XIV.

"Milton, December 31, 1846."Thirty years, is it not, dear N——, since I began to make you my mother-confessor upon this anniversary? A long life, as some people would have used it; a long life it seems to me, as I look back to that first hour of consciousness that there was one being in the world to whom I could be as egotistical as I pleased, with impunity. A long life it has truly been to me, not so much in its usefulness or improvement, as in the variety of its experiences, internal as well as external. In fact, it seems like many lives; and as I survey different portions of it in retrospect, I can scarcely believe in my own identity with the being who appears upon the stage in each. How has it been with you? I am anxious to know whether others are as sensible as I am of a change of character from the influence of circumstances. We are wont to say, and I think I have seen strong proof of the truth of the assertion,—that 'the child is father to the man.' In truth, he is the future man, in all the leading traits of his character, as well at five as at fifty years of age; and yet I do feel as if I were not the same being that I was three years ago. Whether it is that I am growing old and losing my faculties, or whether the responsibilities of life have paralyzed my mind, or that the loss of that refreshment to the spirit which comes from the reciprocation of an affection for which there is no substitute, has exhausted my strength by depriving me of my spirit's resting-place, I know not. But certain it is, that from being a person of some decision of character, some energy, some judgment, I feel as if I were reduced to a mere child, ready to lean upon any body's judgment but my own, heartsick and homesick at the sense of incapacity to meet my duties. Is this want of actual power, or want of faith to use the power that is left? I don't know. All I know certainly is this: that I find myself utterly inadequate to the dutieswhich belong to me, and am in consequence in a perpetual state of anxiety, which incapacitates me from doing or enjoying. This is a new strain, you will say; for me, truly it is a new state of mind, and whether remediable or not, I cannot tell; can you tell me?..."... How strangely various seem to be the means appointed to bring about the same end in life; and it is not easy to see how our various lots can all be brought to bear the same fruit of holiness and happiness. The greatest evil to me in life is the perpetual hurry, hurry, to get through the business of the day without leaving any necessary duty undone,—without a moment for quiet thought or intellectual improvement,—while here is my neighbor, it may be, at a loss how to fill up the vacant hours, thankful to resort to sleep to dispose of some of them. Does it seem as if we were both destined to the same end? The more I look upon life, the more I feel that the outside has less to do with improvement or happiness. And dissatisfied as I sometimes feel with my own position, I know not how I should improve it, on the whole. When I look calmly at my deficiencies, I see that they are not so much the effect of any outside cause, as the weakness of my own character. And if at times this brings a feeling akin to despair, it makes me less restless than I should otherwise be."Dear N——, I have a strong feeling that this is to be a year of change to me; not from any present indications, but that it seems presumptuous to expect that the trial which I believe hangs over me should be long averted. Pray for me, that I may be prepared for it. I fear I shall never be any better. And so I begin the year, not wishing to look to its end, but with more indifference as to what that end may be to me, than I ever felt before. I fear this is not a right feeling...."Yours always."M. L. W."

"Milton, December 31, 1846.

"Thirty years, is it not, dear N——, since I began to make you my mother-confessor upon this anniversary? A long life, as some people would have used it; a long life it seems to me, as I look back to that first hour of consciousness that there was one being in the world to whom I could be as egotistical as I pleased, with impunity. A long life it has truly been to me, not so much in its usefulness or improvement, as in the variety of its experiences, internal as well as external. In fact, it seems like many lives; and as I survey different portions of it in retrospect, I can scarcely believe in my own identity with the being who appears upon the stage in each. How has it been with you? I am anxious to know whether others are as sensible as I am of a change of character from the influence of circumstances. We are wont to say, and I think I have seen strong proof of the truth of the assertion,—that 'the child is father to the man.' In truth, he is the future man, in all the leading traits of his character, as well at five as at fifty years of age; and yet I do feel as if I were not the same being that I was three years ago. Whether it is that I am growing old and losing my faculties, or whether the responsibilities of life have paralyzed my mind, or that the loss of that refreshment to the spirit which comes from the reciprocation of an affection for which there is no substitute, has exhausted my strength by depriving me of my spirit's resting-place, I know not. But certain it is, that from being a person of some decision of character, some energy, some judgment, I feel as if I were reduced to a mere child, ready to lean upon any body's judgment but my own, heartsick and homesick at the sense of incapacity to meet my duties. Is this want of actual power, or want of faith to use the power that is left? I don't know. All I know certainly is this: that I find myself utterly inadequate to the dutieswhich belong to me, and am in consequence in a perpetual state of anxiety, which incapacitates me from doing or enjoying. This is a new strain, you will say; for me, truly it is a new state of mind, and whether remediable or not, I cannot tell; can you tell me?...

"... How strangely various seem to be the means appointed to bring about the same end in life; and it is not easy to see how our various lots can all be brought to bear the same fruit of holiness and happiness. The greatest evil to me in life is the perpetual hurry, hurry, to get through the business of the day without leaving any necessary duty undone,—without a moment for quiet thought or intellectual improvement,—while here is my neighbor, it may be, at a loss how to fill up the vacant hours, thankful to resort to sleep to dispose of some of them. Does it seem as if we were both destined to the same end? The more I look upon life, the more I feel that the outside has less to do with improvement or happiness. And dissatisfied as I sometimes feel with my own position, I know not how I should improve it, on the whole. When I look calmly at my deficiencies, I see that they are not so much the effect of any outside cause, as the weakness of my own character. And if at times this brings a feeling akin to despair, it makes me less restless than I should otherwise be.

"Dear N——, I have a strong feeling that this is to be a year of change to me; not from any present indications, but that it seems presumptuous to expect that the trial which I believe hangs over me should be long averted. Pray for me, that I may be prepared for it. I fear I shall never be any better. And so I begin the year, not wishing to look to its end, but with more indifference as to what that end may be to me, than I ever felt before. I fear this is not a right feeling....

"Yours always."M. L. W."

From the many letters of sympathy which Mrs. Ware wrote, we have drawn little. They were sure to be many, from her position, her large circle of intimate friends, the unreserved confidence reposed in her, and her warm affections. How warm and tender those affections were, how prompt to go out to those who suffered, and how sure to do something to soothe and cheer, many of us could tell. Or rather, it is not to be told. But the want of it is felt. There are those of that family and acquaintance, who will never weep, without the remembrance of her ready and wise sympathy. The power of sympathy is not given to all. The feeling may be in all, but not the faculty of so expressing and adapting it as to make it truly sympathy. It requires one to be "acquainted with grief." It requires a quick discernment and deep insight of character. That which is sympathy to one may not reach, or may offend, another. Mrs. Ware understood this so well, that she always accepted, for herself, most gratefully, all attempts at condolence, and at the same time adapted her own to the character and case of the sufferer. "In my intercourse with her," says one, "I felt the difference between feelingforand feelingwithanother." There is nothing belittling or weakening in such sympathy. It appeals to the highest, and not, as is often done, to lower motives and affections in the mourner. It does not condole merely, but rejoices with him. To a friend in sorrow she writes: "My confidence makes me rather rejoice for you, than grieve, that you should be called to such suffering. There is so much of sublimity in thesegreattrials of faith, thatone feels raised by them to a nearer approach to the Infinite, to a clearer vision of the realities of the spiritual world, a nearness, almost oneness, with the Father of spirits. Who would desire to avert any thing that will do this for us?" There is, too, a self-respect and decision, with which even her humility clothes itself. "Your case is much upon my mind, and I cannot help wishing there were some mental daguerreotype, or magnetic communication, by which I could transfer to your mind, without the intervention of words, all that is passing in mine concerning you. 'Vain mortal!' whispers Humility, 'what could you show her worth her seeing?' I was not thinking of theworth, but of the sympathy and love. I know that is worth something even from poor me. You say, 'Why do you not talk?' I have no habit of talking about the internal, and I have so little love of discussing the external, that I have no free use of language in any way; and it always seems to me, when I make the attempt to utter what my mind is full of, as if my thoughts all came wrong end foremost; and the idea of taking up a person's time to listen to me seems so foolish, that it embarrasses me by making me feel in a hurry to get throughfor their sakes."

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

"February 9, 1846.Dear John: Oh! you are but just beginning to know what life truly is in its solemn discipline. The great book of religious experience is now but opening to you; and, believe me, you will find in it treasures of happiness of which the heart of mancannotconceive without such experience. You say you feel something of 'fear' coming over you. I will not say, put away all apprehension; uncertainty does hang over you, but let it not produce fear. I would advocate a courageous contemplation of possibilities, for in this way, I believe, the benefits of all trial may be made greater. But let it be with a quiet trust and hopefulness, such as we as Christians have a right to feel; let it be with a steady faith, that whatever God permits has a beneficent end and object, kindly to aid us in the great work for which we were placed in this world of trial,—the preparation of our souls for that spiritual life which may be lived even while we are still in this world. Does not our Father love us with a perfect love? Does he not know better than we can what is best for us? Has he not power to fulfil all his designs of good for us,—and shall we not, if with childlike faith in that love and power we surrender our will to his, find a peace which cannot be moved? I was once most forcibly checked in some fruitless attempt to obtain peace under great difficulties,upon false principles, by happening upon these verses of Watts (I believe):—'Is resignation's lesson hard?On trial we shall findIt makes us give up nothing moreThan anguish of the mind.Believe, and all the ills of lifeThat moment we resign,' &c.And I never find myself trying to argue myself into acquiescence to any dispensation by reasons other than those implied in these lines, that they do not rise to my memory as a rebuke. But still the struggle,—O, that struggle is great, and we must not be discouraged that we find it so; that is part of the discipline. Strength comes by effort; and only think what precious teaching this is foryourwork."

'Is resignation's lesson hard?On trial we shall findIt makes us give up nothing moreThan anguish of the mind.Believe, and all the ills of lifeThat moment we resign,' &c.

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

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

"Naushon, September 13, 1846.I am glad, dear William, to write to you from this place, not only because I am happy in being here, but because it must remind you of him with whose memory this place is so strongly associated, that one cannot hear its name without having his beautiful character brought up before the mind. I have thought much of you since I have been here, in tracing Robert's life by the memorials which are everywhere around me, in hearing his parents talk of the formation of his character, in reading the record of his death, and contemplating at his grave his present life. O, I have felt, dear William, that to have such a childwas the highest happiness this world could give; and however great must have been the pain of parting, and dreary the void which his absence made in the earthly pilgrimage of his parents, it was all more than compensated, by the satisfaction of having begun here such a relation to so pure a spirit, which can never cease while the soul lives. And how earnestly I have prayed, that my child, too, might so understand the true object of existence, as to make his spiritual progress the first aim under all circumstances! We see in Robert's case how beautifully he was training himself for heaven, while he lived the simple life of an active boy, following all the common pursuits which belonged to his age, but doing all with a conscientious reference to the law of right. With the most devoted love towards his parents and friends, he loved his God above all, and sought first of all to obey Him. His grave is in one of the sweetest spots on the island, in a little opening surrounded by trees which he had named his 'mother's parlor'; and upon a seat which he had made there for her I have spent some holy moments, with which the thought of you was tenderly mingled. Dear son, may I have the same satisfaction in your life, which these parents have in that of their son! and should God in his providence call you also thus early to himself, may I have reason to believe, as they do, that for you the work of life was accomplished!..."I trust you will come home ready tobeginthe work of life in earnest. When you look forward and consider that you must depend on your own efforts for subsistence, that you have a gift of mindfor the use of which you are accountable to your Maker, and that the person with one talent is equally responsible with him who has ten, you will see that nothing short of physical inability can excuse you from beginning at once the work of self-education. All that can be done for you is nothing, all the advantages with which you may be surrounded are as nothing, if you do not set yourself to a conscientious improvement of all. I care little what path you follow as to external life, if you only follow it upon the basis of right principle, which shall produce in you a manly, disinterested regard to the accomplishment of all the good you may have it in your power to perform."

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

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

"Greenhill Cottage, December 18, 1846.... Dear Bessie's pure spirit passed away in peace, the 22d of November. Her mind remained perfectly clear to the last moment, calm and cheerful. Hers was a sweet spirit, and I love to remember the intimate intercourse I had with it in times past, for there was more in her soul than appeared to the casual observer. Her departure has added one more attraction to that spiritual state in which I hope to renew the interchange of kind affection and holy thought. How beautifully is it arranged for us, that, as weapproach nearer and nearer to the exchange of worlds ourselves, our interest in that to which we are going should be so increased by the removal of so many loved ones before us."It can be no new thought toyou, that all sickness must be of uncertain result, and you understand too well the object of all the discipline of life, to shrink from any form of it which Providence may appoint. To you and me, strength and power seem so much our birthright, that we hardly know how to understand ourselves when they fail; but it certainly is not difficult to see why we peculiarly need the gentle monitions which sickness brings to us. It would seem as if some of the capacities for the enjoyment of the purely spiritual could not be formed in us without them; we should be too self-dependent, too confident in our own strength, to learn how to be the meek and lowly disciples, to whom are promised the fruits of faith and trust. I am sure that the sense I now have of liability to the development of fatal disease at any time, is the source of some of the most exalted moments of my present existence. So far from its lessening our enjoyment of all that we ought to enjoy belonging to life, it gives a keener sense of it, inasmuch as it puts in their true position all the trifles which are so apt to mar our comfort under common circumstances. I cannot but believe that you will derive great relief from this experiment; and if it does not reach all the difficulty, it certainly will do this good,—that, by removing some of the causes of irritation and consequent exhaustion, it leaves you more strength to contend with whatmay remain of disease,—and, after all, that is the main thing."... I have had a very kind note from Miss Sedgwick, inclosing a letter from Madame Sismondi after reading Henry's Life. It was a most gratifying testimony to the influence of the truth upon a mind which had been educated to undervalue every thing proceeding from our form of faith."

"It can be no new thought toyou, that all sickness must be of uncertain result, and you understand too well the object of all the discipline of life, to shrink from any form of it which Providence may appoint. To you and me, strength and power seem so much our birthright, that we hardly know how to understand ourselves when they fail; but it certainly is not difficult to see why we peculiarly need the gentle monitions which sickness brings to us. It would seem as if some of the capacities for the enjoyment of the purely spiritual could not be formed in us without them; we should be too self-dependent, too confident in our own strength, to learn how to be the meek and lowly disciples, to whom are promised the fruits of faith and trust. I am sure that the sense I now have of liability to the development of fatal disease at any time, is the source of some of the most exalted moments of my present existence. So far from its lessening our enjoyment of all that we ought to enjoy belonging to life, it gives a keener sense of it, inasmuch as it puts in their true position all the trifles which are so apt to mar our comfort under common circumstances. I cannot but believe that you will derive great relief from this experiment; and if it does not reach all the difficulty, it certainly will do this good,—that, by removing some of the causes of irritation and consequent exhaustion, it leaves you more strength to contend with whatmay remain of disease,—and, after all, that is the main thing.

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

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

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

"January 1, 1847.The clock has just struck one, so I may fairly date 1847. And with the recollections of the old year which has just passed away, and the anticipations of that upon which we are entering, come many thoughts of you,—affecting thoughts, for I remember my own experience at your age, and I feel that this year must be to you one of the most important of your whole existence, in its influence on your character and happiness, both for this life and for that long future which can be measured only by one word,—Eternity. It must bring to you many trials, both of feeling and principle; it must bring to you many deep spiritual exercises, and anxious thoughts with regard to your religious progress. You have come to that period of life at which one cannot escape from a deep sense of responsibility for the formation of one's own character; when, with every power and faculty in a peculiarly excitable state, every nerve vibrates to the slightest touch of joy or sorrow, and one feels perpetually in danger of being led by feeling rather than by judgment. It is a period of intense enjoyment, and for the same reason may be one of intense suffering; and while it must depend much upon circumstances which shall predominate, I believe it depends still more upon our own self-discipline, in enabling us both to avoid many occasions of suffering, and to meet with a calm spirit those which are unavoidable. You are in a new position of independent action; and while, with the deep sympathy which is the result of experience, I can suffer and enjoy with you, in anticipation, I feel the satisfaction of a quiet trust that 'allwill issue well.' I believe that you mean to govern yourself by the highest principle, and in that faith I can leave you to the guidance of your own conscience; hoping that you will never forget, that principle, to do its perfect work, must be applied to small things as well as great; that then only is it true principle when it regulates even the tone of the voice, as well as the most heroic action. Your mother's prayers are for you, at this solemn turning-point of life, that, when this anniversary next arrives, it may find you, whether in the body or not, able to look back with satisfaction upon the past, conscious that a true progress has been made towards that perfection of the soul for which it was created...."You will say, you have much to struggle with in your own character, and that nothing can satisfy you while you have to contend with self so continually. But your greatest temptation is to dwell too much upon your internal trials, leading you almost insensibly to that most insidious and deceptive form of self-love, a too constant thought of self even in regard to one's faults. You will find your intellectual occupation a great help in preventing this. Do not think too much about your own deficiencies, be content to live along in the constant thought for others' good, and you will find that you have done more for yourself by your disinterested action, than you could have done by all the thought you would have given to the subject in twice the time."

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

"January 24.... Cultivate in yourself a religious spirit; read God's word to learn what he would have you do; pray to Him for power to doit,—and youwillsucceed. Here lies the only sure foundation. Religious principle is the rock upon which alone you can build any superstructure; all other will be like the sand on the sea-shore,—the next tide of temptation will sweep it away. And do not think that it will interfere with any of the pleasures of youth, or restrain the spirit of mirth which belongs to your age. So far from it, it will promote all enjoyment; for when we engage in that which we have decided by the standard of principle to be right, we go forth with a free spirit, to enjoy to the utmost,—without any of that under-current of misgiving which is a perpetual check upon us when we are engaged in a matter of doubtful expediency. Experience must have already taught you this in some things, and, believe me, it is equally true in all. You will have many temptations in your little world, composed, as well as the great world, of various characters. But if you once establish it with yourself to pursue only the right, and to have a strong moral courage to say 'No' to any measure of even doubtful character, you will find that you not only gain peace of mind, but win the respect even of those who may at first laugh at you. Never fear for the result, if you only doright."

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

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

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

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

"The worst speak something good; should all want sense,God takes the text, and preaches—patience."

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

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

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

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

"Milton, 1847."My dear John:—" ... I am not now as able to keep school as I was then, poorly fitted though I always felt myself. My head has been a very troublesome member for a long time, and I have had in the course of the last year and a half two distinct attacks, which, if not actually paralytic, were sufficiently like it to be considered premonitory symptoms of that affection,—amounting to loss of sensation, and giddiness, followed by a great oppression in the brain, for a long time after. Since this I have found that I soon get overpowered and bewildered in the bustle of the school, and, after a few days' trial, it is only by going at once to sleep, that I can get my head clear for the rest of the day. Besides that, the sense of hurry which I have from the daily pressure of the necessity of adhering to certain hours, in order to get through the necessary business of the day, keeps my head in a state of tension which I often feel must end in some sudden change. I work almost constantly eighteen hours out of the twenty-four; but this I could bear, were it not for the sense of hurry I have, in my anxiety to spare E—— every thing that I possibly can, while she has the labor of the school. Nor is this all. I am sensible that the trouble in my side doesnotdiminish or stand still; its progress is slow, but evidently sure; and though there are often weeks, in which I am not reminded of it by any sensation, there are times when it produces great discomfort. I know from the nature of the case, that this may be so many years, and also, that at any moment it may suddenly come to a crisis, as in many cases I have known."And I feel that with the bare possibility (and it is much more) of having but a few years more to give to my children, I should be wrong to spend these few years in such a hurried life, that I cannot have time to give them anunfettered hour. This is the case now; whether from want of faculty, or an undue anxiety to spare others, or the necessity of the case, I cannot say. All I know is, that, of the eighteen hours in which I am awake, I have not one, commonly, free from the pressure of some necessary, imperative occupation. I may almost say, Ineverchoose my employment; and as you find it, so do I with regard to my children at home,—I cannot give any of them a hundredth part of the time I would gladly devote to them.... You wonder that I cannot be more with you. You would not wonder, if you could see how little I have time to do with my children at home. This ought not to be so. But then comes the question, how am I to live, how educate my children, and pay my debts, if I give up so much of my income?"I answer myself in this way, and I feel satisfied with the answer. If I am not to live, what now supports me will help towards this end; and if I do live, I feel justified in creating a debt for my children to pay by and by, when they are old enough to work, in order to give them the means of working to advantage. I trust they will all find a mission to fulfil, which will keep them free from dependence, and do good to their fellow-men. I will trust that I shall be taken care of; for I think the case of duty is clear,—at least it is so to me, and I feel that I cannot turn from it."Now do not think that this uncertainty of life troubles me, or makes me nervous, and unnecessarily anxious. I have never felt more perfect peace of mind, than I have for the last three years, with respect to death. I have felt it a great blessing to be thus reminded of the uncertainty of my life. It is a constant check upon me, and, moreover, makes all the pleasures which lie in my path greater blessings. There is an elevation in such an habitual state of mind, which takes one beautifully away from the annoyingperplexities of life. I could write on for hours, but I have said enough. You will understand me, and that is all I desire now."Affectionately, your Mother."

"Milton, 1847.

"My dear John:—

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

"And I feel that with the bare possibility (and it is much more) of having but a few years more to give to my children, I should be wrong to spend these few years in such a hurried life, that I cannot have time to give them anunfettered hour. This is the case now; whether from want of faculty, or an undue anxiety to spare others, or the necessity of the case, I cannot say. All I know is, that, of the eighteen hours in which I am awake, I have not one, commonly, free from the pressure of some necessary, imperative occupation. I may almost say, Ineverchoose my employment; and as you find it, so do I with regard to my children at home,—I cannot give any of them a hundredth part of the time I would gladly devote to them.... You wonder that I cannot be more with you. You would not wonder, if you could see how little I have time to do with my children at home. This ought not to be so. But then comes the question, how am I to live, how educate my children, and pay my debts, if I give up so much of my income?

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

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

"Affectionately, your Mother."

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

"Milton, 1847."My dear Friend:—"My visit to you this afternoon was so broken, so unsatisfactory, my thoughts are so entirely with you, and my desire to help you, at least so far as sympathy can do so, is so strong, that I must indulge myself this once in intruding my poor written words upon you, for my own relief. Very grateful do I feel to you for uttering yourself so freely to me: you do not mistake, when you believe that I can understand all your doubts and fears, misgivings and contentions. I have felt them all; and in the knowledge which I have of all my husband suffered, I feel as if I had a double power tosympathize with you. Well do I understand that strange elevation of spirit which comes to one in the first hours of bereavement, when the heart is strong to endure, and the mind seems to act spontaneously. It would seem, when one with whose spirit ours had become as it were identified 'passes on,' as if we too had entered 'behind the veil,' and were also raised above the weakness and suffering of humanity. But this cannot last long, and the necessity of a return to the occupations of life dispels the illusion, and then comes the struggle from which you are now suffering. Two opposing duties seem to present themselves,—one claiming quiet seclusion, the other impelling to great activity. We long for rest, we doubt if we have a right to risk the loss of any portion of the benefit which may come to us from the life of meditation and self-communion to which our state of mindnaturallyleads us, by going back to the busy bustle of external life. We feel that our soul has been moved to its very depth, as it never was before, and we long to 'hold the fleet angel fast, until he bless us' with an increase of spiritual life, proportionate to the demands of our condition. But on the other hand, there lie the duties of life, appointed by God forusto perform; in their performance lies our mission to the world; have we any right to neglect them for any object of self-improvement? How shall we decide, when two duties, apparently of equal importance, seem to us perfectly incompatible?"But here, I think, lies our great mistake. We separate that which God has joined together; there can be no opposition in his requisitions, and if both duties are required of us, it must be that they may be united. What is spiritual progress? What is the benefit we believe to be intended for us by the discipline of bereavement? Is it increased love of God, reliance upon him, union of soul with him? How shall we gain these by any process of meditation,so entirely as when, contending against our desire for repose, conscious of our utter weakness, throwing ourselves with the reliance of filial affection upon a Father's love, we go forth to execute His will in the fulfilment of the duties He has assigned us, believing that His promises of strength will not fail? And did they ever fail? And do we not by this act of faith bring our souls into that union with God which we so much desire, more truly than by any abstract thought? How can it be nearer than when, in the consciousness of our human weakness, we feel that whatever strength we have is His,—that He is indeed present to us, acting in us,—and we know that, while we have this faith, He will never cease to aid us."But you will say you have tried this, and strength does not come; you find yourself more and more averse to effort, more and more incapable of it. But are you sure you are not aiming at impossibilities,—that you are not requiring from the nature God has given you more than you have a right to expect, and that, by striving after more than you can reasonably hope to obtain, you render ineffective the power given? Do not misunderstand me. I would not bring down in the very slightest degree the high standard of Christian excellence at which you aim; but I would have you understand truly the nature of the means which the Creator has given us by which to attain it. 'Deal gently with thine infirmity, wait God's time.' You desire at once to rise to the height to which you believe a Christian faith may elevate its possessor, and you are discouraged that the work is not accomplished whenyouthink it ought to be. Put aside, my dear friend, this desire to regulate the operation of God's providence. You say you have never for a moment felt that you were hardly dealt with, in the outward circumstances of this affliction. Apply the same faith to its internal circumstances; give up your own will as fullyin the one case as in the other; go on, meekly relying upon Almighty wisdom, with your appointed work, not attempting too much at once, but selecting just that which seems most important, increasing your labors as you may find strength comes to aid you, and be content to use such measure of strength as God shall give, without repining that it is not more; and this will bring you that 'peace' for which you now sigh. Waste not one moment in vain regret that you cannot do all you desire. O, I could read you such a page of suffering from this source, as would make you weep for the sinfulness of your monitor! If I cannot be an example, let me be a warning to you. May I be an efficient one!"Ever your friend."M. L. Ware."

"Milton, 1847.

"My dear Friend:—

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

"But here, I think, lies our great mistake. We separate that which God has joined together; there can be no opposition in his requisitions, and if both duties are required of us, it must be that they may be united. What is spiritual progress? What is the benefit we believe to be intended for us by the discipline of bereavement? Is it increased love of God, reliance upon him, union of soul with him? How shall we gain these by any process of meditation,so entirely as when, contending against our desire for repose, conscious of our utter weakness, throwing ourselves with the reliance of filial affection upon a Father's love, we go forth to execute His will in the fulfilment of the duties He has assigned us, believing that His promises of strength will not fail? And did they ever fail? And do we not by this act of faith bring our souls into that union with God which we so much desire, more truly than by any abstract thought? How can it be nearer than when, in the consciousness of our human weakness, we feel that whatever strength we have is His,—that He is indeed present to us, acting in us,—and we know that, while we have this faith, He will never cease to aid us.

"But you will say you have tried this, and strength does not come; you find yourself more and more averse to effort, more and more incapable of it. But are you sure you are not aiming at impossibilities,—that you are not requiring from the nature God has given you more than you have a right to expect, and that, by striving after more than you can reasonably hope to obtain, you render ineffective the power given? Do not misunderstand me. I would not bring down in the very slightest degree the high standard of Christian excellence at which you aim; but I would have you understand truly the nature of the means which the Creator has given us by which to attain it. 'Deal gently with thine infirmity, wait God's time.' You desire at once to rise to the height to which you believe a Christian faith may elevate its possessor, and you are discouraged that the work is not accomplished whenyouthink it ought to be. Put aside, my dear friend, this desire to regulate the operation of God's providence. You say you have never for a moment felt that you were hardly dealt with, in the outward circumstances of this affliction. Apply the same faith to its internal circumstances; give up your own will as fullyin the one case as in the other; go on, meekly relying upon Almighty wisdom, with your appointed work, not attempting too much at once, but selecting just that which seems most important, increasing your labors as you may find strength comes to aid you, and be content to use such measure of strength as God shall give, without repining that it is not more; and this will bring you that 'peace' for which you now sigh. Waste not one moment in vain regret that you cannot do all you desire. O, I could read you such a page of suffering from this source, as would make you weep for the sinfulness of your monitor! If I cannot be an example, let me be a warning to you. May I be an efficient one!

"Ever your friend."M. L. Ware."

How much is told in that last confession and prayer! She who thus wrote was then in the midst of a fatherless and dependent family, bearing a load of duty never discharged to her own satisfaction, wearing a face of unvarying cheerfulness, and struggling with a fatal disease, whose progress could not be hidden from herself, though hidden from others. That equanimity, which had always been marked as a distinguishing trait, came out now more and more, as the demand increased, and the difficulty also. Every one knows the tendency of disease to produce irritation,—sometimes imperceptibly to the sufferer, sometimes unavoidably, and with a painful consciousness. In no duty or sympathy for the sick is there more need of kind allowance; and in none, perhaps, is it more wanting. Here, it was not needed. No irritation ever appeared.We say this, not from that cursory and friendly observation which so often mistakes, but from those who knew. One near her thus speaks of her equanimity: "Taking her life through, as I knew it, there were disturbingcausesenough. Neither the lesser nor the greater seemed to throw her off her balance. I cannot recall a word or act of harshness. Disturbed, moved, sad, I have seen her, but nothing of irritation; and the first, where others were concerned, or some principle, or morality, rather than where she was herself personally interested."

Anotherafflictioncame, and came nearer than any other could, out of her own family circle. The decline which she had so anxiously watched in "Emma" terminated as she had long known it must; and that true friend had gone before her to a purer sphere. Deeply must Mary have felt this at any time,—how deeply then! Toward the end, all the time that could be spared, day and night, had been passed in that sick-room, where she enjoyed a communion, and exerted an influence, that few could. Perfect congeniality, perfect confidence, an intimacy of years and souls, a unity of faith and hope, with an affection unreserved and undimmed, bound them as one; and when the tie was severed, the world seemed another abode,—fast passing away.

The letters in which Mrs. Ware speaks of this change are most tender, and reveal as much of the character of the writer as of the subject. But they are too personal to admit a free use. A brief account we may take, from a letter which we ourselves received.

"I do not remember that I have written to you since dear cousin Emma's death. I should love to tell you of the pleasant hours passed in her chamber after her return from Europe, the precious hours of her last week with us. Her state of mind was a most elevated one, but her words were few. She could not overcome the habit of reserve upon spiritual subjects, and it was only in moments of the most private intercourse that she would utter herself freely. It was a beautiful case of great humility, united with perfect trust. She never for an instant faltered in her faith, but laid down her almost unequalled power with as perfect readiness as if she had never loved its exercise. You may suppose that her loss is daily, hourly felt, by all who belonged to her. This is not the same place without her. We constantly miss her wisdom and her disinterested kindness. Do you know that she made this cottage mine,—and more? I never received any gift which was so unexpected, or so touching. It has made this place more beautiful than ever; for the very walls have now a sacred association."

On Christmas Eve, 1847, Mrs. Ware, with some of her children, joined a family gathering at Cambridge, in the same house that they occupied during those twelve eventful years. And many were the recollections awakened there. "O, how strange it seemed to me, to be 'guest' in that house, on such an occasion! I could scarcely help a sense of responsibility, as if it were my affair. And my heart turned instinctively to the thought of all my responsibilities there, and the thought of how muchhewould have enjoyed, and added to the enjoyment of others. There was a sense of the want of his visible presence, such as I never expected to feel again, so familiar have I become with the idea of the invisible." On the last night of the year, she writes in a tone more like sadness than was common with her, though with the same tranquil trust:—"I live now so entirely among the young, who could not comprehend the results of an old woman's long experience, that I am unconsciously led to shut up the thoughts which mostly occupy me, lest any should be annoyed by what they might not understand. And there are consequently periods when it seems as if I shouldstop, from want of the sympathy and counsel of some contemporary who knew the past as well as I do myself. In the various questionings about my children, and the many doubts which will come to an insulated mind, how have I craved your ear!... It has seemed to me, since Emma's death, that every thing was giving way around me. I cannot tell you what a sense, a perpetual sense of uncertainty, appears to pervade every thing. It seems as if not merely one strong being had failed by the way, but as if strength itself, the very thing, had become weakness. And I find myself clinging more than ever to the things that remain, and more and more impatient to use opportunities of intercourse with those I love, feeling that the time is short both for them and myself. Little did I think, at this time last year, that I should be here now; and when I look back upon the interval, and remember that, instead of the sickness I anticipated, not one day ofactual suspension of labor have I had, I am amazed at the small amount I have accomplished, and wonder why it is I am left. The year has been marked by less external change than usual, and yet it has brought some important changes in the progress of my children's education."

And if Mrs. Ware had not expected to see the end of that year, she could have little idea of seeing the whole of another. Yet this was granted her,—and a little more. And whatever the inward change, there was none outward, unless in greater diligence in duty, and a more earnest endeavor to make others happy. This, too, was evident, in conversation and in letters,—that while life in the present was still full and bright, there was a growing conviction of life beyond and above. It was seen particularly, as one and another of her friends departed,—when the emotions expressed were more of joy than of sadness, as in the case of a bereavement not long before. "O, how the holy band is gathering in that other state! And how near does it seem to us, when those with whom we have been wont to have daily intercourse enter it! I think, as I grow older, no part of my experience satisfies me so much, as the consciousness of an increasingsense of unionwith a purely spiritual state. Not that one loses all interest in this state, but there comes a fuller sense of the reality of another."

Of Mrs. Ware's last months and days we have nothing remarkable to record. They did not differ from the months and years that preceded them, except that theywerethe last, and she knew they must be. But she did not on that account seek to impart to them any new aspect, or new occupation. She had no formal preparation to make for a change, great indeed and momentous, yet perfectly familiar to her thoughts, and never dismaying. She had not left the work of life to be done after the power to do it had gone, but had used that power as one responsible for the use of all that was given her, and she continued to use all that remained, diligently and tranquilly. Had she been asked, as another once was, "What would you do, if you knew you should die to-morrow?" we suppose her reply would have been the same,—"That which I am doing to-day." And she was doing a great deal,—as much perhaps as she had ever done, in all that pertained to family and friends, the destitute and suffering. And she was enjoying a great deal, both at home and abroad, with apparently more, instead of less, freedom from that sense of "hurry" which had so troubled her. This she expresses in a note that we received fromher in the month of May, 1848, which shows likewise how fresh and full was her enjoyment of the opening year. "We are beginning to look lovely here. It seems to me the spring was never so charming; but perhaps it is thatIam more charming than usual! Certain it is, that I have seldom been in so favorable a state to enjoy it, so free from the pressure of care and the sense of hurry, which has been the bane of my life. I am more willing to leave some things undone than I was. Is not this a great virtue in a housekeeper, whose spring-cleaning is not done, or likely to be these three months? Our school has not yet adjourned, and I shall not be quite settled until it has.... Thanks for your letter; I shall answer it, if I ever have a quiet hour that has no peremptory demand for other employment."

In those last words we see a trait which many have noticed in Mrs. Ware, and which one of her own sex, who had seen her in many situations, thus describes: "I never knew any one who had a more just idea of the due proportion which various duties and interests should bear to each other. She was never one-sided in her views, never lived for one idea alone, but took a comprehensive view of all her duties and of all her relations to her fellow-beings, and gave to each its due portion of time and attention." This habit is not uncommon, perhaps, in health and active life; but not every one attempts to maintain it in sickness and the approach of death. That Mrs. Ware was fully conscious of that approach, though yet in apparent health, appears frommany circumstances. But she did not talk of it, and few knew it. She preferred not to communicate it even to her family until it was necessary, lest it should check the freedom or disturb the serenity of a happy household, preventing rather than promoting the performance of duties all the more imperative if the time were short. From a letter to an absent daughter, we take the following, so pleasantly written.

"Milton, May 2, 1848.Dear E——: Have not I got some pretty little paper upon which to indite my loving thoughts of thee? It becomes me to have a fine pen, and to try and be rather refined than otherwise in my chirography! Alas for me, who have to write with quill-nibs without mending! But I have rather a fancy for these close lines, which remind me of the days of my youth, when I used to write as closely without lines. I am particularly reminded of those days, by having received to-day my own letters to Cousin Emma; and to decipher some of them would try better eyes than most people possessed in her days, so closely written, so crossed and recrossed are they. I read one of them, and have been living over again all day those singular Osmotherly experiences. I do sometimes wish that I could have had the leisure, while I had the power, to write out for the information of my children that page of my life. It was so powerful a lesson of faith and trust, that it could not fail of producing in them, in some degree, the same effect that it did upon me. In looking back upon it, I cannot but feel that it was a peculiar blessing to me, as preparatory to the trialswhich were to follow; without just such a teaching, it seems to me they would have overwhelmed me. I often wish I could convey to the minds of those who are coming upon the stage of life, the utter insignificance into which outward circumstances sink in retrospect, other than as the occasion for the cultivation of the inner being. One almost forgets whether outward things were agreeable or not. The spiritual, intellectual life is the most prominent; the progress of our own characters, the affection which met our affections, the satisfactions of the soul, are all that leave any lasting impression upon the memory."

By the middle of that summer, her strength had declined very perceptibly to herself, though not to common observers, and she felt that the time had come for an explicit communication. And never can we forget the perfect composure and natural cheerfulness with which she spoke of it to some of us who had little idea of the whole truth,—showing a paper that she had written to one of her children, and asking counsel in regard to it. The paper is of too private a character to be given here, except a few of the more general passages. "I have not thought it worth while to trouble you, or any one else, with the knowledge of this, while I was well enough to go on as usual, and had no reason to expect change. The doctor has always said I might live, as many had, for years, and die from some other cause, before this became very troublesome; and it may yet be so. But within a few months the course of the thing has changed, and I cannot but feel that it may come toa crisis at any time, and I be suddenly prostrated. With these views, I wish not to hide from myself my danger; and I thank God for the influence which this consciousness has had upon my mind for a long time past. I have felt it good for my soul to know that I carried about with me a disease which must be fatal. It has helped me more than any thing else to put the things of this life into their true relative position. And while it has not for a moment lessened my interest or my enjoyment of any thing around me, it has saved me from many painful moments and anxious cares, by showing me the insignificance of much that I once cared too much for. The only evil I have found in it is a sense of hurry; feeling that I may have but little time to work in, I am tempted to work hurriedly, and thus with less comfort. I cannot tell you the many thoughts I have of the future destiny of my children.... I need not tell you how inexpressibly nearer and dearer all the children are to me every day I live, or how earnestly I pray that they may be such as their father's children ought to be."

In the early autumn, she spent much of her time at the house of her son in Cambridgeport, in whose family there occurred a case of sickness and death, which engaged her deepest sympathies and tasked her strength. Once more she became a nurse and laborious helper. After it, she sank for a time, but again rallied, and through the greater part of the winter continued strong in spirit, with great energy of will and action, interested in every thing, grateful for every thing, busily and happily occupied. Ofthe accounts given us by others, beside what we saw and heard of her whole bearing and conversation that winter, we can use little, lest it should seem like eulogy,—which we desire to avoid, particularly in connection with her death. But should this prevent all freedom of expression? If we may not speak from our own mind and heart, may we not from the testimony of those who were near enough to understand the whole, yet with no relation or interest to mislead them?

A lady writes: "It was my great privilege to pass a few weeks with her in the sanctuary of her own home, in the early progress of the malady which terminated her natural life. Words fail me to convey my impression of her at this period. Always serene and cheerful, there was yet a seriousness in her manner, and a depth of purpose in her words and acts, that were to me very impressive.... Every duty was to her always a religious duty; and hence we saw in her the same fidelity and perfectness in every household care, however humble or distasteful, as in employments of a more congenial character.... While her life was to me highly inspiring, it was also deeply humiliating. She seemed to me always sufficient to herself in her great resources, and I felt that I could be nothing to her. I once told her so; she smiled, and said, 'You don't know how weak I feel, and how I long to lean upon some one, and be caressed and petted like a child.'"

A near neighbor and privileged friend says: "When we learned that her days were numbered, as we did some months before her death, we of courselooked upon every thing connected with her with a more subdued and chastened interest. She seldom, almost never, alluded to her condition. But there were little valedictory acts to be remembered when she was gone, that showed her thoughtfulness and love. The last time I saw her at church was on Thanksgiving day, the great family festival of New England. During most of the services she was in tears, doubtless thinking of those whom she was soon to join, and of those now with her who must spend their next Thanksgiving alone. But her tears were tears of endearment and tenderness, more than of sorrow.... Gradually her walks were given up. Some unusual calls on her sympathy and strength may possibly have shortened her sufferings. 'But if I had foreseen it all,' she said, 'I should have done the same.' There was no shrinking from what lay before her, but that entire humility which neither presumes nor fears, and is content with what God appoints."

But we need not rely on others for a knowledge of Mrs. Ware's condition and temper at this time. Her own words still speak for her, and speak with the same clearness and calmness as ever. Letters and notes were written to all who had any claim, through the winter. The year was not suffered to close without one more "annual,"—the last seal to that firm friendship. Portions of these letters and notes will serve as the best index to the progress of her life,—for we cannot call it the decline.

"December 26, 1848.Dear John: You must wonder why I have not written to you in all this age ofa week since you were here. In truth. I have not been able to do so, for I had to give up and go to bed. I should have been wise had I done so when I first came home, I suppose; but I was so sure that I had no right to expect to feel better, that I could not think it worth while. I am better now, and am going to venture to town to-morrow. I have had but one hour yet for accounts, and as my arm is becoming more and more useless, I dare not put off doing what that arm alone can do. I desire so to arrange matters that I may have only tranquillity,—no hurry, no bustle, no irritation anywhere.... I have none but cheerful views for myself, and I desire to be spared anxiety about the outside to mar that cheerfulness.... I have promised to go into Mr. B——'s, New Year's eve, and can do that with little fatigue. Kiss Henry boy for his grandmother, and wish him a 'happy new year' for me when the time comes."

"December 31, 1848.Dear N——: Once more I will make an attempt to write to you, for I cannot let this season go without giving you some record of what is passing,—as my reason tells me it is in all probability my last annual missive. Do not, my dear friend, shrink from this idea, as if it were some dreadful fact which you wished not to realize. I can write it, I trust I can bring it home as a truth, without the slightest quickening of the pulse, without a wish to decide my own fate. I would bless God, that in His tender love He has so gradually brought me to the consciousness of the great uncertainty of my own life, that all connected with that uncertaintyhas been familiar to me through the softening influence of distance, and my vision can now bear the strong light of the nearer presence without dismay. In recalling the various circumstances in which I have written my many annuals to you, I cannot remember one in which I have had less anxiety about the future. I feel strangely perplexed sometimes at this; I know that while it ispossiblemy life may be prolonged many years, yet they would be years of suffering, of comparative uselessness, and perhaps of great discomfort to those around me; and still more, that the more probable prospect is a rapid, if not sudden, annihilation of life. I have children for whose welfare I have lived, and cared only to live for the last five years; and of whose fate when I am gone I cannot even guess. I have felt that my life was important to them; and when the idea of being obliged to leave them first came to me, I thought I must be a great loss to them; but now I cannot make it seem so by any process of thought. Why is this? how is this? I cannot tell. I do not love them less; on the contrary, my tenderness of feeling towards them increases every day. I never cared so much to have them with me, I never enjoyed their various powers more. Is it that I am under a delusion,—that death is not the reality to my mind which I conceived it to be? I confess I cannot answer satisfactorily. I seem to myself, as I did at sea in a dangerous storm, quiet, confiding, sure that no human help can aid, and not anxious to look beyond the present. But it may be that it is only because, while we are able to exercise both mental and physicalpowers in some way all the time, it is impossible to bring home the conviction that all may stop at any moment."One solution of the mystery comes to me sometimes. You know I have felt, ever since my husband's death, that it was the most inexplicable mystery that my children should have been left to my sole care instead of his, when I was so deficient in the power to do for them what a parent should. I could only satisfy myself by the fact, that the All-wise, All-powerful, could overrule my mistakes, and I had no right to ask why. This consciousness of inefficiency has never left me, and I cannot therefore feel that my withdrawal will be to them an essential evil. I have seen many instances of children left, as mine will be, to their own guidance, who have evidently made much stronger characters for that self-dependence. And though they may suffer, perhaps, as I did, from the loss of that affection which a parent only can give, we see so many suffering quite as much from the misdirection of that affection, where the tie is not thus broken, that we dare not say, in any given instance, which fate would be the best for a child. Of one thing we are certain; we are short-sighted, finite beings, our minds can fathom but part, 'one little part,' of the plan of Providence; and we cannot tell but what the most adverse circumstances may be made instrumental to the education of the soul, by that overruling Power which sees the end and the beginning. We understand so little of the true character of each individual mind, that we know not but that whatseems most adverse is in reality best adapted to its wants. Why, then, can we not be content to give up our own desires, our own judgments, all anxieties, all plans, and trust that all will be ordered right? Not certainly to sit down passively and do nothing; but, carefully watching the indications of Providence, to exercise our best judgments in trying to further its designs, and be content with the issues."

"One solution of the mystery comes to me sometimes. You know I have felt, ever since my husband's death, that it was the most inexplicable mystery that my children should have been left to my sole care instead of his, when I was so deficient in the power to do for them what a parent should. I could only satisfy myself by the fact, that the All-wise, All-powerful, could overrule my mistakes, and I had no right to ask why. This consciousness of inefficiency has never left me, and I cannot therefore feel that my withdrawal will be to them an essential evil. I have seen many instances of children left, as mine will be, to their own guidance, who have evidently made much stronger characters for that self-dependence. And though they may suffer, perhaps, as I did, from the loss of that affection which a parent only can give, we see so many suffering quite as much from the misdirection of that affection, where the tie is not thus broken, that we dare not say, in any given instance, which fate would be the best for a child. Of one thing we are certain; we are short-sighted, finite beings, our minds can fathom but part, 'one little part,' of the plan of Providence; and we cannot tell but what the most adverse circumstances may be made instrumental to the education of the soul, by that overruling Power which sees the end and the beginning. We understand so little of the true character of each individual mind, that we know not but that whatseems most adverse is in reality best adapted to its wants. Why, then, can we not be content to give up our own desires, our own judgments, all anxieties, all plans, and trust that all will be ordered right? Not certainly to sit down passively and do nothing; but, carefully watching the indications of Providence, to exercise our best judgments in trying to further its designs, and be content with the issues."

"January 21, 1849.Dear Louisa: I send the above just as it has lain in my desk these three weeks, to show you that I have 'made an effort.' I devoted that last evening of the year to writing to you and N——, and began your letter first; but my arm was so painful that I soon found I could not accomplish both; and I laid aside yours, because I was reluctant to omit, for the first time in more than thirty years, my annual to her, feeling as I did that it would probably be my last. This you will pardon; but, in justice to myself, I must go back and tell you why I had not before even commenced an answer to you, because I consider the mere fact ofseemingneglect of such a letter ought to be fully explained, for the credit of human nature in general.... I have been greatly blessed in finding, that, as the reality of what lies before me has become more and more distinct to my consciousness, I have lost nothing of the tranquil faith which made me willing to acquiesce in it. My nervous system is not touched yet in a way to affect the firmness of my views of the future. My great study now is, how to do my part towards making this experience of most value to my children. While I wish not to withhold from themany benefit they may receive by free and full knowledge of my condition, I am sure it must be introduced with a judicious reference to their different casts of character. I am feeling my way, and earnestly pray to be guided aright.... As to my visiting you, I have not been a mile from home for many weeks,—can only ride a little in a very easy vehicle without suffering for days after it. But I am content to be quiet. After such a life of activity, I enjoy the right to be still, more than I can tell; and I have home employment enough to fill all the time, if it prove ten times as long as I think it will. I hope to see you here when the weather is warmer, if God should spare me until then. God bless you, dear L.! I love to have your letters, but cannot promise to answer them very punctually."

"January 28, 1849, Sunday Evening.My dear Lucy: Strange indeed must it seem to you, that your kind, sympathizing letter, written more than two months since, should not have received an answer long before this; and if you have not, through some of your mutual friends, heard something of the progress of things with us since then, you must think it perfectly unpardonable. But in truth, dear Lucy, I have thought much of you, and longed to write, and still more to see you; and nothing short of physical inability has prevented me from long ago reporting myself to you. It is not worth while now to go back to the various causes which at first prevented my writing."I have lost ground greatly in the last threemonths, and should I continue to do so for the next in the same proportion, I shall be a mere burden; but no one can form any calculation about it, and I desire not to attempt it. I have no wish to penetrate the future. I know all will be ordered as it had best be. What more can I need to know? I feel that I have special cause for gratitude in the length of time given me to make the subject familiar to my mind; and not less so, that the disease so far does not disturb the perfect tranquillity of my mind, or take from me any of the advantages of this long preparation. My faith is strong that He who has been the Father of the fatherless, and the widows' God, will protect and guide the orphans I must leave behind me. It is not in vain that I have had an orphan's experience.Heguided me in safety through the many perils which beset the lonely one; I may surely trust Him for those to whom He has vouchsafed the aid of kindred so near and dear. My only care now is, how to do my part in giving them the full advantage of this discipline, and I earnestly pray to be guided aright.... I should love to see you, and hope to do so in the course of the winter or spring. I sit quietly at home, but have seldom a day without visitors, sometimes to weariness; but I love to see my friends, and they are many; I cannot say nay to them. I have not been to Cambridge since I first came home, and to Boston only twice for two months, and could not do it now. But perhaps, when I can take more air, I may gain a little more strength, and stay a little longer than seems probable now. Of this you may rest assured,that, come when it may, I can say with perfect truth, 'Not as I will, but as Thou wilt.'"

"I have lost ground greatly in the last threemonths, and should I continue to do so for the next in the same proportion, I shall be a mere burden; but no one can form any calculation about it, and I desire not to attempt it. I have no wish to penetrate the future. I know all will be ordered as it had best be. What more can I need to know? I feel that I have special cause for gratitude in the length of time given me to make the subject familiar to my mind; and not less so, that the disease so far does not disturb the perfect tranquillity of my mind, or take from me any of the advantages of this long preparation. My faith is strong that He who has been the Father of the fatherless, and the widows' God, will protect and guide the orphans I must leave behind me. It is not in vain that I have had an orphan's experience.Heguided me in safety through the many perils which beset the lonely one; I may surely trust Him for those to whom He has vouchsafed the aid of kindred so near and dear. My only care now is, how to do my part in giving them the full advantage of this discipline, and I earnestly pray to be guided aright.... I should love to see you, and hope to do so in the course of the winter or spring. I sit quietly at home, but have seldom a day without visitors, sometimes to weariness; but I love to see my friends, and they are many; I cannot say nay to them. I have not been to Cambridge since I first came home, and to Boston only twice for two months, and could not do it now. But perhaps, when I can take more air, I may gain a little more strength, and stay a little longer than seems probable now. Of this you may rest assured,that, come when it may, I can say with perfect truth, 'Not as I will, but as Thou wilt.'"

"February 3, 1849.Dear Friend: I know you will be glad to have a word directly from us of our welfare, and I therefore gladly avail myself of a kind offer to take a note to you, though I have time only for a short one. I have had my ups and downs since you were here, but on the whole do not think there is any material change;—some days of great suffering, and then again days and nights of perfect ease. So I have had much for which to be grateful in the alternation, for the days of suffering made the seasons of relief more delightful, and the rest enables me the better to bear the suffering. Much indeed have I to be grateful for. Never was kindness bestowed upon mortal, I believe, such as is every day showered upon me, and nothing yet has come to disturb the serenity of my mind. I find myself as free to enjoy all that is passing as ever, and the 'daily duty,' small though it be to me now, interests and satisfies me.... I have an almost incessant influx of visitors, which sometimes wearies me; but then I love to see them, and I enjoy the occasional quiet hour all the more. My wakeful hours at night are the most precious, being happily free from all nervous restlessness; and often do I wish I had some other wakeful spirit at my side with whom I could commune of the passing visions. But enough of self."

"Dear Maria: I did not like, in your short visit, to occupy any time with self; but I should love to tell you of the blessed peace which is given me inrelation to the trial which lies before me, and of the faith and hope which shed their tranquil light upon the future, even in respect to that most trying point, What will become of my children?... For while I feel that every day which is spared me makes them all more and more dear to me, I realize more and more that Icannotbe separated from them."

The friend to whom those last words were written, then a wife and mother herself, and once a cherished parishioner of Mr. and Mrs. Ware, has since joined their communion above. And her part of this correspondence shows how beautiful had been the influence of the life whose close she now witnessed. Indeed, the fact itself should be stated, if nothing more, as belonging to the actual character of Mary Ware, that the many letters and notes which came to her in these declining days, from friends near and friends abroad, are filled, not with empty praise, nor yet useless and distressing grief, but with expressions of grateful joy for the power of her faith in the present struggle, and its power uponthem, in the past and always. If ever there was evidence of the reality and influence of the Christian faith in itself, or of a peculiar form of it, it might be shown here. The believer and sufferer thought less of any peculiarities, than of the essential spirit and power. But all that she had held, she retained, and found sufficient,—unfailingly, abundantly sufficient. And it was a blessing to her in her last days, to know that others of the same faith felt its sustaining power, and shared with her in its peace and joy. The friend to whom we have just referred writes: "Scarcely an hourpasses in the day, that I do not think of you with so much tenderness and sympathy as I have no words to convey to you. The thought of you does me good. I know what is passing in the depth of your soul, and it gives me strength to go on. Will you pray for me, that while I live I may do what is right, cheerfully and submissively, if not joyfully?" She begs Mrs. Ware to write down, or let another write, some passages of her life. "Your experience has so blessed me, that I long to spread its influence. I can never thank you for what you and our sainted friend, with whom you seem now more than ever 'one,' have done for my soul." Another, who was herself the widowed wife of one of the best of men, writes to Mrs. Ware of their former intercourse and communion: "There has been no alloy mingled in this cup of blessing; we can carry it all with us to our Father's house. With my whole heart I rejoice that you are able to act out your highest convictions, that your disease so gently looses the bonds to earth, as to leave your spirit free to bear its testimony to the last to the power of your faith in the goodness of God, and the reality of everlasting life. 'He that liveth and believeth shall never see death.' With you and me death has lost its sting. Are we not willing to go where those we have loved so truly are gone? Shall we not gladly make their home our home? It is not the fear of death that ever presses upon me, but the fear of not being worthy of the unutterable happiness of a reunion with those that have gone before me; so I welcome pain, hoping it may purge me of my sins,and make me more fit for heaven. Sometimes, when the idea is very clear and strong in my mind of eternal life with the good and great souls that I have known here, I gasp for breath, and, like the disciples, 'cannot believe for joy.' And surely, dear Mary, the love that has been perfect love cannot be quenched or turned from us in the land of spirits to which we are tending,—in which you seem to me now to be living."

These sentiments are the reflection of her mind, who had done so much to form or invigorate them. They were some of the blessed fruits of the faith that she and her husband had cherished,—the faith that still bound her to him, and to all whom she loved. As such, she welcomed them. But the moment the partiality of friends carried them beyond this, and implied the least merit or power of her own, she was pained. "I thank you for this note; yet—shall I say it?—it pained me. I do not like to feel that my friends are attributing tomyefforts that which I feel is the direct action of a higher power. Knowing as I do how great are my deficiencies, how far I fall short of the 'perfect stature,' I cannot but feel humbled by such expressions.... Please thank Mrs. —— most gratefully for her kind offers of aid. I seem to be so overwhelmed with comforts, that I have nothing to ask for myself. O, how great is the goodness of God towards me!"

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