Memoir of Mary L. Ware, Wife of Henry Ware, Jr. Part 19

"_August 23._ ... Thus you see we are vibrating between hope and fear. But it is a question whether we have a right to allow either; for we know not what is best for him or for ourselves."

"_August 29._ My dear Emma: I must say a few words to you, to thank you for your most welcome letter received yesterday. How much I have longed for some intercourse with you, during the last two months, you can judge better by your own experience now, than by any words of mine. I have wished, as you do now, to know all that was pa.s.sing within the deep fountains of your spiritual life, and nothing but the absolute necessity of the case has kept me away from you. Now, I say, come, whenever you can; you will be most welcome to us all, and to me your presence will be a real benediction. I feel at times as if I should be overpowered by the tumult of feelings to which I dare not give utterance here, where the composure of all around me depends so much upon my calmness. This last fortnight has shaken to its very foundation the whole fabric of my spiritual being,--thank G.o.d! not to displace a single fibre of the fabric. But there has been such a heaving up of all that was hidden in the depths of past experience, as has wellnigh conquered at times my self-control, and I have felt that I must utter myself, or be lost; yet to no one have I dared to speak.

John's sickness here has made composure with him peculiarly important.... Happily, we cannot lift the veil of the future; we can only be ready for whatever may be in store for us, and this I trust we are.... I have been prevented from writing in the daytime, and now, at eleven o'clock, I am compelled by weariness to shut my eyes, and rest."

"_August 30._ My dear Lucy: I should indeed rejoice if you were able to be here, for I long for some communion with one who could so enter into all my views and feelings at this time as I know you would. But I bow in submission to all the discipline which G.o.d appoints for me.... In some respects the bitterness of the stroke has pa.s.sed. I felt that the real separation came with the conviction, that that mind with which my spirit had so long communed in the truest sympathy was clouded for the remainder of its sojourn in the body. The sense of solitude, of isolation, I had almost said _desolation_, was for a time nearly overpowering; and there are moments when life looks so like a blank, that it is not easy to restrain the wish to go too. But the necessity of calmness for the children's sake, feeling that their state of mind would inevitably be influenced by the tone I should give it, has aided me in preserving a quiet exterior; and so we have had the great comfort of peace and entire freedom from agitation and excitement. G.o.d give us strength to preserve it! But this weary waiting from day to day, alternately hoping and feeling that there is no reason to hope, wears upon the nerves,--the days seem interminable, and the nights ages.... Long as I have looked forward to this change, it seems like a dream from which I must awake,--as if it could not be! No wonder;--for fifteen years, his health, _he_ indeed, has been the first, almost the sole, object of my life. It will be long before I can turn even to my children, with the consciousness that they can now be attended to without neglecting him."

The struggle was over. Henry Ware died, at Framingham, on Friday morning, September 22. A Sunday intervened before the body was removed for burial, and that day Mrs. Ware went, with her children, morning and afternoon, to their accustomed place of worship; desiring it for their own sacred communion, and believing it most in accordance with _his_ feelings. To her faith, with her habitual view of duty and death, this was probably no effort. To many it would be impossible, even with the same faith; for, unhappily, a.s.sociation and custom are allowed to check our highest aspirations in the holiest seasons, so that many would consider such an effort unnatural and strange. Is it not more strange, that it should ever seem unnatural for a Christian mourner to go to the house of G.o.d, in the most solemn hours of life,--especially when that house is completely identified with the life and image of the departed?

Mrs. Ware was grateful also for the power of a.s.sociating the idea of Death, in the minds of her children, not with restraint and gloom, but with the place of prayer and praise, and the cheerful presence of devout worshippers. It was a beautiful exemplification of her high trust, in harmony with her whole character. We honor the principle, and thank her for the act.

True, it was an altered and saddened house to which they returned, yet saddened by no gloomy aspect, disturbed by no busy preparation. There was less than usual of care and hurry, instead of more. "It was a holy season," says one of the daughters, "those days after dear father left us; no bustle, no preparation of dress, no work done but what was absolutely necessary; it was like a continued Sabbath." Then, on Sabbath evening, after a simple religious service, the "precious remains" of the husband and father were taken in their own carriage, by the wife and eldest son, to Cambridge; where, the next day, the more public ceremony of interment took place.

But of this whole experience it is right to let Mrs. Ware speak in her own letters, several of which we add. The first was written the day after the funeral, to an absent child, and the others to different friends after her return to Framingham. We take them from among many written at that time, either in answer to offers of sympathy, or as a relief to a burdened heart. Of necessity, they contain some repet.i.tions of the same thought, in similar language; but it is best to give them as they are, that we may see in them how great was the bereavement and how deep the anguish of one whose countenance was always cheerful.

"_Cambridge, September 26, 1843._

"MY DEAR CHILD:--

"I use my first moment of repose to write to you, for I know you will long to hear what we have been doing, and as far as possible to enter into all our thoughts and feelings. I want to have you know all that has taken place since you left us, and shall therefore send you a minute detail of every day, when I shall have time to write it; but now so much is pressing upon me which demands attention, so many duties which must not be neglected, and which belong to this time, and must be performed at once, that I confine myself to the last two days.

"After dear father's death, I told Uncle John that I wished all arrangements with regard to his funeral should be made in accordance with grandfather's feelings; and I gave it wholly into his hands to arrange. He came up again on Sat.u.r.day, and it was decided that we should come to grandfather's on Monday morning, and have a service at his house. On Sunday we all went to meeting; we felt it was good to go to the house of G.o.d, and find peace to our troubled souls in the act of worship. About six in the evening Mr. and Mrs. Barry came to us, for I felt that I could not have father's body leave that house without

'the voice of prayer at the sable bier, A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer.'

He read to us some pa.s.sages of Scripture, and offered for us and with us a prayer to Him who alone could give us strength, that he would aid us in that trying hour. We had no one with us except Mr. and Mrs. W----, whose kindness was most valuable to us during the last days of father's life.

"Then John and I brought dear father's body to Cambridge in our own carriage; we could not feel willing to let strangers do any thing in connection with him which we could do ourselves. We reached here about half past ten, having had a season of precious intercourse upon our way. We found that, in accordance with the wishes of the College Faculty, it had been decided that we should go to the College Chapel, for the service, at half past three on Monday.

"On Monday morning the rest of the family came down, and all the aunts and uncles, so that grandfather had all his children with him. At three o'clock we went to the Chapel. The students attended in their places, and the pews in the gallery were devoted to us. The service commenced by a voluntary, and the anthem, 'The Lord is my shepherd.' Dr. Francis prayed; Dr.

Noyes read some pa.s.sages from Scripture; then was sung the 463d hymn. Dr. Parkman then prayed for us, in his most touching, heartfelt manner,--so elevating, so soothing, so full of faith, grat.i.tude, and hope, that it subdued all earthly emotion and took away all earthly desire. Although very minute and personal, it seemed as if one might have listened for ever without a thought of self. He loved father most sincerely, and all he said came from the depths of his heart. I had shrunk from the thought of publicity at such a time, in such a connection, but I found that the circ.u.mstances about me were wholly lost sight of; it made no difference to me where I was, or who was near me. I felt raised above all minor considerations. The services closed with 'Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb!' We all went to Mount Auburn; that is, all the family, even grandfather and dear little Charlie. The weather was misty, but the light which it threw around was in keeping with the occasion, and I thought I never had seen the place look more beautiful. One only thing I wanted which I could not have,--the sound of the holy hymn at the consecrated spot.

"Father was laid in Mr. Farrar's tomb,--the first inhabitant; and I felt, as I looked once more upon him as he rested there, that it was indeed but his body from which we were to be separated; his spirit is still, and will ever be, with us. He seems to me nearer to-day than he has for many weeks, and the thought of his freedom from the burden of the weary flesh is sweet indeed."

"_Framingham, September 29, 1843._

"MY DEAR EMMA:--

"I cannot write you more than a few words, I am so much pressed on all sides by matters which cannot be put off; but I must say these few, to a.s.sure you of the peace and repose which are with us, and have been, I may say, ever since you were here. O that you had been with us longer,--that you could have been with me at that still hour when the spirit was freed from its prison-house, the weary body left to its rest! And it was rest.

Could you have seen the very 'rapture of repose' depicted upon that face, which had so long been disturbed by the pressure of disease that its very expression had been changed to a character foreign to the whole man! All continued of the same peaceful character which pervaded our atmosphere when you were here, with the exception of a few days of a little temporary uneasiness about the time C---- R---- was here. And the last fatal attack, coming as it did at a moment of rather unusual brightness, was so sudden and so soon over, that there was no time for change. Dear little Charlie, who had just returned, was at the moment bounding, in the height of his joyous spirits, from one side of the bed to the other, exclaiming, 'Sall I buss the flies off you, father?' He was taken at once to bed; and when he came down in the morning he found his dear father lying just as he had left him the night before, looking only more peaceful, more beautiful, and he took up the same thought,--'Sall I buss the flies off father, now he has gone to heaven?' I felt it a peculiar blessing, that all the circ.u.mstances of the event were such as to make any movement or change in any external respect unnecessary, so that the children might have their first a.s.sociations with the fact of death without any horror, and their recollection of their father uninterrupted by any repulsive details. He lay in his bed just as he had when talking with them, until he was removed from the house, and that process the little ones did not witness. I doubt not it will give a tone to their view of the subject through life. But why should I dwell upon these externals? Simply that you may dismiss from your mind any thoughts of distress connected with us at that moment; and you know all that I can tell you of the spirit _within_.

"You know how I have suffered in antic.i.p.ation of this separation, but all the worst agony connected with it is yet to come. It is comparatively easy now to be calm and firm and thankful; the first thought cannot but be of him and his present happiness; and the sense of relief that the sufferings of that blessed being are over, that he has gone to his Father's home, 'to the house of his rest,' is so great, that no other thought dare intrude. I long to see you, and hope to do so soon. I go to Cambridge to-morrow, to be in Boston on Sunday. I could not deny myself the luxury of going once more to that house of his religious affections, in connection with him. That spot has most sacred, most tender a.s.sociations to me, so full that it would be enough to sit there in silent meditation; and if I feared any thing, I should fear that it would be too overwhelming to be borne, to go there in public.

But I have found by my experience on Monday, that the surroundings of such a moment are of no consequence. I have a quiet faith that the strength will come. O, may improvement, elevation, come also!... John leaves us soon. He and I had a holy season, as we went, in the stillness of the night, to carry those precious remains to Cambridge.

"I find it is as I antic.i.p.ated,--I feel a greater nearness to my husband than I did when he lay on his couch in the next room. I am separated from that _form_; I look back to it only as the a.s.sociate of the spirit in health; I do not cling to it now. Yours in all love.

"M. L. W."

"_Framingham, October 6, 1843._

"MY DEAR MARY:--

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

"As I glance back at the period which has elapsed since you were here, one single thought takes precedence of all the rest.

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

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

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

"Yours with much love.

"M. L. W."

"_Framingham, November 5, 1843._

"MY DEAR EMMA:--

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

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

"Your own MARY."

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

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

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

"My dear Henry: ... When I am left to the sole care of my family, there is nothing that exercises my mind more than the right performance of family worship. It seems to me that it ought to be more peculiarly adapted to the capacities of children than we are apt to make it. For the older and well-educated part of a family, other means of instruction and communion with G.o.d are open and acceptable every day; but the children and domestics must of necessity depend upon this exercise for nearly all the religious influences of the day.

The simplicity of diction which would fix the attention of even little children, would not be too plain for the generality of domestics; and we all feel that the most simple is often the most sublime and affecting expression in relation to the soul's connection with its Creator. I think, therefore, that the main object should be to excite in the minds of those present some clear ideas, which will be likely to stay in their minds through the day, and work there to some definite result; and that the choice of subjects should grow as far as possible out of the peculiar circ.u.mstances of the family,--not merely the general, but particular circ.u.mstances. For instance, if they are about separating, to dwell upon the use to be made of such an event, reminding us of _final_ separation and the tenderness which should grow out of that thought towards all that are left. Is one child peculiarly out of humor? It will do no harm to any to be reminded of the importance of governing our pa.s.sions; and, if done in the right way, subdue the rebellious spirit more than any arguments. So, too, with regard to reading the Scriptures; it seems to me the time is all but lost if a familiarity of the words only is gained, and that the book should never be closed without having the attention fixed upon some one at least of the useful pa.s.sages read, either in the way of explanation or application to duty.... I have not time now to put into shape half that is in my mind, but I really feel that we do not do justice to our children in not acting more directly upon their religious characters every day. In many instances, I believe a wayward spirit might be checked by having a useful current of thought opened for it, which would take off the mind from the subject of irritation."

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

"When we look back, and see and feel how much the circ.u.mstances by which we were surrounded, and the treatment of those about us, affected our views, we must bring it home to ourselves that what _we_ are now doing is having the same influence upon them.

G.o.d has set us apart in families to mark out for us a specific line of duty; and however we may wish that our path had been different, or our duties less arduous, as they are of His appointment, we have reason to believe they are the best for us. The longer I live, the more I realize the value of love, affectionate interest; and I think that many things, which we are apt to consider of moment at the time, ought to give way whenever they interfere with the cultivation of the affections in children. Disagreeable manners, childish though annoying ways, may be remedied in after-life, and are, after all, matters of very secondary importance in comparison with the growth of love, which is often sacrificed to them. To children the perpetual irritation of a check in trifles keeps the temper in a turmoil, and, by their standard, makes small things as important as great ones. Fault-finding is blame to them, be the subject what it may, and they will have an a.s.sociation of jarring and displeasure with those who keep it up, let the cause be ever so small, as lasting as if it were larger. We need change in this thing; we want a more cheerful atmosphere, a more affectionate, interested one, in which the affections may grow, and have room to expand. I do believe in Mrs. ----'s doctrine to a great extent, that _virtue_ thrives best in an atmosphere of love. We should gain our object better, if, instead of finding fault with an action, we set ourselves to produce a better state of feeling, without noticing the action.

Children imitate the manners of their elders, more especially of their elder brothers and sisters; for of course they feel that they are similarly situated, not always making the distinction of age which is expected of them. And I have always observed that the younger members of a household take their tone from the character and ways of the first in their rank, more than from their parents. I could name many instances of this which have come under your notice, as well as mine, and it does, as you say, make the responsibility of an older sister great. But do not feel that it is too great; be contented with doing all that you can, and not discouraged because you cannot satisfy your own conceptions. It is best for us, it is said, to aim at perfection; even if it is not to be attained, it keeps up our efforts for something higher and higher."