usual custom of writing only once a fortnight, because I feel so much the want of some one with whom to commune upon the subject which cannot but occupy my mind upon this day. It is the first time for seventeen years that I have not had a delightful conversation with your dear father upon the event of which it is the anniversary. I loved to hear him tell me of your mother, for it helped to strengthen the feeling which I have loved to cherish, the sense of responsibility to her in my connection with her children. And her character was so fine a one, and her early experiences so much like my own, that I always felt that I gained wisdom as well as pleasure in contemplating it....

"I have often wished I could convey to your mind, without the intervention of words, what I felt to be the tenderness of the relation in which I stood to you; for my views and feelings have always been so different from what I find to be general, that it was not to be expected that you should understand them without such communication. From the very commencement of my connection with your father, I have realized the truth of my long-cherished theory, that the strength of one affection does not interfere in the least with the strength of another; we love not one brother or sister or child the lessbecausewe have another to love; if there is any difference in the degree, it arises from other causes than number; and I know not why it should not be the same in all relations, where the soul is large enough to take so wide a range. I would thank God for this special blessing in addition, I might almost sayabove all others, for without it all others would have had a bitter ingredient. It has been one of the purest sources of happiness, that we could dwell together upon the memory of her who had gone, and feel an equal anxiety and interest in fulfilling her wishes towardsherandourchildren.

"With the love of your Mother."

One other letter we give from Framingham, addressed to the same son, in relation to the first experiences and discouragements of the ministry. Its plain good sense may be of use to some other beginners,—confirmed as it is by the fact disclosed in it, that some of the strongest minds and most successful ministers have suffered in the same way.

"Framingham, March 15, 1844."My dear John:—"... I turn now to that for which I most wished to write,—your present anxieties in your professional duties. I cannot indeed, as you say, help you, ashecould have done, but O how fully can I sympathize with you! It is to my mind only the reiteration of what I have so often heard from him; even after the ten years' experience which he had had when I first was partaker of his joys and sorrows, he suffered at times as you do now; and the details he has given me of his trials when he was first settled would equal, if not exceed, yours. You may depend upon it, dear John, yours is a common experience of all young ministers who have feeling and sensibility enough to be really good ministers; and you must not be discouraged by thinking your difficulties grow out of peculiar disabilities. I remember hearing a parishioner of Mr. Buckminster say, that he felt so much his incapacity to administer comfort to the sick and afflicted, that it was distressing to see him ina sick-room. I wish you could talk freely with some ministers about it. I have no doubt you would find it more or less so with all, according to their natural temperament. As I have said again and again, it is well to keep one's conscience and sensibilities tender; it is well to realize one's deficiencies to the extent of making us humble and energetic to improve, but not to make us despond or be discouraged; for; 'faint heart never won' the prize of goodness, any more than of the less spiritual objects. I know what it is to feel that more is expected of one thancanbe accomplished; and it is, I grant, of all things the most distressing. But we must shut our eyes to all such considerations, and go on, looking only to the standard we have in our own minds, striving with all diligence to reach that, and be satisfied with striving, if it be but real, hearty endeavor.... I remember there were some passages in Taylor's 'Holy Living,' which used to be a great help to me in your state of mind. I have not the book by me, and cannot quote the words. Fenelon, too, has much comfort for one thus tried.... We forget, in our familiarity with what seem 'commonplaces,' that they really contain the great, fundamental principles from which all strength, all consolation, is to be derived; and of course, when the vision is quickened by present need, they all seem to be worth more than at any other time. And as to the other point, it is not you that speak,—you are only the medium by which the truths whichGodspake are conveyed to the outward ear; you are only His instrument, and, while you are to seek to supply yourself with a full portion from the fountain of all truth, you are to be satisfied to present it as His, not your own; sympathizing as a fellow-Christian, not dictating as a leader and guide. I see no other way in which a young, inexperienced minister can have any comfort in that department of his duties. Many reasons cometo me which may account for the greater difficulty in cases of sickness, than in bereavement."Truly your Mother."

"Framingham, March 15, 1844.

"My dear John:—

"... I turn now to that for which I most wished to write,—your present anxieties in your professional duties. I cannot indeed, as you say, help you, ashecould have done, but O how fully can I sympathize with you! It is to my mind only the reiteration of what I have so often heard from him; even after the ten years' experience which he had had when I first was partaker of his joys and sorrows, he suffered at times as you do now; and the details he has given me of his trials when he was first settled would equal, if not exceed, yours. You may depend upon it, dear John, yours is a common experience of all young ministers who have feeling and sensibility enough to be really good ministers; and you must not be discouraged by thinking your difficulties grow out of peculiar disabilities. I remember hearing a parishioner of Mr. Buckminster say, that he felt so much his incapacity to administer comfort to the sick and afflicted, that it was distressing to see him ina sick-room. I wish you could talk freely with some ministers about it. I have no doubt you would find it more or less so with all, according to their natural temperament. As I have said again and again, it is well to keep one's conscience and sensibilities tender; it is well to realize one's deficiencies to the extent of making us humble and energetic to improve, but not to make us despond or be discouraged; for; 'faint heart never won' the prize of goodness, any more than of the less spiritual objects. I know what it is to feel that more is expected of one thancanbe accomplished; and it is, I grant, of all things the most distressing. But we must shut our eyes to all such considerations, and go on, looking only to the standard we have in our own minds, striving with all diligence to reach that, and be satisfied with striving, if it be but real, hearty endeavor.... I remember there were some passages in Taylor's 'Holy Living,' which used to be a great help to me in your state of mind. I have not the book by me, and cannot quote the words. Fenelon, too, has much comfort for one thus tried.... We forget, in our familiarity with what seem 'commonplaces,' that they really contain the great, fundamental principles from which all strength, all consolation, is to be derived; and of course, when the vision is quickened by present need, they all seem to be worth more than at any other time. And as to the other point, it is not you that speak,—you are only the medium by which the truths whichGodspake are conveyed to the outward ear; you are only His instrument, and, while you are to seek to supply yourself with a full portion from the fountain of all truth, you are to be satisfied to present it as His, not your own; sympathizing as a fellow-Christian, not dictating as a leader and guide. I see no other way in which a young, inexperienced minister can have any comfort in that department of his duties. Many reasons cometo me which may account for the greater difficulty in cases of sickness, than in bereavement.

"Truly your Mother."

While looking for a place of permanent residence for herself and family, with an opportunity of doing something for their support, Mrs. Ware received an earnest invitation from a gentleman in Milton, to go there and take the instruction of three little children, in connection with her own, for two or three hours a day. On many accounts, she was inclined to accept this offer at once. But she looked well at all sides of it, and especially at its moral aspect and probable influence upon character. One is struck with her plain and practical, yet comprehensive and exalted view of the question, where so many would have looked only at the immediate and tangible advantage. "There are many things to be weighed before so great a step is taken. Expense is of course a great item, but not the greatest. The influences upon my children must be the first, usefulness the second, and the possibility of living without debt asine qua nonanywhere. Now I am not a very romantic person, and am not disposed to live under any less refining influences than I can help. But my children are destined to work for their living, and I wish to have them as happy in doing so as right principles and a healthy tone of mind can make them." The result of full reflection was favorable to the plan; and the wisdom of her decision, while it affected all her remaining days, became more and more manifest to the end. From that moment shehad a new object, demanding and creating new energies. "I already see how I shall be a great gainer by this plan, in the strength of the stimulus it will offer to mental effort. In fact, I begin to realize that I am more exhausted mentally than I am physically, by the anxieties of the past, and absolutely need the application of salutary mental medicines, as my body would of physical, if it had suffered in proportion."

Thus another change was to be made,—and the last, in a life of change. It cost an effort. "This first going forth alone, to bear new responsibilities, to make a new experiment, unaided byhisstrength, unassisted by his wisdom,—this is indeed to realize the loss of his companionship as I have not done before. But that blessed faith! that faith in Him who is 'the strength of the lonely,'—I have a trust that it will be sufficient for me, although I cannot now see how."

A few lines to one of her children, as the last record on that sacred spot, closes the life at Framingham.

"March 26, 1844.I think you will like to have a few words written from this room, consecrated as it is to us, by having been the last earthly home of dear father's spirit. This is the last time I shall sit in this spot; and I feel as if all the memories of the past were concentrated in this moment of time. How much do they tell of the peaceful and holy life which was here closed; how much recall of that triumphant struggle with the weakness of humanity! Dear child, may we never lose the influence of thoselast days passed in this place; may it strengthen, encourage, quicken us to all diligence in our Christian warfare; knowing that, if we strive as he did, we too may enter into that rest which we doubt not he has attained.This is a holy hour,—this leaving the things that are behind, and stepping forward into a new, untried scene of life's discipline,—alone,—and yet not alone, for the Father is with me."

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

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

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

"Milton, June 11, 1844."Dear N——:"You have no doubt expected long ago to hear from me. You had a right to do so, and must have wondered at my silence, as I could not but know how much you mustwish to hear of our new life. But I have purposely forborne to write; I could not have addressed myself to you, without uttering all that was passing in my mind and heart; and so perfectly chaotic has been the state of my feelings, that I was sure it was best to wait until time and experience had arranged and quieted them, before I trusted myself to the slightest expression. It was as if the fountains of the great deep of my soul were broken up, and the waters were overwhelming every power and faculty. I thought I had anticipated the whole amount of suffering which my isolation was to bring to me, and vainly imagined that I was prepared to meet it with a firm mind; but nothing but experience can picture the agonizing sense of desolation, which entering upon a new life, unaided by the sympathy that has been so long the light of life, brings to me. Nothing in life can come near it, unless it be the homesickness of a little child, when for the first time it finds itself in new scenes without its mother's presence. At Framingham I was but living out the plan of life which we had formed together; the sense of association was not for a moment lost, and it was comparatively easy to realize the continued presence of the spirit. But on leaving that home, I seemed for the first time to be cast upon the world alone, and every moment's experience in Boston and elsewhere only increased this feeling, until it reached its height in the necessity of forming here a new plan of existence, under circumstances of great responsibility,—alone. I used to think I felt all of loneliness that could be felt, in that little chamber in Pearl Street, and that humble cottage in Osmotherly; but that was nothing to this. I had then never known what perfect sympathy was; I could not understand as I now do its loss. I have been a puzzle to myself; but I still am sure that I would not change, one iota, the decree of Heaven...."We came hither the last week in April, and find everything pleasant, and every body kind. As far as I can yet see, I think I anticipated very truly the pros and cons of the case, not excepting my own incapacity for the employment. One would laugh at the idea of a woman of forty-five doubting her capacity to teach children their letters; but the intellectual is the least part of the concern to my view, and I still think I have no tact for the education of children. The little I can do for my own is through the connection which nature has established, not a power of my own acquisition. I have determined to try the experiment for a year, and the result only can decide the question of the expediency of pursuing it another year. I must consider the good of my own children first, of course.... My time is entirely filled, from early rising to very late sitting. The only time I can take for writing is at night when all are in bed, and I ought to be; for the constant bustle of children wearies my head much."Yours, as ever, lovingly."M.L.W."

"Milton, June 11, 1844.

"Dear N——:

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

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

"Yours, as ever, lovingly."M.L.W."

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

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

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

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

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

"October 18, 1844.... I have determined, as a fixed principle, not to go beyond my income, for anything short of necessity, and it is a delicate question to settle what necessity is. I choose to take it for granted that there never can be a question in any of our minds, that taste is to be held in subjection to principle, and I am not only willing, but desirous, to indulge taste,within that limitation, to the utmost bounds of my ability. I think a refined taste has an indirect, but certain influence upon morals; and I never can believe that one of my children will ever for an instant be pained at any restraint put upon them by a necessity which God has ordained."I have great sympathy with the struggles of young people in this matter. I well remember how often I had to school myself (for you know that many of my associates in early life were of the wealthy classes), when I saw my companions gratifying every wish for amusement, instruction, and dress, while I could only just keep decent enough not to shock them, and had to give up all my longings for expensive amusements and accomplishments. But I had this great advantage, by mixing familiarly with the rich,—I soon discovered that neither goodness nor happiness were dependent upon these adventitious circumstances, and I was so fortunate in the characters of those whom I thus dealt with, as to be made to feel very early in life that my own position among them was not in the least degree affected by externals. I soon began to look upon my oft-turned dress with something like pride, certainly with great complacency; and to see in that, and all other marks of my mother's prudence and consistency, only so many proofs of her dignity and self-respect,—the dignityand self-respect which grew out of her just estimate of the true and the right in herself and in the world. I can distinctly remember coming to this conclusion upon the occasion of wearing an old-fashioned, stiff, purple silk dress, with a narrow plaited tucker in it, to a party at Colonel P——'s, about the year 1808; I have never had any trouble on that score since. I did shed some tears, when I found I must give up my long-cherished hope of learning music, some years after, but they were 'natural tears,' and 'wiped soon.'"But I have become garrulous, talking about my youth (as old people are apt to), and have wandered from the case in hand."

"I have great sympathy with the struggles of young people in this matter. I well remember how often I had to school myself (for you know that many of my associates in early life were of the wealthy classes), when I saw my companions gratifying every wish for amusement, instruction, and dress, while I could only just keep decent enough not to shock them, and had to give up all my longings for expensive amusements and accomplishments. But I had this great advantage, by mixing familiarly with the rich,—I soon discovered that neither goodness nor happiness were dependent upon these adventitious circumstances, and I was so fortunate in the characters of those whom I thus dealt with, as to be made to feel very early in life that my own position among them was not in the least degree affected by externals. I soon began to look upon my oft-turned dress with something like pride, certainly with great complacency; and to see in that, and all other marks of my mother's prudence and consistency, only so many proofs of her dignity and self-respect,—the dignityand self-respect which grew out of her just estimate of the true and the right in herself and in the world. I can distinctly remember coming to this conclusion upon the occasion of wearing an old-fashioned, stiff, purple silk dress, with a narrow plaited tucker in it, to a party at Colonel P——'s, about the year 1808; I have never had any trouble on that score since. I did shed some tears, when I found I must give up my long-cherished hope of learning music, some years after, but they were 'natural tears,' and 'wiped soon.'

"But I have become garrulous, talking about my youth (as old people are apt to), and have wandered from the case in hand."

"November 8, 1844.I feel that I must have some free communication with you, for my heart is full to overflowing. That I can understand all your internal trials, I have often assured you; and, strange as it may seem to you, it is fromexperiencethat I am enabled to enter into them. In the solitude of my early days, the consciousness of unworthiness preyed upon my spirit, until I persuaded myself that every body despised me, that I was nothing to any one, that nobody could care for me for my own sake. Many and many a night have I lain and thought of this, and looked at life through this medium, until I wished that I had never lived, and in my agony have cried myself into perfect hysterics. Even my mother's love failed to satisfy me, for I thought it was only an involuntary feeling for an only child, not depending upon or growing out of my own deserts. O, how many precious hours of life haveI thrown away in uselessness to others, and in misery for myself, by this morbid sensibility! Would that I could recall them! Would that my example might ward off from you like regrets! I had suffered many years from this cause before I discovered the true source of my trial, or caught a glimpse of its remedy. And when at last it flashed upon me, that it was the want of true Christian humility, not the real conviction of inferiority, which led to all this, I could not at once credit my own consciousness; and many and severe were the mental exercises by which I was led at last to understand andfeelthe truth. I believe this to have been a constitutional tendency; and however much the demon may have been brought under subjection, there have been times all along life, that it has so striven for the mastery, that I have feared it might conquer. But knowing one's danger is more than half the security against it, and I have gained in happiness more than a compensation for the warfare."... When we find ourselves disturbed in spirit, we very naturally refer to the exciting cause as an excuse for it; and however we may blame ourselves, we still feel that those whose wrong-doing irritates us are really the most to blame. But we must get away from this view of things, if we ever hope to improve ourselves. As long as we live in the world, we are to live with those who do wrong. We can never be perfect, nor can we find others who are; and our care should be, to learn so to control ourselves, that not only shall we cease to be tempted to do wrong by their wrong-doing, but also cease totempt them by our own. And who can doubt that the best hope of improving them is by showing them the advantage of self-control?"

"... When we find ourselves disturbed in spirit, we very naturally refer to the exciting cause as an excuse for it; and however we may blame ourselves, we still feel that those whose wrong-doing irritates us are really the most to blame. But we must get away from this view of things, if we ever hope to improve ourselves. As long as we live in the world, we are to live with those who do wrong. We can never be perfect, nor can we find others who are; and our care should be, to learn so to control ourselves, that not only shall we cease to be tempted to do wrong by their wrong-doing, but also cease totempt them by our own. And who can doubt that the best hope of improving them is by showing them the advantage of self-control?"

"December 12, 1844.I feel that you have begun the great work of self-education with a resolute will and I pray God to give you strength to pursue it without faltering. I do not expect, and you must not expect, that all can be done at a stroke. A whole life is too little for the attainment of all we desire; but having fairly set ourselves at work, let us go on hopefully, cheerfully, laboring diligently, 'knowing that we shall reap, if we faint not'; and remembering that, as we ascend, the prospect widens before us. And although we may be tempted to be discouraged, as we see more and more to be done, we are to look back upon the path we have trodden, and measure the steps we have taken, and find comfort and encouragement in the past, for the future. Go on, in the fear andloveof God, in the path which he has marked out, the path of right principle,—and fear not,—all will be well."

"January 1, 1845.... I can scarcely realize that the year has come to an end, so little have I marked the progress of time during its passage; and yet it has witnessed a great change outwardly. But how little does mere outward circumstance affect the life within,—how do we carryourselveswith us everywhere! Does not this fact of experience help us to anticipate something of future retribution? The past year has been to me one of such constant, tremendous struggle, that in looking back upon it I seem to see nothing but the heaving of the wavesupon which my spirit had been tost. And yet I cannot lose sight of the many bright spots, the many and great blessings with which my life has been cheered. How should we praise and thank God that our circle has not again been broken,—that we are blessed with such kind friends, and the means of improvement and usefulness! As I look forward into the uncertain future, I sometimes feel as if I longed to know how it will be with us at this hour next year; but a glance at the possible picture makes me ready to exclaim, 'O blindness to the future, kindly given!' I feel as if some great change may come, but I can leave the whole to Him who will direct it right...."How fully do I respond to the feeling you express of desire to see dear father once more. Sometimes,—I know not how,—for an instant an oblivion of the past comes over me, and the feeling of his temporary absence returns as of old when he had gone a journey, as if I could not wait, butmustsee him soon. Why is not our faith in the unseen sufficient to satisfy these longings? Why do we not realize more fully the presence of the spiritual? Let us remember his almost dying words: 'Body and spirit may be separated;spirit and spirit, never.'"

"How fully do I respond to the feeling you express of desire to see dear father once more. Sometimes,—I know not how,—for an instant an oblivion of the past comes over me, and the feeling of his temporary absence returns as of old when he had gone a journey, as if I could not wait, butmustsee him soon. Why is not our faith in the unseen sufficient to satisfy these longings? Why do we not realize more fully the presence of the spiritual? Let us remember his almost dying words: 'Body and spirit may be separated;spirit and spirit, never.'"

"June 26, 1845.... No woman can be a true woman, whatever may be her intellectual acquirements or capacity, without that womanly knowledge which will fit her for domestic life, and enable her to fill 'home,' that appointed sphere of most women's duties at some time or other, with all the comforts which alone can make it happy. I do not mean merelythe knowledge of the daily routine of outside domestic employments; but the cultivation of the domestic affections, the habits of concession and self-sacrifice, of delicate attention to the little things which go so far to make up the sum of domestic happiness, and the mechanical facility with respect to a thousand minor matters,—all of which nothing but practice in the atmosphere which calls them into exercise can possibly teach. I will not deny that I think a great deal, too, of education in 'common domestic employments,' as a means of happiness and usefulness. I hold that nothing can compensate for a wilful neglect of what may be made the means of so much comfort to others, as order, cleanliness, and a facility in administering to the human wants of our friends, which is peculiarly woman's province. Now, for this part of education, home ought to be the best place. Of course it is impossible, while attending school constantly, to find time for these other matters, and all theoretical learning upon such subjects can be of little use without practice."

Mrs. Ware had found another, new home,—a pleasant cottage built for her use by a friend after she went to Milton, and entered by her and her children toward the end of the year,—her last removal. And highly favored did she feel, both in the society around her and the local situation. No heart could be more alive to the beauties of that glorious "Milton Hill" than was hers. Its rich landscape, its gorgeous sunsets, and ever-varying hues, she enjoyed intensely, for their natural beauty, and not less, if not more, for their moral influence. The thought of herenthusiasm comes over us even now with subduing power, as we stand again at her side on those beautiful heights, to which she longed to leadallher friends, and see the emotion, if we hear not the utterance, of her glowing, admiring spirit. We catch again the earnest words with which she urged a visit there, even in the freshness of her widowed grief. "O this glorious view! I do hope the weather will be good, that you may see it in all its glory. I had no conception of the moral influence of the sublime and beautiful before. I really think one must beverywicked to be troubled about little things, within sight of such a display of the Divine love; even children feel it."

The time had come when she might be pardoned, had she been "troubled," not indeed by "little things," but by some of serious import. A hidden, insidious disease, which seldom leaves its nature long doubtful, had begun its work, and the quickened spirit caught the first whisper of monition. Even two years before, she had a sort of presentiment, if not a distinct warning, of her fate, and in a pleasant way signified it to her husband, who answered as pleasantly, and probably thought no more of it. How much she thought of it we cannot know. But as early as the summer of 1845 she prepared her mind for a painful operation; and, when relieved of the immediate necessity, wrote thus to a friend: "You may imagine the depth of my gratitude; for I could not doubt that an operation, even if successful, would disable me for a long time; and I could not look upon the fact of being taken off from myduties, without much anxiety as to how my place was to be supplied. Still I have a strong conviction that ultimately this is to end my days. But I am not troubled at the thought, otherwise than that it is a mode of decay distressing to others. But God's will be done!"

Mary Ware was not only to suffer, but todoGod's will, to the end. And for four years longer we may follow her, and see her so busy and so cheerful, that we might think her unaware of danger,—except that we cannot fail to perceive in her letters how clear was her consciousness of all that was impending. But very few knew it. The work of life went on as usual. Her small school in the house occupied much of her time, and interested rather than satisfied her. She does not appear to have ever felt that she accomplished much in the way of teaching. She entered upon the task distrustingly. "I begin my little school to-morrow, and I doubt if any girl of sixteen, making her first essay at school-keeping, ever felt more dread of the thing. I am ashamed and almost amused at my own cowardice. The difficulty is, I have a great idea about a small thing, and cannot feel fully that it is 'little by little the bird builds his nest.'" There may have been another difficulty,—that children so young exercised only her patience, and could not call into action the higher powers, nor make her forget herself as she always wished to do. But there was another and absorbing work of mental and moral training in which she was constantly engaged,—that of her older children, for whom, by communion or correspondence,she was striving to do all that was possible in the time that remained to her.

About this time Mrs. Ware received from a friend, who knew her whole condition, the offer of a "home" for either of her children that she would be willing to spare, and for any period. She felt deeply the kindness of the offer, as will be seen in her reply to it,—where we also see her views of the wisdom of separating children, and giving them unequal advantages.

"Milton, December 18, 1844."My dear Friend:—"As I read over again your precious letter, I wonder if there is any pardon for one who could have delayed so long to answer it. There could not be, were it possible that such delay proceeded from indifference, or want of just appreciation of the feelings which dictated the letter. To neither of these charges can I plead guilty; and can only say in my excuse, that I have not had, since it was found safely rolled up in a bale of carpeting, the command of one hour of daylight, and that my eyes have been so troublesome that I could not use them at the only time when my mind was free to write. Thus have I been compelled to put it off; until now, on the eve of leaving home, I dare not put it off any longer, and am compelled to take the hour of midnight to tell you, as I may be able, almost without eyes, how deeply grateful I am for it. You have indeed shown yourself the true friend by your benevolent proposition; what more could a friend do for another? But delightful as is the thought that any of my children could have such a home in the heart of one I so truly love, I dare not lift a finger, or say a word, which would decide such a question. I feel my own short-sightedness so much, I believe so fullyin the circumstantial leading of Providence, that I could not venture to anticipate the future expediency of any arrangement, the advantages of which must depend upon a fitness of thingswhen the time comes, of which we now cannot know any thing. How little we can tell what a child may be at any future period,—what its tastes, or its adaptedness to any particular position in life,—and how great may be the embarrassment which might arise from any arrangement made in anticipation of results which are never to be reached!"I have always had a strong objection to giving one member of a family any great external advantages over the rest. I had rather all should stand upon the same level, as a better security for the cultivation of that family affection and sympathy which I believe to be a valuable preservative of virtue. I should much prefer that all my children should live together, if it were possible to find any one to act as a judicious head to such a community, than risk the growth of separate interests and a feeling of superiority from any outward cause. This, you will say, is impracticable, as, in the common course of events, one is likely to gain for himself a better position than another; but when a strong family affection is established by early dependence, I have no fear for after influences,—I am willing to risk them. Yet this is only an idea, and I have no hope of its accomplishment; both the means and the person would be wanting, were I taken from them now, and I should leave them to their fate with the delightful confidence that there are many instruments in God's hands ready to do for them what may be best. Bless you, for the satisfaction of knowing that it is in your heart to be one of them. I have much anxiety about my children, not from any peculiar difficulty in their original characters, but from my deep sense of incapacity to guide any child in its progressthrough life.... I want Faith, I want Hope,—O, I want a great deal which I ought to have gained, by this time, to make life bearable. And yet, when I think of the possibility of being soon taken, I can hardly say, 'I am ready.' Pray for me that it may be otherwise when the time comes."Ever yours, most truly."Mary L. Ware."

"Milton, December 18, 1844.

"My dear Friend:—

"As I read over again your precious letter, I wonder if there is any pardon for one who could have delayed so long to answer it. There could not be, were it possible that such delay proceeded from indifference, or want of just appreciation of the feelings which dictated the letter. To neither of these charges can I plead guilty; and can only say in my excuse, that I have not had, since it was found safely rolled up in a bale of carpeting, the command of one hour of daylight, and that my eyes have been so troublesome that I could not use them at the only time when my mind was free to write. Thus have I been compelled to put it off; until now, on the eve of leaving home, I dare not put it off any longer, and am compelled to take the hour of midnight to tell you, as I may be able, almost without eyes, how deeply grateful I am for it. You have indeed shown yourself the true friend by your benevolent proposition; what more could a friend do for another? But delightful as is the thought that any of my children could have such a home in the heart of one I so truly love, I dare not lift a finger, or say a word, which would decide such a question. I feel my own short-sightedness so much, I believe so fullyin the circumstantial leading of Providence, that I could not venture to anticipate the future expediency of any arrangement, the advantages of which must depend upon a fitness of thingswhen the time comes, of which we now cannot know any thing. How little we can tell what a child may be at any future period,—what its tastes, or its adaptedness to any particular position in life,—and how great may be the embarrassment which might arise from any arrangement made in anticipation of results which are never to be reached!

"I have always had a strong objection to giving one member of a family any great external advantages over the rest. I had rather all should stand upon the same level, as a better security for the cultivation of that family affection and sympathy which I believe to be a valuable preservative of virtue. I should much prefer that all my children should live together, if it were possible to find any one to act as a judicious head to such a community, than risk the growth of separate interests and a feeling of superiority from any outward cause. This, you will say, is impracticable, as, in the common course of events, one is likely to gain for himself a better position than another; but when a strong family affection is established by early dependence, I have no fear for after influences,—I am willing to risk them. Yet this is only an idea, and I have no hope of its accomplishment; both the means and the person would be wanting, were I taken from them now, and I should leave them to their fate with the delightful confidence that there are many instruments in God's hands ready to do for them what may be best. Bless you, for the satisfaction of knowing that it is in your heart to be one of them. I have much anxiety about my children, not from any peculiar difficulty in their original characters, but from my deep sense of incapacity to guide any child in its progressthrough life.... I want Faith, I want Hope,—O, I want a great deal which I ought to have gained, by this time, to make life bearable. And yet, when I think of the possibility of being soon taken, I can hardly say, 'I am ready.' Pray for me that it may be otherwise when the time comes.

"Ever yours, most truly."Mary L. Ware."

As the months advanced, Mrs. Ware was more and more occupied and active, evidently feeling that her time was short. And yet we see none of that anxiety about the future which such a conviction is apt to create, in reference either to the present world or another. As regarded another world, and her approach to it, we doubt if she ever felt the slightest dread or unwillingness to go. Not from any sense of fitness or self-sufficiency, but with the deepest humility there mingled the firmest trust; and a trust that refused to separate the exercise of justice from mercy, in God. She could trust the one as much as the other, and she could not distrust either; but, assured that a perfectly righteous and omniscient Being would do exactly that which was needful for her purification and perfection, she rested there,—and left all else. We say this of the peculiarity of her faith, if it be peculiar, from personal knowledge of her mind on this point, and from her own explicit declarations at a later day. And we refer to them at this time, to say that the same convictions sustained and tranquillized her in regard to the future of this life for those whom she was to leave behind. From the earliest moment of theexpectation or apprehension of death, a mother's mind must turn strongly and fix intently on her children. And to most mothers this is the great struggle. Who can wonder? Who will reprove, even if the struggle be bitter, and the vision dim?Hewill not, who has given a parent's affections, and likened to them his own. Many a mother, who could leave the world without a pang for herself, will suffer and fear for her children. It is only the highest faith that prevents all this suffering and fear. Such, we think, was Mary Ware's. Not in commendation do we say it,—we know not that it deserves that,—but as the simple fact, that while she was always doubtful of her power to guard and train her children in the best way, she never feared to leave them with God, in reference either to things temporal or spiritual. Even when she could see no sufficient provision for their temporal comfort, she seemed unable to believe that she was essential to that comfort, or that her life would be better for them than her death. Sheknewthat that would be best which God appointed. Does not this belong to the highest faith? No one could induce her to make any request, or express even a wish, as to future arrangements, the outward condition or fortune of any child. Many wishes, many prayers, did she offer for the inward condition and the spiritual preparation for both worlds,—but only the spiritual. "I could write a sheet," she says to a mother who was herself anxious,—"I could write a sheet upon the text your letter gives me, with regard to the preparation of our children for life. But I can only say, Why should wefeel anxious for them when we are gone? Do we not see that the finest characters are those which are formed by the necessity of acting for themselves?" And again: "I have felt so grateful for having had health and strength to do for Henry what I was sure no one else could do, that I had nothing more to ask, and could submit to any thing. I hope I shall not find my faith fail, come what will. I donotfeel that I am as essential to my children. I do not feel that I am competent to train them."

If we have given of late none of Mrs. Ware's "annuals," it has only been from the abundance of other material. They were continued without a single failure to the end of life. From two of them at this period, we take such parts as will help to show the state and progress of her mind.

"Milton, December 31, 1845."My dear N——:"Twenty years ago at this hour, I was writing my annual upon a pair of bellows, crouching over a small coal fire, in poor old Aunty's chamber at Osmotherly. What changes, what a variety of weal and woe, does a glance at the intervening space present to one's mind! It is all too familiar to you to make a recapitulation necessary, and you can understand, without any explanation, the wide difference between the nature of the loneliness I then felt, and that which I now experience. Have I not gained that which can never be lost, a bond of union with an immortal spirit which can never be broken? O that I could realize more the perpetuity of this spiritual union! then should I suffer less from this merely earthly isolation. But I have gained a little since last year, dear N——; either I have becomemore wonted by time to my condition, or the increasing care and anxiety about my children have taken my thoughts away from myself; be it what it may, I am more able to turn my mind from that one idea of change, and have acquired a more tranquil state of mind, under the consciousness of it. So far, so good; but God knows there is still enough of sin in me, to keep me from that state of quiet trust which, as a believer in Providence, I ought to have. I cannot get away from the terrible sense of insufficiency for the great work which lies before me in the education of my children, and I cannot learn to rely, as I should, upon the All-sufficient, for the supply of that deficiency. It is a living, acting Faith that I want; how shall I get it?..."It is long since I have written to you, but I have little of variety to detail. I spent a fortnight in November, and another in December, in Boston, helping Dr. John in the completion of his work, and since my return, three weeks ago, I have been very fully employed as nurse and maid of all work; for I found C——, W——, H——, and my Margaret, all sick. E—— too has not been well. Help is not to be got here extempore, and, with the exception of two nights from a nurse, I had no aid, until within a few days I have had a little girl of thirteen. You know something about such concatenations, and need not be told, that under such circumstances one finds no time for anything but supplying the bodily wants of those about us. Add to this, that I have been more than half sick myself all the time with one of my tedious coughs, keeping me awake at night and tiring me terribly in the day."Only think of Emma's trip to England,—and, good soul, that she should go and see 'Cousin Jane' for me, and George Lovell, too! Does she not always do more than any one else?"Your faithful"M. L. W."

"Milton, December 31, 1845.

"My dear N——:

"Twenty years ago at this hour, I was writing my annual upon a pair of bellows, crouching over a small coal fire, in poor old Aunty's chamber at Osmotherly. What changes, what a variety of weal and woe, does a glance at the intervening space present to one's mind! It is all too familiar to you to make a recapitulation necessary, and you can understand, without any explanation, the wide difference between the nature of the loneliness I then felt, and that which I now experience. Have I not gained that which can never be lost, a bond of union with an immortal spirit which can never be broken? O that I could realize more the perpetuity of this spiritual union! then should I suffer less from this merely earthly isolation. But I have gained a little since last year, dear N——; either I have becomemore wonted by time to my condition, or the increasing care and anxiety about my children have taken my thoughts away from myself; be it what it may, I am more able to turn my mind from that one idea of change, and have acquired a more tranquil state of mind, under the consciousness of it. So far, so good; but God knows there is still enough of sin in me, to keep me from that state of quiet trust which, as a believer in Providence, I ought to have. I cannot get away from the terrible sense of insufficiency for the great work which lies before me in the education of my children, and I cannot learn to rely, as I should, upon the All-sufficient, for the supply of that deficiency. It is a living, acting Faith that I want; how shall I get it?...

"It is long since I have written to you, but I have little of variety to detail. I spent a fortnight in November, and another in December, in Boston, helping Dr. John in the completion of his work, and since my return, three weeks ago, I have been very fully employed as nurse and maid of all work; for I found C——, W——, H——, and my Margaret, all sick. E—— too has not been well. Help is not to be got here extempore, and, with the exception of two nights from a nurse, I had no aid, until within a few days I have had a little girl of thirteen. You know something about such concatenations, and need not be told, that under such circumstances one finds no time for anything but supplying the bodily wants of those about us. Add to this, that I have been more than half sick myself all the time with one of my tedious coughs, keeping me awake at night and tiring me terribly in the day.

"Only think of Emma's trip to England,—and, good soul, that she should go and see 'Cousin Jane' for me, and George Lovell, too! Does she not always do more than any one else?

"Your faithful"M. L. W."

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