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Full text of "Memoir of Mary L. Ware, Wife of Henry Ware, Jr.: Wife of Henry Ware, Jr."

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MEMOIR 



OF 



MARY L. WARE, 



WIFE OF 



HENRY WARE, Jr. 



EDWARD B. HALL. 



Second Thousand. 



BOSTON: 

CROSBY, NICHOLS, AND COMPANY. 

NEW YORK: 

CHARLifiS S. FRANCIS AND COMPANY. 

1853. 



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Entered aceording to Aet of Congress, in the year 1852, by 

CROSBY, NICHOLS, AND COMPANY, 

in the Clerk's Offloe of the District Court of the District of Mnssachnsetts. 



MAHVARD COLLEGE LllRARr 

SHELDON FUND 

JULY 10. 1940 



CAMBRIDGE: 

inDLXOTTPXD AMD PBOmD BT 

9(BTGALP AND COMPANY, 

PBIKTKU TO THB UinTKBSITT. 



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CONTENTS. 



FAOB 

Introduction 1 



Childhood 



Parentage. — Character of the Mother. — First Training of 
Mary Fickard. — Early Visit to England. — Friends there. — 
Voyage Home. — Extracts from Letters. — Residence in 
Boston. — Pearl Street — First Friendships. — Nature and 
Education. — A Friend's'Description of Mary. 

III. 

Mental and Moral Cultitre . . . .16 

School at Hingham. — A Teacher's Reminiscence. — Sick- 
ness and Death of Mrs. Fickard. — Mary*s Position. — Her 
Father's Circumstances. — Dr. Park's School. — Earliest 
Letters. — Thoughts and Themes. — Chosen Friend. — Pe- 
culiar Confidence. -^Return to Hingham. — Teacher's Ac- 
count — Moral Decision and 'DecUration. — Letters. — 
Joining the Church. — Henry Ware. 

IV. 

Discipline and Character 36 

Mr. Pickard's Embarrassments. — His Correspondence 
with Mary. — Her Sympathy and Faith. — Her Teacher's 



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CONTENTS. 

Testimony to her Piety. — She leaves Hingham. — Her 

Grandfather's Death. — Devotion to her Grandmother 

Visit to Northampton. — Her Self-distrust. — Interest in Dr. 
Channing. — Letters on his Preaching, and Interview with 
him. — Correspondence with Miss Cnshing. — Death of her 
Grandmother. 



Changes at Home 57 

Leaving Pearl ^Street. — Fears for the Futore. — Pecuniary 
Means. — Business and Travel. — New York and Baltimore. 
— Mr. Pickard's Displeasure. — Return to Boston. — Let- 
ters on Providence and Bereavement. — Death of J. E. 
Abbot. — Living in Dorchester. — Morbid Feelings. — Mar- 
riage of her Friend. — Her own Trials. — Influence upon 
others. — Interesting Case. — Dr. Channing's Absence and 
Betom. — Death of her Father. 

VI, 

Visit Abroad 92 

Loneliness. — Invitation to go Abroad. — Letters relating 
to it. — A Friend's Admiration. — Arrival in England. — 
Mrs. Freme. — Letters from London and Broadwater. — Isle 
of Wight. — Paris. — Her Friends* Return to America. — She 
remains with Relatives in England. — Chatham. — Bur- 
combe Hoose. — Many Letters. — Arrival of £. P. F. from 
America. — Letters from Sydenham. — Tour to Scotland. 
— Description of the Country. 

VII. 

Scenes of Sttffebinq 133 

The Poor Aunt. — Osmotherly. — Sickness and Sorrow 
among Kindred. — Mary the Chief Nurse and Devoted La- 
borer. — Details in Successive Letters. — She goes to Pen- 
rith. — Recalled to Osmotherly. — Further Changes. — Her 
own Sickness. — Anxiety of Friends in England and Amer^ 
ica. — Joy at her Escape. 



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CONTENTS. T 

Vffl. 

New Eelations 176 

Betarn from England.— Welcome Home.— Labon of 
Love. — Hemy Ware's Freachiiig. — Interest and Engage- 
ment.— Their Letters to Friends.— Views of the Belation 
of Stepmother.— Parish Belations and Dnties. — Sense of 
Besponsibilit^. — Desire of Usefulness. — Visit to North- 
ampton. —Disappointments. — Husband's Dlness at Ware. 

— She goes to him. — Thence to Worcester. — Birth of her 
First Child. — Husband's Journey for Health. — Poetical 
Epistle to his Wife. — Newton. — Betum to Sheafe Street. 

— Attachment and Removal. — Brookline. — Plan for 
Cambridge. — Thoughts of Europe. — End of Parish Life. 

IX. 

Etjkopean Toue 211 

Sailing for England with her Husband. — Her Feelings at 
leaTing the Children^ — Difference between this 'and her 
former Visit. — Her Husband's Sickness and Depression. — 
The Great Trial.— Their Route. —England and ScotUnd. — 
The Continent — Geneva and Letters. — The Treatise on 
Christian Character. — Italy. — Naples and Rome. — An- 
nual to Mrs. Paine. — Birth of a Daughter. — Mr. Ware's 
Discouragement — Mrs. Ware's Anxiety. — Her Account of 
Sufferings and Exertions. — Their Return to France and 
England. — His Excursion alone. — Her Provision for her 
Aunt — Letter to her Children. — Passage Home. — Hus- 
band's Illness. — Arduous Offices. ^- Her View of her own 
Constitution. 



Life in Cambsidge 237 

Final Leave of the Parish in Boston. — Remoral to Cam- 
bridge — New Position. — Chief Anxieties. ^- Pecuniary 
Straits. — Mrs. Ware's Sickness, long and serious. — Hus- 
band's Feelings. — Emma's Visit — Letters to Mrs. Paine 
and Emma. — Mrs. Ware's Recorery and Summons to Con- 



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VI CONTENTS. 

cord. — Mr. Ware^s Illness there, and Apprehen«ions.~Her 
Use of the Warning, and Habit of Preparation.— Death of 
her Son Robert — Her Acooont — Devotion to her Children. 
— Letters to John. — Cases of Hospitality. — Crowded, baft 
never worried. — Joomal to John. — Letters at the End of 
1832 and 1833. — Dangerous Illness of a Child. 

XL 

Life in Cambridge. (Continued.) . . 270 

Pnidence in Sickness. — Mrs. Ware's View of it, and Expe- 
riepce. — Her Principle and Practice in Regard to Dress. — 
Exemption from Sickness. — Social and Private Efforts for 
Others —r Moral Cases. — General Intercourse. — Sympathy 
with Children. — Hatred of Gossip. — Husband's Severe Ill- 
ness in 1836. — The Aid she rendered him. — Her Interest 
in the Theological Students. — Their Testimony to her Kind- 
ness and Influence. — Pecuniary Embarrassment. — Death 
of a Sister. — View of Events and Circumstances. — Con- 
tinued Mercies. — Pleasant Letters. — A Change approach- 
ing. — Various Records. — Her Husband goes to New York. 
— His Sickness there, and her Joining him. — Return, and 
Resignation of Office. — Dark Prospects. — Strong Faith 
and Hope.— Leaving Cambridge. 

XII. 

Life in FRAMiNGrA.M 314 

Pain of Removal. — New Residence. — Generosity of 
Friends. — Extracts from Letters. — Faithful Domestic. -^ 
Views of Service. — Larger Extracts. — Death of Dr. Chan- 
ning. — Kindness of Neighbors. — Mr. Ware^s Illness in 
Boston. — Her Feelings. — Return to Framingham. — His 
Jaunts and final Sickness. ~ His Death. — First Sabbath. — 
Burial at Cambridge. — Letters to Children and Friends. — 
Isolation and Suffering.— Labor, Mental and Manual. — 
Preparation of a Memoir. — Communion with her Husband 
and the Departed Ones.— Letters to her Son. — Looking for 
a new Residence. — Decision for Milton. — Last Record of 
Framingham. 



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CONTENTS. VU 

XIII. 

Life in Milton . 364 

Mrs. Ware's Fears of Loss of Power. — First Letter from 
Milton, describing her Condition. — Progress of Mind seen 
in her Letters. — Views of Edncation. — Reliance upon her 
Children. — Yarions Records'. — The New Cottage. — Love 
of Nature. — Beginning of Disease. — Continued Work. — 
School. — Views of separating Children. — Trust for Things 
Temporal and Spiritual. — Annuals for 1845 and 1846. — 
Letters of Sympathy .— Letters to her Children. — Son at 
Exeter. — Her Visit there. — Views of Preaching and 
Preachers. — Tribute of a Pastor. — Family R&ligion. — 
Important Letters. — Equanimity in Sickness. — Death of 
Emma. — Visit to Cambridge. — End of the Year. — The 
Time yet remaining. 

XIV. 

The End 413 

Last Days natural, not wonderful. — Quietness and En- 
joyment. — Relative Duties. — Decline of Strength. — Dis- 
closure of her Disease. — Private Paper. — Visit to her Son. 

— Once more a Nurse and Helper. — Sinking and Rallying. 

— Accounts of her by Friends. — Her own Account. — In- 
fluence upon Others. — Her Pain at being praised. — Letter 
from England. ~ Her last Letter. — Conversation on the 
Future. — Her Pastor's Visit. — Closing Expressions. — Her 
Husband's Words. -^ Death and Burial. — Conclusion. 



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MEMOIR.. 



INTRODUCTION. 

The life of an unpretending Christian woman is 
never lost. Written or unwritten, it is and ever will 
be an active power among the elements that form 
and advance society. Yet the written life will speak 
to the larger number, will be wholly new to many, 
and to all may carry a healthy impulse. There are 
none who are not strengthened and blessed by the 
knowledge of a meek, firm, consistent character, 
formed by religious influences, and devoted to the 
highest ends. And where this character has be- 
longed to a daughter, wife, and mother, who has 
been seen only in the retired domestic sphere, there 
may be the more reason that it be transferred to the 
printed page and an enduring form, because of the 
very modesty which adorned it, and which would 
never proclaim itself. 

Such are our feelings in regard to the subject of 
1 



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2 INTRODUCTION. 

the following Memoir, and such our reasons for offer- 
ing it to the public It has not been without scruple, 
and after an interval of years, that the family and 
nearest friends of Mrs. Ware have consented to the 
publication of facts and thoughts so private and 
sacred as many which must appear in a faithful 
transcript of her life. Perhaps this reluctance always 
exists, particularly in regard to a woman and a 
mothW. In this instance it has been very strong, 
and it is but just that it be .made known. Never 
was there a woman, we may believe, more retiring 
or peculiarly domestic than she of whom we are to 
speak. Never, we are sure, were the materials of a 
life more entirely private, and in one sense confiden- 
tial, than those which we are to use ; for letters are 
all the materials we have, and letters written in the 
unrestrained freedom of personal friendship, in the 
midst of pressing cares, and with a rapidity and 
unstudied naturalness, which will «appear in all the 
extracts, but are still mor^ manifest in the entire 
originals. Her correspondence was voluminous, to 
an extent unsurpassed perhaps in a life so quiet, 
with no pretence to literary character, and nothing 
ever written except for the eye of the receiver. How 
would the writer have felt, had she supposed these 
letters were ever to be opened to the public eye ? It 
is a question which many ask, — some with pain, 
some with decided disapproval. It is a question 
which we have asked ourselves, and we prefer to 
answer it before we enter upon the work. 

To answer it unfavorably, to yield to this natural 
reluctance to publish any thing designed to be pri- 



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INTRODUCTION. d 

▼ate, and in its nature personal, would deprive us 
of the best biographies that are written. It would 
restrict to single families, and to a brief period, the 
knowledge of facts and features, of all most reliable, 
most valuable. Indeed, it is this very fact of humility 
and reserve, of freedom and naturalness, indulged in 
confidential communion and the quiet of home, that 
reveals most the reality of virtue, force of character, 
disinterested nobleness, and the power of religion. 
Who is willing that the knowledge of such examples 
should be withheld from the many who crave it, and 
whom it would stimulate and bless ? Shall we make 
no sacrifice of our own feelings, supposing it to re- 
quire one, shall we hoard exclusively for our own 
use the richest of God's gifts, when those by whom 
the gifts have come to us spent their lives in service 
and sacrifice for us? To these obvious considera* 
tions, we will add our firm faith in the knowledge 
which departed friends have of the motives from 
which we are acting, and of the influence which their 
own modest virtues and lowly efforts on earth may 
exert upon those remaining here ; thus continuing, 
in a higher and surer way, the very work for which 
the loved and the pure always live, and are willing 
to die. 

It is. in point, not only for our immediate purpose, 
but for the exhibition in part of the character we 
would delineate, to say that these were the feelings 
of Mrs. Ware herself, in regard to a memoir of her 
husband. Public as a large portion of his life was, 
she shrunk from the exposure of that which was 
private, and which seemed to be sacredly committed 



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4 INTRODUCTION. 

to her own keeping. She remembered, too, his pe- 
culiar sensitiveness in this connection, and the in- 
junctions he gave when under the influence of dis- 
ease and depression. But another voice came to 
her from his present higher abode and larger vision ; 
and thus she wrote to a friend, of the conflict and 
the decision, in language applicable now to her own 
case : — "I cannot tell you the agony it has given me 
at times, to realize that that sacred inner life, which 
I had felt was my own peculiar trust, was no longer 
mine, but was to be shared by the whole world. 
But this was sinful, selfish, earthly ; and I have 
gradually left it all far behind, and can now only be 
glad that such a life is shown for the aid and en- 
couragement of others." * 

It is our desire to give to this Memoir as much as 
possible of the character of an autobiography. We 
have few facts except those found in the letters, with 
the advantage of an intimate intercourse for more 
than twenty years. In the several hundred letters 
and notes that have been put into our hands, there is 
nothing that might not appear, so far as any one else 
i^ concerned. This fact is well worthy of note, as 
belonging to the character, and revealing a remarka- 
ble elevation and purity of thought, — that in such a 
mass of free epistolary writing, from different coun- 
tries and to persons of every age, not a single severe 
stricture, not one unkind allusion or ofiensive per- 
sonality, much less any approach to petty gossip, can 
be found. We feel the greater freedom in making 
copious extracts ; and shall attempt little more than 
flo to arrange and connect them as to give a fair 



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INTRODUCTION. 6 

view of the whole life, or rather of the mind and 
character that appear in every part of the life. That 
a life so private contained such a variety of inddenti 
and a measure of unavoidable publicity, was the 
ordering of Providence ; and may serve to show that 
the sphere of woman, even the most domestic and 
silent, is broad enough for the most active intellect 
and the largest benevolence. 



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11. 

CHILDHOOD. 

Mary Lovell Pickard was an only child, her 
parents having but one other, who died an infant 
before the birth of Mary. She was born in Atkinson 
Street, Boston, on the 2d of October, 1798. Mark 
Pickard, her father, was an English merchant, who 
came to this country on business, and remained here. 
Her mother was Mary Lovell, daughter of James 
Lovell, and granddaughter of " Master Lovell," so 
long known as a classical teacher in Boston. James 
Lovell, the grandfather of the subject of this Memoir, 
was a man of mind and influence. He had been 
active in the Revolutionary war, and was once made 
prisoner at Halifax, sharing there, it is said, the 
prison of Ethan Allen. Subsequently he was a 
prominent member of the Continental Congress, and 
at the adoption of the Constitution received the ap- 
pointment of Naval Officer in the Boston custom- 
house, a place which he retained until his death. 
A man of free and bold thought, associating much 
at one time with French officers, Mr. Lovell adopted 
some infidel principles, became familiar and fond 
of Paine's arguments, and, as we are led to infer, 
treated religion with little respect in his family ; the 
family in which Mary Pickard, as well as her mother, 



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CHILDHOOD. 7 

passed her childhood and youth. James Lovell had 
nine children, but only one daughter, Mary, who 
grew up the idol of the family. At the age of 
twenty-five she married Mark Pickard, who was 
seventeen years her senior, but not her equal in in- 
tellect or energy, we infer, yet always kind and most 
tenderly attached to her. She was a woman of rare 
excellence, in whose character, as drawn by those 
still living who knew her well, we can see, as usual, 
much that accounts for the character of the daughter. 
Mrs. Pickard had been educated in Boston, and 
well educated, having a naturally vigorous mind and 
strong common sense. She was a woman of self- 
culture, loving books and choosing the best, convers- 
ing with marked propriety as well as ease, and ex- 
hibiting decided energy and generosity of character. 
In person, she is described as remarkable ; of so 
commanding figure, benignant countenance, and 
dignified demeanor, as to draw general observation 
in public, and suggest the thought once expressed 
by a gentleman of intelligence, — "She seems to 
me as if she were born for an empress." Yet her 
empire was only the home, and her life peculiarly 
domestic ; with enough of discipline and change to 
prove her fortitude, but never to damp her cheerful- 
ness. She was a Christian. In early life, perhaps 
from causes already referred to, her mind had been 
disturbed, and apparently doubts raised, though 
never fixed, by sceptical writers and so-called philo- 
sophical reasoners, — more common in good society 
then than now, and more bold and insidious, not- 
withstanding our complaints of present degeneracy. 



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8 CHILDHOOD. 

A gentleman to whom Mrs. Pickard had once com- 
municated her difficulties, and who was less a be- 
liever than she, spoke of her the day after her death, 
in reference to that conflict, as " one of strong mind, 
who took nothing upon trust" even at that early 
age when she approached him with "obstinate 
questionings." "Whatever the effect upon his faith, 
her own was strengthened by all inquiry and ex- 
perience. She was a member of the Episcopal 
Church, though apparently less a devotee to its 
ritual than Mr. Pickard. Not sect, but piety, was 
the source of her power and peace. " In religion," 
says one most intimate, "she was unostentatious 
and charitable, but decided and sincere ; and her 
whole life was an exhibition of the ascendancy of 
principle over mere taste and feeling." 

Such was the mother, who was the constant com- 
panion and instructor of an only daughter, through 
the whole of childhood ; for Mary never attended 
school, that we can find, until she was nearly thirteen 
years old. But in that best of schools for the very 
young, an intelligent and quiet home, she was well 
instructed in the common branches, in habits of 
order, refinement, and frugality, in principles of un- 
deviating truth and integrity, and in that most es- 
sential of all accomplishments for a girl, whether in 
ordinary or exalted station, the use of the needle. 
Her mother also taught her to sing, being herself 
passionately fond of music, with one of the sweetest 
voices, and, though not a great performer, enough so 
to impart a love of it to her child which always con- 
tinued, associated with holy recollections. " Often," 



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CHILDHOOD. 9 

says one, " at early evening, just before going to rest, 
have I seen the little girl upon her mother's lap, and 
have heard her singing her evening hymn : ^ 

* Teach me to live, that I may dread 
The grave as little as my bed ' ; &c'* 

In January, 1802, Mr. Pickard was called to Eng- 
land on business, and took with him his wife and 
the little Mary, then but three years old. They re- 
mained there a year and a half, visiting both his 
and her relatives, in different parts of the kingdom ; 
Mrs. Pickard being connected, on her mother's side, 
with Alexander Middleton, a Scotch farmer, in whose 
family Ferguson, the astronomer, lived as a shep- 
herd boy, and of whom, with his wife and three 
children, there are still existing likenesses drawn in 
pencil by that lad, so celebrated as a man. Among 
such friends, and in such new scenes, we can believe 
a deep impression would be taken by an observing, 
thoughtful child, though at an age when it is con- 
sidered of little consequence what a child sees or 
hears. Mary never forgot the enjoyment or the in- 
struction of that visit. When she was again in 
England, twenty years later, she wrote her Mends 
here that she was surprised to find herself recogniz- 
ing*her old home in Guildford Street, London, and 
other objects with which she was then familiar. 
And years afterwards, when her own children came 
round her with the never-satisfied request,. " Mother, 
do tell us about when you were a little girl," the 
standing favorites were incidents which occurred 
either in England or on the voyage home, and par- 
ticularly the following. During the voyage, her 



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10 CHILDHOOD. 

fifth birthday came round, and the captain promised 
her baked potatoes for her dinner, but, as the cook 
burnt them, threatened to give him the "cat-o'- 
nine-tails"; when poor little Mary, not taking the 
joke, burst into tears, and begged him " not to hurt 
the kind, good sailor, who did n't mean to burn the 
potatoes." 

A lady who came as passenger in the same vessel, 
has told us of the peculiar sweetness of little Mary, 
and the universal interest and love inspired by her 
in the ship's company. And this from no outward 
attractions, or efforts to commend herself, but by the 
simple power of goodness, and her ever-prompt 
obedience. If inclined to go anywhere, or do any 
thing, not approved by her mother, it was always 
enough to say, — "It will make me unhappy, my 
child, if you do that." 

A few extracts which we are permitted to make 
from letters that passed, during this absence abroad, 
between Mrs. Pickard and her parents, will help to 
show the respect and affection which the daughter 
inspired, as well as the interest felt in the little 
granddaughter. 

Under date of January 10, 1802, James Lovell 
writes from Boston ix> his daughter in England : — 

" I constantly recur to the joyful consideration, that you, 
though absent, are still \eh to me, an amiable object, within 
the reach of hope, and a source of expected comfort for 
my last days. I think of you, at this moment, as safely 
arrived with your most worthy husband., and my None-such^ 
in health, and happy among your friends. My engage- 
ments in office, especially since General Lincoln has been 



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CHILDHOOD. 11 

confined by sickness at Hingham, have occupied me very 
much. Though it is evening, little Dickey is bristling up 
and attempting to sing, that I may not forget to tell my 
dear little Molly Pitty how constantly he looks for her in 
the momiDg, at the rattling of the tongs and fender. Kiss 
the dear child for me. James Lovell, — need I add, 

your affectionate father } '' 

In February, 1803, Mr^ Pickard writes home to 
her mother : — 

" Your pickles and berries came in good order, and were 
very acceptable, particularly to my darling Mary. She 
oflen thanks you for them, and is now writing to you, and 
interrupts me every minute to hear her read her letter. 
My father must not laugh, and say I call my goose a swan ; 
every one allows she is a charming child. You will not 
be able to deny her a large portion of your love, though 
you have so many lovely ones with you. She has been an 
inexhaustible source of comfort to me since I left you ; and, 
as if she knew it would please us all, most of her conversa- 
tion is of home and the friends she left there. She has a 
sad cold, but she says she is always happy. Farewell, 
dear mother. God bless you all." 

March, 1803. From the same : — 

" We are still in Guildford Street, but think of going into 
the country, where Mary may have more field for exercise. 
She is pretty well, but wants a little country air. I wish 
you knew all her little chat about you, so pleasing to hear, 

but so foolish to write. She is very tall and lively 

Mr. P. is even more anxious than I to go home. Mary is 
the only contented one. She is happy all the time. She 
has a very sweet disposition, and I hope ivill one day be as 
great a comfort to you as she is to me. She is telling me 
a thousand little affectionate things to say to you." 



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12 CHILDHOOD. 

In the fall of this year the family returned to 
Boston, and lived with Mrs. Lovell in Pearl Street; 
and there, with parents and grandparents, Mary 
found a home, whose blessing filled her heart, and 
never left her to the day of her death. The home 
of her childhood, — how reverently and tenderly did 
she revert to it, through all the scenes of a changing 
and eventful life I Ofte^ has she said, that she was 
continually carried back, not only in her waking, but 
her sleeping hours, "to the old Pearl Street house 
and garden; assembling the various friends of all 
the different periods of her life, in dream-like incon- 
gruity, in the little parlor, with its black-oak wain- 
scoting." There also were formed some of those 
first friendships, which do not cease with childhood, 
but affect the happiness of a lifetime. The other 
half of the block in which they lived was occupied 
by Colonel T. H. Perkins, and with his children, of 
whom some were near her own age, she grew up in 
terms of daily intimacy. In the partition between 
the two houses there were doors which were entirely 
closed, except their keyholes ; and through these, 
Mary and her favorite companion used to sing to 
each other "all the songs we could muster," and 
exchange notes and experiences, the pleasure en- 
hanced, no doubt, by the excitement of the little 
mystery occasioned by so peculiar a mode of com- 
munication. 

So far as our scanty materials of this period en- 
able us to judge, we infer that in the training of this 
favorite child there was a singularly wise union of 
control and indulgence. Mrs. Pickard seems not to 



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CHILDHOOD. 13 

have been one of the parents who think control and 
indulgence incompatible; nor does it appear that 
Mary was inclined to refuse the one, or abuse the 
other. The true training, we suppose, — if there be 
any rule for all, — is that which allows to children 
all the freedom and enjoyment consistent with def- 
erence to authority, refined manners, and fixed prin- 
ciples of truth, gentleness, and unselfishness. That 
these principles may be inculcated without sternness 
or perpetual restraint, indeed with a large allowance 
for the necessary activity and often irrepressible exu- 
berance of childhood's spirit, few can doubt, though 
so many deny or forget it in practice. From the 
views which Mrs. Ware herself always expressed on 
this subject, and the reverence and gratitude with 
which she adverted to her own childhood, we are 
confirmed in the impression, that such was her uni- 
form experience at home, and with the happiest 
effect. ^ It has been said," writes a Mend of her 
mother, <^that she was much indulged; and I be- 
lieve it may be said so with truth. But she was not 
indulged in idleness, selfishness, and rudeness; she 
was indulged in healthful sports, in abundance of 
playthings, in pleasant excursions, and in compan- 
ionship with other children, as much as might be 
convenient. I never knew her to be teasing and 
importunate, obstinate or contradictory." Nor is 
this to be ascribed, as many will be ready to ascribe 
it, to natural temperament and a peculiar exemption 
from ordinary temptations and trials. Of few per- 
sons, perhaps, would this be more generally inferred 
or confidently asserted, from a knowledge merely of 
2 



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14 CHILDHOOD. 

her SDbsequent character. It is on this account that 
we refer to it particularly, and for this not least that 
we value the example. For we know it was not a 
case of peculiar exemption and easy control, but 
rather a remarkable instance of early conflict, the 
power of principle, and perpetual self-discipline. 
This we gather from occasional hints in conversa- 
tion, and from letters to her own children, some of 
which will appear in their proper place. At present, 
we only adduce, for the right understanding both of 
this and later periods of her life, one or two short 
passages, like the following, from a letter to a 
daughter. " The ^tendency to self-indulgence was 
also one of my trials, in early life, when I grew rap- 
idly and had poor health." '^ My trials of temper 
were different from yours, but they were very great." 
" What a comfort it is, that, although those who see 
only the outside can never compute what is resisted^ 
all our struggles are known and appreciated by Him 
who looketh on the heart as it is ; and that He who 
alone can give us strength is thus enabled to know 
when and how it is needed." 

To this brief sketch of her childhood we venture 
to add an extract from a letter just written us, by a 
gentieman than whom no one living, probably, was 
more intimate with Mary and her home, at that 
early period. After a warm tribute to the character 
of the mother, confirming all we have said of her, he 
8f>eaks thus of the daughter : — 

" When 1 first remember her, it is as a gentle, loving, 
active child, always doing some little useful thing, and the 
darling of her parents' hearts. When her character first 



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OBILPHOOD. 15 

shone on me in its higher attributes, I do not know. But 
I seem to myself to remember, that there never was a 
time when I could have supposed it possible that she would 
do any thing that was not exactly right ; when I had not 
perfect confidence in her tact and judgment to discern duty, 
and the prompt and unhesitating determination to do it, as 
the only thing to he doneJ*^ 



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III. 

MENTAL AND MORAL CULTURE. 

Remaining in Boston, with little change, until she 
was thirteen years of age, Mary Kckard was then 
taken by her parents to Hingbam, Massachusetts, 
to be under the care of the Misses Cashing, whose 
school for girls enjoyed at that time, and as long as 
it continued, a very high reputation. Her instruct- 
ors there, who still live, seem to have regarded her 
as a friend and companion, rather than a child and 
pupil; and the fresh recollections and tender love 
with which they always speak of her, and delight to 
dwell upon her early and mature character, give us 
an impression of more than common excellence. 
This will best be shown by an extract from a letter 
written since her death to one of her children. 

^^ Your dear mother came to us first in June, 1811 ; a 
sweet, interesting girl, thirteen years old, tall for that age, 
and with the same sweet expression o{ countenance she 
ever retained ; remarkable even then for her disinterested- 
ness and forgetfulness of self, and her power of gaining the 
love of all around her. She went home in November of 

the same year, and returned to us again in 1814 

She was with us but little more than one year in the whole, 
and in that short period endeared herself to us in a remark- 
able manner. For with the love which we eodd not but 



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MENTAL AND MORAL CULTURE. 17 

fiael for her was mingled a respect and admiration for her 
high principles, and the piety which shone through all her 
conduct, in a degree very uncommon for a girl of her age. 
As a scholar she was exceedingly bright, and quick to com- 
prehend, and would, I always thought, have made an excel- 
lent mathematical scholar, had she pursued the study of 
that branch. Her capacity for accomplishing a great deal 
in a short time was always remarkable, and I believe she 
never undertook any thing that she thought worth her atten- 
tion, that she did not go through to the satisfaction of others, 
if not of herself. Her chief object, even when a young girl, 
seemed to be to do good, in some way or other, to her fel- 
low-beings, and she considered nothing too difficult for her 
to undertake, if it could benefit another person either in a 
temporal or moral view. You have had sufficient evidence 
of this, since you have been old enough to judge for your- 
self, and I can only tell you that it seemed to be, at an 
early period of her life, a living principle with her. Yet, 
with all this devotedness to the highest objects and purposes 
of our existence, she was one of the most lively and play- 
ful girls among her companions, and a very great favorite 
with them all." 

Mary had been but five or six months in the 
school at Hingham, when she was called back to 
Boston by the threatening illness of her mother, 
who continued feeble through the winter, and died 
in the month of May following. That winter must 
have been one of peculiar experience to Mary. It 
was her first great trial She loved her mother, not 
only as every true child must, but with a reverence 
and affection heightened by the unusual circum- 
stance of having been always the pupil of that 
moth^ alone, regarded as a companion also, and 
2* 



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IS MENTAL ANI> MORAL CULTURE. 

called now to the tender offices of a nnrse, at an age 
when most children can ill bear confinement and 
devotion to the sick. Mary was never happier than 
when thus occupied, as her whole life has shown. 
To her it was no task, but a grateful privilege, to 
spend all her time at the side of a revered and de* 
parting mother. For six months was she allowed 
to give herself to this blessed ministry ; and when it 
closed, she was left, a girl of thirteen, the sole com- 
fort and chief companion of her father, now past the 
prime of life, broken in spirits and in fortune, cling- 
ing to this only child with doating and dependent 
affection. She now became an important member 
of the family in Pearl Street, with her desolate 
father, and her venerable grandparents, who were 
still living, depending themselves more upon her for 
their comfort than upon the only son that remained 
with them, a young man whose fine talents and af- 
fectionate disj>osition were perverted and ruined by 
sad habits. These were circumstances to call out 
all her energy, and make full proof of her judgment 
and gentleness. Mr. Pickard had for some time 
been embarrassed in business, and, from a state of 
easy competence, was then and afterwards reduced 
to the necessity of the strictest economy. Of his 
daughter's essential service to him in this respect, 
we have frequent intimations in his own letters ; and 
not only by her prudent management, but also by 
her generous and active aid, as will be seen still 
more a few years later. For her father survived her 
mother eleven years, and during the whole of that 
I^riod, though not always together, Mary was his 



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HBNTAL AND MORAL CULTURE, 19 

efficient helper, and his devoted nurse in sickness, 
of which he had a large share. 

For two years after her mother's death, she re- 
mained wholly in Boston, enjoying part of the time 
a new privilege, which she greatly prized, — admis- 
sion to the best school for young ladies then in New 
England, or the country, — Dr. Park's. That she 
would improve sUch an opportunity to the best of 
her ability, we need not say. Of her proficiency as 
a scholar, there are no particular proofs. She was 
never a prodigy, but she never slighted opportunity 
or duty. She appeared always well, distinguished 
at least for faithful preparation and uniform accu- 
racy. And especially was she distinguished for 
moral excellence. She was the friend and favorite 
of all. If petty difficulties occurred, Mary Pickard 
was the peacemaker. Her impartiality, amiable- 
ness, kindness to all, and perfect truthfulness, en- 
deared her to the teacher and all the pupils ; from 
several of whom we have had the testimony, that no 
one ever exerted a better influence upon any schooL 

The earliest letters we have from Mary were writ- 
ten in 1813, the year after her mother's death, and 
about the time of her first going to school in Boston. 
They are the letters of a school-girl, but not of a 
child. While there is in them no indication of re- 
markable powers, to which she did not pretend, nor 
her friends for her, they show a habit of reflection 
and power of discrimination, with a choice of topics 
not usual at that age. A few passages may be 
given, very simple and juvenile, but indicative of 
character. 



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20 MENTAL AND MORAL CULTURB. 

'^Boston, Febmary 27, 1813. 
" My DEAR N : 

*^ I am determined another day shall not pass before 1 
answer your letter. I think it is the best way, when we 
receive a letter, to sit down immediately and answer it ; at 

least I find it so, though I do not always practise it 

We talk so much when we meet, that there is little left to 
write, and I am now at a loss what to say. The folly of 
the fashionable world is an old story, and if not, is too vast 
a subject for our limited views of it. Of our school plan 
we have said much, but we can say more. I had no idea 
that such insignificant beings as we are, in comparison, 
could ever afford matter for so much conversation as there 
has been on this subject. Although opinions could not alter 
the case, yet it is certainly very satisfactory to know that 
our doings are approved by those whose good opinion we 
value. I look forward with much pleasure to the day on 
which we shall commence our studies. We shall feel very 
awkward at first, but it will soon be over, and then we must 
endeavor to keep ourselves exempt from the condemna- 
tion that falls on the whole school for the faults of two or 
three 

" I am reading ' Temper,' and like it much better than 
I expected to, having heard nothing in its favor, and, besides 
that, being prejudiced against it. I have condemned preju- 
dice in others, but never felt the effects of it before ; I dis- 
like it now more than ever, — it is certainly a most unrea- 
sonable thing. I like some of the characters very much, 
and it is not as yet very tedious, but contains many good 
lessons. I find many that I can apply to myself, and (as 
usual) some to other people. It cannot, however, be com- 
pared to * The Absentee ' or ' Vivian.' Novels are generally 
said to be improper books for young people, as they take 
up the time which ought to be employed in more useful 



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MENTAL AND MORAL CULTUBS. 21 

pursuits ; which is certainly very true ; but as a lecreatioii 
to the mind, such books as these cannot possibly do any 
hur^ as they are good moral lessons. Indeed, I think there 
is scarcely any book from which some good may not be 
derived ; though it cannot be expected that any young per- 
son has judgment enough to leave all the bad and take only 
the good, when there is a great proportion of the former. 
I know we are too young to hold up an opinion of our own, 
independent of the superior judgment of those older, and 
this I would not do. I have collected mine from observa- 
tion, and, if it is not right, would thank any one to correct 
it ; nor would I ofier it at all to any one but you, or those 
of my own age." 

That last sentiment will seem very juvenile to 
many young people of the present day, but it is 
none the worse for that Nor by this writer was the 
expression of such sentiments restricted to that age ; 
for modesty and deference, combined with self-re- 
spect and decision, were marked features and pecu- 
liar graces of the character we are presenting. They 
axe features and graces of a strong mind. Super* 
ciliousness, in youth or maturity, is a sign of weak- 
ness. And it says little for the improvement or the 
promise of the present, if it be true that respect for 
experience, reverence for age, and meekness of ex- 
pression, are rare qualities in the young. Mary was 
still young, when she wrote to her father, — "I am 
no advocate for destroying that delicacy which forms, 
or ought to form, so great a part of the female char- 
acter. But such a degree of it as is not compatible 
with sufficient firmness to command one's self in 
dang^, appears to me to be false modesty, or < sickly 



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22 KBNTAL AND MORAL CULTURB. 

sensibility of soul,' — beneath the dignity of beings 
endowed with power for higher feelings." Here is 
that union of humility and courage which maiked 
her whole course. 

In all her early letters there is an entire absence 
of that trivial talk about dress, parties, and the gossip 
of the day, so common at her age. Instead of it, we 
find remarks either upon moral and religious themes, 
or upon her reading and studies. In the very earliest 
letter we have, written in a child's hand, she speaks 
of her interest in the " Life of Washington, in five 
large octavo volumes," and expresses the opinion, 
that " the history of one's country ought to be the 
first historical lesson of a child." About the same 
time, we find her deeply engaged in an argument 
upon the moral influence of the study of astron- 
omy; and her mind rises to the highest and the 
largest views. 

**• The hand of Almighty God certainly should raise in 
our souls such unbounded adoration and love, that our only 
object would be, to be worthy to appear before the presence 
of such excellent goodness, and partake of the joys of 
heaven. It seems unaccountable, that any one could for 
a moment laise his eyes to the sky and not be convinced 
of the being of some superior power, who rules and directs 
the paths of the planets and the ways of the children of 
men. If we for a moment transport ourselves to another 
part of the universe, and behold our little insignificant 
Earth in comparison with the rest, or with any other planet, 
and consider how highly favored it has been with the pres- 
ence of the Son of its Creator, are we to think that we alone 
are thus honored, and that superior worlds are not endowed 



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MENTAL AND MORAL CULTtJRB. 23 

in the same manner with a knowledge of heavenly things ? 
But I find myself getting into an argument, on which, 
though the subject may be interesting, the style of the writer 
must be tedious." 

These extracts are from letters written to a friend 
near her own age, with whom there began at this 
time the longest and most confiding intimacy of her 
life, out of the circle of immediate connections, if 
indeed any exception need be made. To this friend 
are addressed some of the first and last letters that 
Mary ever wrote, and by far the larger number of 
all which we use for this sketch. It is an evidence 
of the faithfulness of her friendships, that from the 
date of the earliest letter we have, through nearly 
forty years, she wrote to that same friend, beside 
other occasional letters, "a New Year's epistle," 
every year, to the last in her life. And to her were 
confided her first and deepest trials, disclosed to no 
one else, and beginning while at school. There is 
something both ingenuous and magnanimous in 
such sentiments as the following, from a girl of 
fifteen, whom the death of a mother had placed in 
circumstances of peculiar responsibility, and often 
painful perplexity. 

" I expose to you ray weaknesses, my faults, my passions. 
There is but one thing of which I have the slightest appre- 
hension. You may sometimes hear me blamed for deeds 
which you know are right. You will hear my lot in life 
envied, as apparently all that the reasonable wishes of any 
being could desire. And sometimes, too, busy Scandal, 
which honors even the most insignificant with her notice, 
will glance at me. Your generous, affectionate heart will 



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24 MENTAL AND MORAL CULTURE. 

prompt, I well know, on those occasions, some defence of 
your friend. But never give way to it ; never whisper to 
the winds that she has any trials. It will necessarily in- 
volve the question, What are they ? You are the only per- 
son to whom I ever communicated them, and my conscience 
almost reproaches me for it. I try to think my peculiar 
loneliness sanctions it, but my very uneasiness proves it 
was not strictly right, and I would not for worlds sin far- 
ther. You will bear with me. All this is foolish, but I 
must say it. I defy any one to tell from my appearance 
that I have not every thing to make me happy. I have 
much, and I am happy.' My little trials are essential to my 
happiness. They teach me to value the only true sources 
of enjoyment this life can afford, — the affection of the 
good, the cultivation of the better feelings of the soul in the 
service of their Creator, and the joyful hope of a better, 
purer state of existence. Blessings and peace go with you, 
and pure, unalloyed felicity be your portion for ever. 

" Maey." 

In the latter part of the year 1814, Mary left Bos- 
ton for Hingham, to be again in the family and 
under the tuition of the Misses Gushing. Of her 
character then, and the renewed impression made 
upon her instructors, a letter which we have re- 
cently received from one of them will give the best 
idea ; though, from regard to the writer's wishes, we 
quote but a small part. ^ 

" I can hardly give you an idea of my feelings towards 
her, during the whole of her residence with us, without 
seeming to speak extravagantly. Every day's experience 
confirmed our first impressions of her, and showed in some 
form the sweetness of her disposition, her self-sacrificing 
spirit, and untiring devotion to the claims of those about 



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MENTAL AND MORAL CULTUBE* 29 

her. She possessed such purity of heart, and elevation of 
principle, as were certainly uncommon at such an early 
period of life, and which, it seemed to me then, could only 
arise from a cpnstant sense of the Divine presence, and an 
habitual communion with the Source of all good. Love 
was always, with her, the predominant feeling in her 
thought of Grod, and I have heard her say she never re* 
membered the time when she did not feel that she loved 
God. This was said, you may be sure, not boastingly, but 
from surprise at hearing some one speak of the difficulty 
of giving the heart to God." 

And now came a crisis in that inner life, which 
was always greater to Mary Pickard than the out- 
ward. Always thoughtful as well as cheerful, her 
interest in religion, and her wish to be wholly a fol- 
lower of Christ, led her to an act, too rare with the 
young, and requiring, in school and college particu- 
larly, courage as well as principle. She desired to 
connect herself publicly with the Church. And the 
convictions by which she was brought to this pur- 
pose, with the views she entertained of the nature 
and importance of the act, we make no apology for 
giving, as fully as we find them expressed in her own 
letters ; for there are older minds that might be in- 
structed, and doubters who might be admonished 
and aided, even by so youthful a believer. Mary 
had received baptism in Trinity Church, Boston, but 
it is evident that in her moral training more heed 
had been given to the cultivation of piety than to 
adherence to forms and special doctrines. The 
preaching that she usually heard, in the church of 
ber parents, did not edify or satisfy her; a fact 
3 



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26 MENTAL AND MORAL CULTURE. 

which we give, without comment, as part of a faith- 
ful record, and as we find it in her own account to a 
son, in one of the last years of her life. The lan- 
guage in which she there describes her early religious 
wants is unusually strong for her, and might seem 
extravagant We give only the result of her dis- 
satisfaction with what she heard from the pulpit. 
" The final effect upon me was, by throwing me 
more upon myself, to open a new source of religious 
instruction to my mind ; and I can now remember 
with great pleasure, and a longing desire for the 
same vivid enjoyment, the hours I passed in *my 
little room,' in striving, by reading, meditation, and 
prayer, to find that knowledge and stimulus to virtue 
which I failed to find in the ministrations of the 
Sabbath." And then most earnestly does she ex- 
hort her son not to let these things, or any thing, 
tempt him "to treat sacred things with levity and 
disrespect." 

Few minds have kept themselves, through life, 
more free both from levity and bigotry. At the time 
of which we speak, she seems to have thought only 
of her own unworthiness, her need of religion, and 
the greatness of the privilege offered her. A long 
note which she wrote to one of the teachers with 
whom she was living, and to whom she confided all 
her feelings, will explain the whole. It bears no 
date, but must have been written in the autumn of 
1814, when she was about sixteen. 

" Saturday Momifig. 
" Will you, my dear Miss C, pardon my addressing you 
in this way, when under the same roof; but as I could not 



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MBNTAL AND MORAL CULTURB. 27 

speak on the subject I have now most at heart, in the pres- 
ence of any one, I did not think it right to engross exclu« 
sively so much of your valuable time as would be necessary 
to say all I wish to. I could not feel satisfied with my own 
conclusions, until I had appealed to you, and I hope this 
will excuse the liberty I take. Though still young, I have 
tasted the bitter cup of affliction and disappointment, and 
have found thus early that all worldly enjoyments are in- 
capable of promoting happiness, or even of securing present 
gratifications ; and in every deprivation have felt the heal- 
ing balm of Teligion to be the only source of consolation to 
the wounded spirit and afflicted mind. But I may, indeed, 
say with sincerity, ' It is good for me that I have been 
afflicted,' for it led me to reflect on the end for which I 
was created, to examine my own heart, and, by comparing 
it with the Christian standard^ to prove its weakness and 
awake to a sense of my danger. . A very little reflection 
convinced me I had been leading a yery different life from 
that which was requisite to form the character of a true 
Christian, and that I must exercise my utmost powers to 
redeem the time which I had lost, and which could never 
be recalled. Though I cannot think the observance of any 
religious ceremonies sufficient to secure future happiness, 
unless the motive for their performance is founded on faith 
in the word of Grod, as revealed to us by his Son, yet they 
seem to me necessary, not only in a moral, but religious 
point of view, to the attainment of that degree of perfection 
which we are taught it is in the power of every one to attain. 
^^ Ever since I have thought at all on the subject, it has 
been my earnest wish to be admitted a member of the 
Church of Christ. It is a duty which I cannot but think is 
of the highest importance, both as it is fulfilling the last 
request of one to whom we owe all we enjoy here or hope 
for hereafter, and as it continually reminds us of our obli- 



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28 MENTAL AND MORAL CULTURE* 

gations to obey his precepts, tends to make us better, and 
more worthy our high calling. If we assume the name 
of Christians, and obey not those positive commands of our 
Saviour which are in the power of every one who is sincere, 
how can we expect to receive a continuance of his favors ? 
Fearing 1 was too young fully to comprehend the use and 
importance of so solemn a rite, I have delayed saying or 
doing any thing about it. I have thought much on it, and 
summed up all the reasons which appeared to me to prove 
it absolutely necessary to our happiness and well-being, and 
all the objections that arose in my mind against the pro- 
priety of young persons joining in it. I then read every 
book on the subject I could meet with, and found in none 
of them half as many objections as I had raised, and very 
few arguments in its favor which I had not thought of. Do 
not think it has 'made me think better of myself than I de-^ 
serve, — far from it ; it made me feel more sensibly my 
own unworthiness, when compared with what I continually 
saw I ought to be. Still, as I could not give up all thoughts 
of it, I determined to appeal to you. Tell me, my dear 
Miss C, if you should consider it a violation of the sacred- 
ness of the institution, to think I might with impunity be a 
member ? I am well aware of the condemnation denounced 
on those who partake unworthily, and I tremble to think 
how liable I shall be to fall into error and sin, and how 
much greater will be my responsibility. These reflections 
have hitherto prevented my proposing it to my father or 
any one, and now almost make me fear I am doing wrong 
in writing to you. I am afraid I am presumptuous, and, 
did I not view it rather as a means of religion than the end, 
I should hardly suppose there were many who could say 
they were worthy of it. I cannot think there is any mystery 
connected with it, as some are so eager to prove, and its 
very simplicity renders it the more interesting and useful, 
and increases the obligation to perform it. 



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MENTAL AND MORAL CULTVBB* 39 

*^ Forgive me, my dear Miss C, if I have said any thing 
wrong, and correct me if you see any seeds of vice in me. 
Recollect I have heen the guardian of myself too long not 
to have erred very much in my ideas of every thing ; pity, 
and make me better, if the task is not too discouraging ; and 
be assured, the purest love and gratitude of which I am 
capable will be the sincere ofiering of your afiectionate 
young friend, 

" Mary.'' 

The self-scrutiny and humility evinced in this 
note prevented any hasty action. Mary seems still 
to have deliberated, and sought all the light and 
direction she could obtain. A long letter, of which 
we give a portion, to her true friend, N. C. S., in 
Boston, shows her state of inquiry and progress. 

** Mnghctmy January 13th, 1815. 
" You could not possibly have received more pleasure 
from hearing Mr. Thacher's sermon, than I did from read- 
ing your abstract of it. Nothing could be more satisfactory 
to me, who still doubted whether it would not be a viola- 
tion of. the sacredness of the institution, for any one so 
thoughtless and liable to fall into sin and folly to join in 
such a holy offering, with the good and faithful of the earth. 
But that was enough to convince any one who believed the 
obligation in any degree to be great, that it extended to young 
as well as old, and would be an effectual means of turn- 
ing them from error to a knowledge of truth, would make 
them happy here, and be almost a security of it hereafter. 
And though the punishment of those who outwardly profess 
themselves disciples of Christ, and yet devote their time 
and thoughts to the world, is inevitable, I cannot but think 
it will be in a much greater degree inflicted on those who 
wholly neglect it, particularly when once convinced of its 
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30 MENTAL AND MORAL CULTURE* 

importance. We have both felt the power which only the 
sight of others performing this duty has had on our minds ; 
what then will it be, when we join in it ourselves, and feel 
the direct influence of those heavenly rays, which enlighten 
the Christian at the altar of his God, and guide him in his 
dreary progress through the world to heaven ! Surely then 
we should not hesitate ; now, while it is in our power, it 
would be absolute wickedness to neglect the performance 
of such a reasonable and delightful act of duty. 

" Mary." 

But one doubt now remained in her mind; that 
caused by the many differences among believers, 
and the numerous branches of the Christian Church. 
But this she soon answered for herself, with her 
usual simplicity and largeness of view. " I have 
considered the Church of Christ to be one body dif- 
fused through the whole world, and that sects, form, 
and opinion made in truth no essential difference ; 
— that all the various denominations of Christians 
on the earth were united in one spirit and one mind, 
in all the important doctrines of religion." Not long 
after, she received from her confiding friend an ac- 
count of similar feelings in herself, together with an 
excellent note from the Rev. John E. Abbot, encour- 
aging their serious purpose. Mary's reply follows. 

*< Hingham, April Ist, 1815. 
"I do, indeed, my dear friend, rejoice with you in the 
unexpected and happy event your last letter informed me 
of. I had felt all your doubts and fears as though they 
were my own, and, I do assure you, participated in your joy 
with the same sincerity. How much reason have we to be 
grateful for this instance of the overruling Providence I 
Does it not sufficiently prove, that, if with sincerity and 



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MENTAL AND MORAL CULTURB* 81 

pureness of heart we undertake to perform any duty, we 
may rely on the assistance of the Holy Spirit to guide our 
steps, and to cause all things to concur to render it easy 
and delightful ? 

" I cannot tell you how much it increased my own hap- 
piness to know that you, too, felt happy ; for there is in 
the sympathy of friends something that increases all our 
pleasures and alleviates all our pains. It is to this I owe 
half that I enjoy in this life, and without it wretched must 
be existence, even in prosperity, and all other earthly 
blessings. 

" I believe I have mentioned often to you the desire I had 
.of becoming one of the church here, if I could be sure of 
remaining here this summer. When I found there was no 
doubt of that, I had only to overcome the fears which a 
consciousness of weakness and liability to relapse into 
former coldness still kept alive in my mind. Now all 
have subsided, and I am convinced that it is dangerous to 
delay so important a service. From the moment 1 had de- 
cided what to do, not a feeling arose which I could wish to 
suppress ; conscious of pure motives, all within was calm, 
and I wondered how I could for a moment hesitate. They 
were feelings I never before experienced, and for once I 
realized that it is only when we are at peace with ourselves 
that we can enjoy true happiness. 

^' I think, all things considered, I was never more 

happy in my life. It was a bright, clear night, and the 
moon which rose just as I went to bed, shining full on me, 
seemed to reflect the tranquillity of my soul, and appealed 
to me an emblem of the mild light that was just dawning on 
my soul. I could not sleep, and actually laid awake all 
night out of pure happiness. 

" I will not trouble you with any more of my feelings at 
present. On Sunday we were proposed, and the next 



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32 MENTAL AND MORAL CULTURE. 

Sabbath will see the completion of all my hopes and 
wishes relating to myself for two years past 

*•*' I cannot at present write more, but will finish this next 
weeK* 

*'Mary." 

The church with which Mary connected herself 
was the Third Church in Hingham, under the pas- 
toral care of the Rev. Henry Coleman, with whom 
she speaks of delightful interviews, receiving from 
him the best instruction and counsel at that im- 
portant period. She shows at the same time her 
habit of thinking for herself, as well as her liberal 
and humble spirit, in the casual remark, " Though I 
could not agree exactly with him in every thing he 
said, as they were not essential points I thought 
nothing of it, and received his advice with as much 
pleasure and satisfaction as could possibly be." 
The same month she records the completion of her 

wishes and her happiness. 

«< 

^^Last Sunday witnessed the accomplishment of my 
highest desires ; for 1 joined for the first time with those 
who compose the church here, in commemorating the 
death of our blessed Saviour. The feelings it excited are 
not easily described, and as you will so soon experience 
them, you will thus be able more fully to conceive of them 
than by any thing I could say. I know you will derive 
much, very much satisfaction and happiness from it ; and I 
sincerely pray that it may be to us both a means of becom- 
ing more like its heavenly Founder, and finding acceptance 
with God through his intercession. I wish you could have 
heard our dear Mr. C . He was particularly interest- 
ing and affecting ; his prayers, too, are better than any I 



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JfENTAL AND MORAL CULTURfi. 33 

ever heard (always excepting Mr. Channing) ; they breathe 
more of the true spirit of Christian humility than is com- 
monly to be found in these days of pride* 

" Mary,** 

About this time we find mention of an incident 
which appeared then of little importance, but to 
which subsequent events, though quite remote, have 
given so peculiar an interest, that it seems not right 
to omit it. Mary Pickard, still a school-girl, saw for 
the first time the individual with whom, twelve years 
after, her fortunes were to be connected for life, but 
with whom, during that interval, she had no inter- 
course. Henry Ware, then a theological student 
at Cambridge, was on a visit to Hingham, his native 
town, and passed an evening at Miss Cushing's. 
Mary does not appear to have had any conversation 
with him, but simply saw and heard him, and wrote 
to her friend in Boston a frank account of the opinion 
she formed of him. 

« Hingham, April 9ih, 1815. 

" Again, my dear N , I resume the delightful task of 

writing to you, which, I assure you, gives me a degree of 
pleasure next to that of talking with you, however you may 
judge from my writing so seldom. Since Saturday I have 
experienced a pleasure I never expected, the desire of 
which I have often expressed to you. I have seen, heard, 
and consequently admixed, your Exeter friend, H. Ware; • 
and though his e^prand took something from the delight his 
presence would otherwise have completed, it was sufficient- 
ly great for the safety of so large an assembly of young 

* He spent two years at Exeter, as teacher in the Academy. 



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34 MENTAL AND MORAL CULTURE. 

ladies. He was as agreeable as he could possibly be, and 
fully satisfied all the expectations you had raised in my 
mind. He spent Sunday evening here, and as he is very 
fond of music, and it is usual for us to spend a part of this 
evening in singing, we sung psalms from dusk until eight, 
when he was obliged to leave us. He joined in all, and 
added very much to the harmony and melody of our little 
choir. On Monday evening, too, he was here, and much 
increased the good opinion that had been formed of him. 
I thought his face indicated the greatest purity and good- 
ness ; I never saw a more benign, delightful expression on 
any face before, and much less any thing like it in a gen- 
tle mem. I will not, however, judge any one by their face, 
particularly as I have not proved myself a good physiog- 
nomist. Yet I cannot help being in some measure influ- 
enced by it. How can I look at such a countenance as 
his, and not be confident that there is a mind within corre- 
spondent to it ? There is, though, a want of energy in it, 
which I hope is not in his character ; but it is sometimes 
the case, that a love of poetry, and habit of writing it, 
effeminate the mmd of man, while they only render more 
attractive and interesting that of woman. 

" He came for his sister Harriet, who has left us, very 
much to my sorrow as well as that of all the family. She 
has an uncommon mind, and possesses much original 
genius : it is very seldom you see such . proofs of it in one 
so young, as to put^ it beyond doubt, that, under any cir- 
cumstances, love of literature would have been predomi- 
nant. She is a great loss to us, and to myself particularly 
so, as I can never hope to have it in my p^wer to cultivate 
her acquaintance as I should wish. But I must be content, 
and if I can only have the power of appreciating as they 
deserve those friends I now have, I think it will be my owa 
fault if I am not happy. 



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MENTAL AND MORAL CULTUBB. 35 

*^ With love to all friends, I must conclude by assuring 
you of the firm affection of your friend, 

« M. PlCKAED." 

This was written the same month, and within a 
few days of the date of that remarkable religious 
paper, which Henry Ware wrote for his own sacred 
use, — "To be opened and read for improvement, 
once a month,"* — seen by no other eye, probably, 
until Mary herself opened it, as his widow ! From 
this time they did not meet, as personal acquaintance, 
until the year of their marriage. 

• Memoir of Henry Ware, p. 83. 



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IV. 

DISCIPLINE AND CHARACTER. 

With all her deep happiness and cheerful aspect, 
Mary had many anxieties and trials at this time, 
These were caused by her father's loss of property 
and depression of spirits. Mr. Pickard seems never 
to have had a large property, but was connected 
with one of the best firms in Boston, and enjoyed a 
good reputation as a merchant and a man. In what 
way reverses came upon him, we are not informed ; 
but the period of which we speak, just at the close 
of the war with Great Britain, may be a sufficient 
explanation. Either from his own letters, or through 
others, his daughter heard of his losses^ and had 
written him a letter which we do not find, but of 
which the following reply indicates the character. 

''Boston, April 17,IS15. 
" I have just opened your letter. You are every thing 
that is amiable and good ; it is not possible to have a better 
child. But you cannot enter into m^ feelings, because you 
know not my situation. I will not trouble you with any 
more complaints, if I can help it ; I will only tell you that 
I have done nothing that should make you ashamed of your 
father. If I have not enough to pay every one their just 
dues, it is owing to misfortune and events that I could not 
control. No one, however, except the estate, is likely to 



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DISCIPLINE AND CHARACTEB. 37 

tuffer by me, and you of course will be a joint loser ; the 
whole, I hope, will not be much. My anxiety is, how I 
shall get a living, — what I shall subsist on. Without any 
capital, I can do no business. I long for the time to come 

when I shall see you here I am about making 

inquiry amongst my acquaintance for employment. If I 
succeed, my mind will be easier ; if not, what shall I do ? 

I know not I had a long talk alone with cousin N last 

evening. She tried to encourage me with the hope of being 
able to support myself, as we calculated you would, after 
some time, have enough to support yourself without mental 
or bodily exertion. • Yet I know, my dear child, that you 
would exert both for me ; but how much more satisfactory 
would it be to me to support myself while I am able. It is 
not the change of circumstances, but the dread of want, that 
depresses me. I did hope, too, that you would have been 
in a better situation ; but you have a mind and spirits, I 
hope, to keep your heart at ease ; for you will be esteemed 
for your virtues. You see I cannot help writing what is 
uppermost in my thoughts. 

" Your very affectionate father, 

" M. P." 

We have not many of Mr. Pickard's letters, but 
all we have, even those in which he writes in rather 
an unreasonable mood, as if expecting too much of 
this endeared and devoted daughter, yet contain in- 
cidental expressions which show his exalted opinion 
and almost respectful regard for her, as well as a 
tender and grateful affection. He speaks of having 
shown one of her letters to a friend, who was " high* 
ly gratified with the seriousness and piety of your 
disposition ; but she did not need that proof of it ; 
and in the troubles and vexations of this world, it is 
4 



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38 DISCIPLINE ANB CHARACTER. 

a great consolation to me to have so good a child, 
whom I look forward to as the comfort of my declin- 
ing years ; you know how much your letters please 
me, and console me for your absence." This we 
can understand when we read the letter which fol- 
lows, probably in reply to that which we have given 
above* 

•» Bingham, AprU 22, 1815. 
"I did not receive your letter, my dear father, until 
Thursday afternoon, and cannot delay for a moment an- 
swering it. I should be sorry to think you considered me 
so weak as to bend under a change of fortune to which all 
are liable, and which does not affect the interest of my 
friends or myself, while a self-approving conscience is their 
support. I trust nothing which can befall them with respect 
to the world will wholly overcome their fortitude and con- 
fidence in the protection and care of a Supreme Being. I 
can, I think, enter in some measure into your feelings, and 
believe I can feel as you do with regard to being dependent 
on others. I am prepared for almost any trial; if my 
ability is equal to my desire of being of service to you in 
misfortune, I do not fear but that I shall be able to support 
myself, and at least not be a burden to you. I am sorry 
you think so much of my situation. I shall never regret the 
loss of indulgences which I have never been taught to con- 
sider as essential to my happiness, and which do not in any 
great degree conduce to it. I shall be content in any cir- 
cumstances, while I know you have not brought on yourself 
calamity. I am not so proud that I should feel the least 
repugnance to gaining a living in any useful employment 
whatever ; I feel that kind of pride which assures me that 
local situation will not disturb my peace within, and with 
that I could combat almost any thing. I can only regret 



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DISCIPLINE AND CUARACTEB. 09 

the loss of property, when it makes me an encumbrance to 
ny friends, and limits my power of communicating good. 
As to the former, I think, while I can possibly do it, I had 
better remain here, rather than burden any of my friends 
with my company, and I will retrench other expenses for 
the sake of being independent ; for I do not think that any 
service I could do would compensate for the trouble I 
should ^ve ; and with regard to the latter, the toiU will be 
present with me, and though the money means were denied 
me, I do not despair of doing good in some way or other. 
I shall do very well ; my only anxiety is for you, lest you 
give up hope of better times, and thus put a stop to the 
mainspring of human action. I cannot but regret that 
what belongs to the estate should be lost, for the obligations 
we are under already to the family ate more than can ever 
be repaid, and obligations are to some people oppressive. 
I shall see you soon, and will then make some arrange- 
ments. Till then, I know not what to propose. I hope to 
hear from you soon. And do write in better spirits ; it 
will do no good to be discouraged. With love to all, I 

remain your afiectionate daughter, 

" Maet." 

Those only who have experienced reverses, or have 
Been parents suffer from them undeservedly, know 
how bard it is to sustain, beneath their pressure, a 
cheerful and buoyant spirit We can moralize upon 
the comparative wprthlessness of this world's goods, 
and call poverty and pain light evils. It is a false 
view. Poverty and pain are positive and great evils. 
Sin only is greater, and sin, it may be, is as often 
engendered by these as by the opposite state of 
health and affluence. In setting forth the dangers 
of prosperity^ we aire not to forget the temptations 



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40 DISCIPUNE AND CHARACTEB* 

and conflicts of adversity. Honor to the man or 
woman, who maintains integrity and serenity in the 
hour of misfcNTtune ! 

We mean not to intimate thai the pecuniary per- 
plexities of Mr. Pickard and his daughter were ex- 
treme. But we believe them to have been enough 
to test the power of character, and to throw a deli- 
cate and dif&cult duty upon a daughter, so young, 
and so connected with friends who were able and 
willing to help, but on whom she was not wiUing to 
lean. She preferred to lean upon herself, though not 
in unaided strength. Seldom do w^ find such evi* 
dence of early and entire reliance on a higher Power. 
She had made her election. With the deliberation 
and firmness of mature conviction, she had given 
herself to God, and was at peace. How complete, 
though quiet, was that surrender, and how full and 
permanent the peace, every subsequent year of her 
life bore witness. And there were those who saw 
this in the beginning, and predicted its future power. 
We are struck with the confidence expressed by 
judicious friends in Mary^s " piety," — a word of 
deeper and larger import than belongs to many be- 
ginners in the school of religion and life. It is an 
incomparable blessing, when a faithful and experi- 
enced teacher can write to a pupil thus : — 

** Could I in any way serve you, how gladfy would I do 
it ! But when I take my pen to write you, and my heart 
would dictate something, which, to most of your age (par- 
ticularly when so early deprived of a mother^s oare), might 
be useful, I am deterred by the thought of your maturity of 
mind, your well-regulated affections, and correct and digoi- 



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DISCIPLINE AND CHARACTER. 41 

fied deportment This is not flattery; you know me too 
well, I hope, to beliere me capable of that, where my heart 
is interested. It is an opinion founded on a long, and for 
some time close observation. May you feel in your own 
bosom the reward you so richly deserve, and be sensible 
of those joys with which ^ a stranger intermeddleth not.^ 
So early disciplined in the school of affliction, your heart 
has felt the need of consolation which the world has not to 
bestow ; and at a period of life when the follies and vani- 
ties of the world most commonly engross us, you have been 
led to an attention to those things which are unseen and 
eternal. God grant that you may be induced to persevere 
in the path of piety ^ to reach forward continually to higher 
attainments, nor ever rest satisfied till you have attained 
the glorious prize which is reserved for the followers of 

the blessed Jesus I should not, to many of your 

age, write so much on so serious a subject ; but I believe 
you have a feeling persuasion of its reality and importance, 
and therefore will not deem me intrusive." 

In the summer of 1815, Mary left Hingham, and 
returned to her home in Pearl Street, Boston, where 
another change had just occurred in the death of her 
grandfather, James Lovell. This left her grand- 
mother very lonely, and for the remaining two years 
of her life Mary devoted herself to her care, and 
ministered to her wants, with the same assiduity 
and affection that marked her devotion in her moth- 
er's sickness. Not that she was wholly confined to 
the sick-room, or the house. Mrs. Lovell's health 
varied, and allowed occasional visits to friends in 
and near Boston, for several weeks together. One 
of these visits took Mary aa far as Northampton ; 
4* 



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42 DXBCIPLINS AND CHARACTEB. 

and in a pleasant letter to her father she gives a foil 
account of her journey thither, a very different mat- 
ter then from what it now is. Going from the pres- 
ence of sickness and sorrow into that beautiful re- 
gion, her heart expanded with joy and gratitude, — 
gratitude to God, and to those generous friends 
whose guest she was, and whose hospitality she 
describes in a way that would leave no doubt to 
what family she refers, even if there were not a 
direct mention of one whom so many love to recall. 
" Mr. Lyman is, without exception, the most agree- 
able man I ever met with ; and if I could only over- 
come feelings of restraint which his infinite superiority 
makes me have before him, I might be able to enjoy 
his conversation more. I may overcome it, but as 
yet I cannot, and therefore fear I appear stupid." 
This diffidence she never did wholly overcome, and 
we can conceive of its having been very great, at 
that age. Yet it seems never to have prevented her 
from going forward to the performance of any duty, 
or appearing with propriety and dignity in any posi- 
tion. She had a keen relish for all the beauties of 
nature, and no less for the refinements and pleasures 
of society. But her highest enjoyment, even at that 
age, was evidently sought and found in the company 
of the devout, and the joys of religion. Her father 
gently reproves her, in one of his letters, for indulg- 
ing too much in '' sombre " thoughts, and talking of 
"trials presenting themselves everywhere." But it 
is evident that it was to his own trials that she re- 
ferred, and his depression may have extended some- 
times, though very seldom, to her. He himself says 



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BISCIPIilNE AND CHARACTER, 49 

of this state of feeling, ^ I was not without feax 
that I bad imparted it to you, which would grieve 
me much." 

During the long period of her grandmother's sick- 
ness, Mary formed a new attachment, opening to 
her a fountain of the purest enjoyment She was a 
constant attendant on the preaching of Dr. Chan- 
ning. When a child, she loved to go to his church 
with that relative and devoted friend of the family, 
who, though of the same age as her mother, still 
lives to mourn the loss of all of them. Led by that 
hand, which was to her as the hand of a mother to 
the tery end of life, (may we not so far depart from 
our rule, in regard to the living, as to give the ven- 
erable name of Ann Bent ?) Mary listened very early 
and intently to ihe man who has moved multitudes 
of every age. As she grew up, her evident and 
strong preference for his preaching over all other 
is said to have been the subject of " a little affec- 
tionate bantering on her mother's part," while to her 
more rigid father it was so little agreeable as to 
cause at times some trial of feeling and a conflict 
of duty. But where duty pertained to God and the 
whole existence, she never doubted long. Her decis- 
ion was taken deliberately, with respect and gentle- 
ness, but with a force and faith that never wavered, 
and never failed to supply strength and consolation 
in her varied trials. Indeed, it was amid trials, as 
we have seen, that she first consecrated herself to 
Christ, soon after her mother's death. And now that 
she was daily watching the decline of another life 
very dear to her, at the bedside of her aged grand- 



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44 DISOIPLINB AND CHARACTER. 

mother, her letters are chiefly filled with accounts of 
her vivid interest in the preaching' she hears, and 
the efiect it has upon her character. Two of these 
letters we give together, as relating to the same sub- 
ject, though written several months apart 

*" Boston, Sunday Evening, Sept, 15, 1816. 

^^ How frequently have I heard it said, that we never 

feel the true happiness of having a friend more than when, 

overwhelmed with feelings it cannot control, the heart seeks 

relief in the sympathizing bosom of that Being who alone can 

comprehend them ; and never, my dear N , did I feel 

this truth more than at the present moment, never did I feel 
more eager to open to your view my whole heart, to show 
you the emotions excited in it, for I feel sensible that I can- 
not describe them. It will not surprise you that Mr. Chan- 
ning's sermons are the cause ; but no account that I can 
give could convey any idea of them. You have heard 
some of the same class ; they so entirely absorb the feel- 
ings as to render the mind incapable of action, and conse- 
quently leave on the memory at times no distinct impres- 
sion. That in the morning from this text, * He that for- 
saketh not all that he hath, cannot be my disciple,^ was 
calculated more than any thing I had then heard, to exalt 
the Christian character ; but that this afternoon was as if 
an angel spoke, — ^ Come unto me, all ye that labor and 
are heavy laden, and I will give you rest Learn of me, 
for I am meek and lowly of heart, and ye shall find rest to 
your souls,' Happiness, or, as it is here expressed, ' rest 
to the soul,* does not, it is evident, depend on our situation, 
as may be proved by a slight view of the condition of man- 
kind in general. We see them constantly aspiring to some- 
thing beyond what they possess, but which, when attained, 
adds not to their peace, but rather increases their discon- 
tent 



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DISCIPLINE AND CHARACTER. 45 

" I doubt whether I have succeeded in giving you any 
idea of what Mr. Channing's sermon really contained, as I 
cannot remember any thing of it but the impression it made 
on my feelings, and I have, I find, given you rather a 
transcript of them than any of his original ideas, as you 
will readily perceive. The object of it, however, was to 
prove that the only real happiness to be enjoyed in the 
world was to be found in that peace of mind which a true 
and lively faith in the wisdom and mercy of God neces- 
sarily inspires in the Christian, and without which all the 
pleasui^s this world can give will fail to convey to the 
heart even one transient gleam of real enjoyment. Could 
you. only have been here, you would, I know, have been 
much benefited by it ; but you could not feel it as I did, for 
you do not so much require it. My reason and conscience 
have always told me that it was not right to let any of the 
trials I have met, and still meet with, destroy for a moment 
my peace ; and though they have sometimes conquered my 
weaker feelings, yet there are times when I find my own 
strength so insufiicient that I am almost tempted to doubt 
whether it be in my power to attain. This morning, I 
felt more than ever my weakness, from having had a long 
and unsuccessful struggle the whole of yesterday with my- 
self. That the precious privileges this day has afforded me 
are not lost upon me, I hope to prove in the day of future 
trial. Forgive my egotism, but I know to whom I write. 

" Mart." 

" You said to me, as we were returning from meeting to- 
day, in answer to my observation that ^ I had been depend- 
ing on this day during the whole week, and had unexpect- 
edly realized all the feelings I anticipated,^ that you, too, 
had expected much, thinking that Mr. Channing would give 
us the sermon he did. I have often thought that the very 



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46 DISCIPLINE AND CUARACTER. 

great pleasure we take in hearing him preach has given us 
other feelings and motives in our attendance on church 
than ought to be allowed by the devout Christian. The good 
which is to be obtained from one of his sermons particu- 
larly is indeed a great object, and sufficient to induce us to 
attend the hearing of them whenever there is an opportuni- 
ty ; but in our eagerness to hear the sermon, to admire it, 
and endeavor to improve by it, the original intention of pub- 
lic worship, I fear, is in a manner lost on us. Do we, when 
we go to the house of God, feel that we are as it were en- 
tering his more immediate presence ? He is, it is true, 
present with us in all places, and at all times ; but in the 
world it is not required, neither is it practicable, that our 
whole thoughts should be devoted to any one subject ; but 
when we go to the house of worship, is it not that we may, 
by shutting out of our minds the world and all that it con- 
tains, give to the Lord of the Sabbath every thought ? Was 
it not for this end he gave us the day, and renews our 
strength every week ? We are called together to worship, 
not merely with our lips, but to unite every thought and 
feeling in adoration. It is a privilege thus to be enabled to 
call our minds entirely from the cares and troubles of life ; 
it gives to those who are oppressed by them some idea of 
heaven, when all the trials which now torture them will be 
for ever forgotten ; and to all it should be esteemed a high 
and holy privilege, setting aside the delightful instruction 
we receive, thus to hold communion with Heaven, for I can 
compare it to nothing else. It seems often to me, while in 
the hour of prayer I give myself up to the thought of 
heaven, as though I had in reality left the world, and was 
enjoying that which is promised to the Christian. I fear, 
however, these feelings are .too often delusive ; we substitute 
the love of holiness for the actual possession, and often de- 
ceive ourselves. But if we can keep our reason unclouded^ 



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BI8CIPLINB AND CHARACTBB. 47 

we have nothing to fear from feeling too much. I would 
not be understood to mean, that the delightful, improving 
preaching we are in the habit of hearing is not a good mo- 
tive for carrying us to meeting ; but it is not enough, if it be 
the only <me ; if the happiness of an unreserved devotion 
of thought to God is not sufficiently great to induce us to 
seek every opportunity of enjoying it, I fear the true, vital 
piety, which is the only support of religion, is imperfectly 
gained by us. 

^^ I have not time to write more, I doubt if I have ex* 
plained myself intelligibly, but more of this at some future 
period. I presume there b an appearance of vanity in 
one paragraph, which I will some time explain. 

" Mart.'' 

This fervid religious interest and enjoyment seems 
to have filled her heart, and absorbed her thoughts, 
more and more, until, in the following summer, it 
led to a personal interview with Dr. Channing, of 
the most interesting kind, to be described only in her 
own words. 

''Boston, My 10, isn. 
" There is a certain state of feeling, or I may now say 
passion, in which the heart must either find relief in utter- 
ance, or burst ; when all the powers of mind and body are 
suspended, and thought, feeling, sensation, are all centred 
in one sole object. It is at such moments as these that we 
feel the true value of a friend who will submit patiently to 
our detail, and sympathize in all. I have just had a long 
— (I do not know what to call it) — with our dear minister. 
You know how long I have wished, yet dreaded it. That I 
should ever have dreaded it appears now a most astonish- 
ing fact, except that I knew it would humble me to the dust. 
And why should I not be so humbled ? 



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4d ]>teiCtPLtNr& AND CHARAOTSRa 

" It chanced that grandma was too unwell to see him ; and 
I, though not in the most composed state of mind that can 
be imagined, was to sit down alone with him, fully deter- 
mined to improve the opportunity and say all that I had so 
long wished. I put on as collected an appearance as could 
possibly be required, and, trembling at the very centre of 
my heart, met him with a smile of joy. Indifferent subjects 
soon entirely subdued all kind of internal embarrassment, 
(external, I did not permit,) when, to my great annoyance, 
C walked in ! O that I could have rendered him in- 
visible, — deaf, dumb, — any thing, for the time being ! 
But patience triumphed ; I contrived at last to let him un- 
derstand that I wished him far away. He took the hint, 
but when he rose to go, Mr. Channing did so also ! I could 
not but detain him. How I did it, or what followed on my 
part, I know not ; I heard all he said, I laid every word 
carefully aside in my mind to be enjoyed at some future 
period, but how foolish, how weak, how every thing irra- 
tional / was, I cannot, dare not, think. I told him as well 
as I could, with what views euid feelings I presumed to 
deviate from the path in which I had been led by my 
parents, what he had done for me, and what I hoped to do 
for myself. I could not have been intelligible, but I will not 
regret that I attempted, though I could not succeed. I am 
relieved by what he said of many unpleasant, oppressive 
feelings. I felt that I was detaining him, or I might have 
been rather more collected. What a state has he led me 
in ! O, could I for ever preserve the remembrance of 
what now fills my heart, could I ever feel as I now do, that 
I am one of the least of all beings, capable of being better 
but shamefully neglecting my best interests, awfully re- 
sponsible for the inestimable privileges I enjoy, but wholly 
unmindful of them. 

** Dearest N , I am wrong to impose on your patience. 



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mSCIPLINE AND CHABACTEB* • 49 

but I am too selfidi to resist Forgive this sentence, I do 
not doubt your interest, but I may talk too long. This is not 
the fervor of sudden enthusiasm ; no, I have long felt my 
sinfulness, but the excitement of talking to Mr. Ghanning 
has made me now utter it Give me your prayers, give 
me your advice, assist me in elevating my heart to higher 
objects, purer joys, than this world can give. I love it too 
well ; I want the severing hand of trial to rend asunder 
the thousand evil passions which connect me with it. 

'^ I have scribbled this at your desk ; this quiet retreat has 
calmed me. It is, perhaps, fortunate that you were not at 
home, except that you would have been saved this fine 
specimen of what an egotist can write. O dear, how 
weak I am ! excitement is so new to me, that it almost de* 
prives me of the use of my understanding, or I should not 
thus betray myself. I know not what I am coming to ; I 
was very foolish yesterday ; I have been worse to-day. Do 
come and see me to-morrow and lend me a little sense, or 
if you cannot spare it, exercise it yourself over the mind of 
your senseless friend, 

"Maby." 

During this season of peculiar experience, Mary 
sought the confidence, and enjoyed the sympathy, 
not only of the one friend to whom the last letters 
were written, but also of her late instructors in Hing- 
ham. The correspondence between them is of the 
most confiding character, and shows a mutual re- 
spect and sense of obligation in pupil and teacher. 
*' Talk not of gratitude, my dear Mary," the latter 
writes ; " has not every kindness we have ever had 
it in our power to show you been 'more than can- 
celled by your unremitting assiduities to serve and 
please us ? The uniform disposition you have ever 
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50 DISCIPLINE AMD CHARAOTEB. 

ebown to promote the ease and happiness of all 
aroand yon, will long remain a sweet remembrance 
of one whose image is connected in my mind with 
every softer virtae, accompanied by that strength of 
mind which would enable you, if called upon, to sus- 
tain uncommon trials. No, I shall not, I cannot, be 
disappointed in you, my dear young friend; you 
will be all that your opening character now prom- 
ises, because you have built on a sure foundation. 
If my life is spared, I anticipate much pleasure from 
the continuation of a friendship thus commenced. 
May it be increased and strengthened while we so- 
journ together on earth, and may we have the hap- 
piness of exciting each other to a higher standard 
of excellence than is generally adopted by the world, 
and thus be prepared for the society of those pure 
and holy beings we hope hereafter to join." These 
expressions of confidence and encouragement were 
probably induced by the trying circumstances in 
which Mary was then placed, partly from her father's 
misfortunes and feeble health, and partly from the 
weight of her responsibilities in a household where 
there was not only sickness, but other and sorer 
trials. She went very little into society, and was 
thrown entirely upon her own resources, in the midst 
of arduous and delicate duties. Some of her strug- 
gles, and the sources of her peace, are intimated in 
the following letters to Miss Gushing. 

"JBoftofi, Jtm«19, 1817. 
" As I can neither see you nor hear from you, my dear 
Miss Gushing, I must write you, if it be only to say how 
much I think of and desire to see you. I know too well 



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BIBCIPLINB AND CHARACTBH. fil 

tiiat I do not deserve any indulgence from you, but there is 
something so solitary^ and at times almost overpowering, in 
the idea that those whom we have best loved, with whom 
we have passed happy hours of intercourse and sympathy, 
are, though still dear, divided from us, not perhaps by dis- 
tance, but by circumstances which we cannot control, that 
I am almost tempted to repine that such must be our situa- 
tion. You will, I know, be ready to ask why I have so 
neglected the only means in my power of continuing that 
intercourse ? I would not complain of it, but I have little 
time, and so many occupations which the call of duty bids 
me not neglect, that I seldom write to any one, and always 
in so much haste that I should be ashamed to send such 
epistles to you. Beside all this, I have so little intercourse 
with the world, or those in it in whom I think you would be 
interested, that I must, from a dearth of ideas in this poor 
brain, write almost wholly of self, the most odious and 
wearisome of all topics. But this very isolation makes me 
depend so much on every little iota of external excitement, 
that I should be satisfied, or rather content, with any thing in 

the form of a letter you would find time to give me 

'^ I have felt, and I believe have expressed to you, or 

Miss P , a kind of discontent sometimes operating on 

my mind at the want of opportunity to become what I 
have vainly thought I might be. But this is all over, and I 
am satisfied that 1 must be content with a very low degree 
in the scale of knowledge. But I trust I may be good, 
though never great, and am confident that the peculiar 
situation in which I am placed is one more calculated for 
me than any I could choose for myself. Trial is necessary 
to me, and I am happy in it, except when I am conscious it 
is not improved as it should be. It is not for us, who have 
80 many blessings, to murmur if our faith is sometimes put 
to the test; did we view things aright, what now seema 



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52 DISCIPLINE AND CHARACTER. 

judgment is in truth mercy. What should we be, were we 
not sometimes reminded of our sins and the weakness of 
our minds? Surely, then, whatever may be the trials 
which bring us to a true sense of our accountability to our 
Father in heaven, they are the kindest expressions of his 
goodness. I never could have any gloomy views of religion, 
and the more experience I have of its cheering influences 
in the hearts of its votaries, the more I am convinced that 
it is the only sure guide to happiness even in this world ; 
how much more in another ! 

" You will forgive me for writing you just what happened 
to occupy my mind. It is an indulgence that I cannot re- 
sist, to be able to communicate a few of my feelings and 
thoughts. I fear you will think I impose too much on your 

goodness. 

" Mart." 

« Boston, August 20, 1817. 
" Mt dear Miss Gushing : — 

^' There are, I believe, moments in the lives of all human 
beings, when, from some cause or other, the heart is sad- 
dened by a feeling ^of peculiar loneliness, which, though 
perhaps rather a disease of the imagination than the effect 
of real circumstances, is nevertheless irresistible. I have 
felt this in the gayest period of my life, and it is not strange 
that I should now often experience it Leading a perfectly 
monotonous existence, my resources of animal spirits are 
not entirely sufficient to supply the call of duty and the 
hour of solitude too. And when evening closes, and my 
beloved charge is laid peacefully to rest, excitement ceases, 
and I am thrown on myself for pleasure. Then it is that I 
long to be with friends, whom I can only visit in imagina- 
tion ; then I long to annihilate distance, and talk with you. 
It is, I know, imposing on your goodness to attempt to 
write you under the influence of such feelings, but it is an 



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PXSCIPUNE AND CHARACTER. S3 

indulgence I can hardly resist, convinced as I am that, 
when you are assured it is a relief to a poor solitary, your 
benevolent heart will pardon me. I would not convey that 
I am unhappy in this situation. O, no! — there is such a 
thing as being ^ pleased, and yet sad ^ ; and though some- 
times 

* The heart will feel, the tear will steal, 
For anld lang syne sae dear,* 

yet I rejoice with joy unspeakable that the present is still 
filled with many privileges and pleasures, and that I can 
with perfect trust refer the future to Him who appointeth 
all things in mercy. I wish most sincerely I could com- 
municate something interesting to you, to redeem my mis- 
erable letters from the charge of perfect egotism, but I live 
so wholly out of the sphere of the interesting part of the 
world, that I am as ignorant of all that passes within it as 
those who know not that it exists. It is this reason which 
has oflen withheld me from writing you when indeed I 
wished for my own sake to indulge in it, 'and I think you 
will be fully convinced of the wii^om of my forbearance 
afler the perusal of this. 

" M. L. P." 

And now another trial impended, to be followed 
by other and important changes in her condition of 
life. In the autumn of this year her grandmother 
died. For the event itself, so long expected and 
not to be lamented, she was prepared. But some 
of its circumstances were unusually trying, and she 
well knew that its consequences might be still 
more sad. Yet how little these considerations af- 
fected her, in comparison with the moral aspects 
and spiritual lessons of the change, may be seen in 
her own account of the last sickness, to N. C. S. 
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54 DISCIPLINE AND CHABAOTSK 

*" Boston, Svutdajf JNIghi, Octtbef 12, 1817. 

^^You have so long indulged my selfish propensity cff 
communicating to you every feeling that chances to be 
excited in my heeul, that I find it difficult, when under the 
influence of any peculiar emotion, to resist the ever-present 
desire to impart ail to you. But this would be the height 
of folly and weakness, and I therefore contend against it 
with all my powers. There are, however, certain kinds of 
feeling of such a doubtful nature, that the agency of soma 
external power is absolutely necessary for the proper man- 
agement of them. Of this nature, I am persuaded, are 
those by which I am now overpowered ; and lest I should 
be too much led away by them, I must beg your assist- 
ance in ascertaining their origin and tendency. This may 
seem too systematic for any ^ne who feels much, but the 
violence of the tempest has passed, and that deadly calm 
which always succeeds the raging of the elements natu- 
rally inclines the mind to thought and reflection. 

'^ I have lived for the last few months in the hourly con- 
templation of a most striking picture of the end of human 
life, the termination of all its joys and sorrows, the anni- 
liilation of its hopes and wishes. This could not fail to im- 
press with sadness a mind in full possession of its powers 
of enjoyment, and for a time to give it almost a disgust 
of all those pleasures and pursuits which must so soon 
fail before the dim eye and feeble energies of approaching 
age. It had, in a great degree, this effect on me ; for the 
moments have been when I would willingly have surren- 
dered life rather than live in the expectation of such an 
end, — to outlive the ability to engage in its duties. I now 
tremble at the thought of ever having suffered such feelings 
for a moment to possess my mind. Continued and deep 
reflection on the object of all this, the comparative nothing- 
ness of every thing in this world, the hopes and prospects 



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mSCIPJLINE AND CBARACTElk 55 

of another and better, meditation on the spiritual life, and 
ocoasi<Hial experience of the real happiness of that elevation 
ef soul above earthly things which religion alone can im- 
part, have overcome this melancholy, and sometimes pro- 
duced almost a feeling of triumph. I have this evening 
been almost overwhelmed with a variety of emotions, of 
which this was the most prominent. Grandma has thought 
herself dying, and has been conversing with me on her 
approaching change with that most heavenly calmness 
which those only who rely on the mercy of God, through 
the merits of his Son, can experience at this trying hour. 
This, together with joining in prayer with her that wo" 
might all welcome this hour as she did, and her final part- 
ing with all in the house, has elevated my mind so much 
above this transitory scene, that I can scarcely believe I 
shall ever be so weak as again to be engrossed by it I 
cannot describe the state of my mind. I never felt so be- 
fore, though I have often imagined that others have. It is 
almost a kind of transport at the thought that this mortal 
shall put on immortality, that there is within us an ethereal 
spark which can never be extinguished or grow dim, capa- 
ble of rising superior to the pains and weakness which bend 
these frail bodies to the ground. O, it is a joy unspeak- 
able ! Viewed through this medium, death loses its sting, 
and the idea of a glorious immortality alone presents itself 
with the view of its approach. 

^' But alas ! I can place no dependence on the continuance 
of my feelings beyond the moment that excites them. My 
life is a mere vision ; the world in which I act has no con- 
nection with that in which 1 think. My pleasure, my hap- 
piness, is so far independent of the objects around me, that 
I can hardly associate them together. Having little else to 
do than meditate, I exist almost in imagination, and com- 
municate so little with others on the subject of my thoughts. 



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56 DISCIPLINE AND CHARACTER* 

that it seems like living two beings ; the greater part of my 
time is passed in this ideal world, and I am consequently 
unfitted to mix in the real one in which I am placed. This 
is a misfortune and a fault. Which has the greatest share 
of blame ? It is most unfavorable to true Christian humili- 
ty ; for, as Mr. Channing says of the effects of a diseased 
imagination, ' We feel superiority to the world in ascend- 
ing the airy height, and pride ourselves in this refinement 
of the mind. After arraying ourselves in the robes of. 
glory, we cannot take the lowly seat which Christianity 
assigns us.^ Thus, then, although this elevation above the 
objects of this vain world may be a right spirit when it 
rises from the pure flow of real piety, if it be only the en- 
thusiasm of the moment, which rises for a time and then 
vanishes away, an abstract theory which would not be 
practised upon in the hour of temptation, it had better 
never have been. When we have once been imposed on, 
we know not what to. trust All my purposes of goodness 
and high resolves are as yet but theories, which I fear I 
should never put in practice should temptation assail me. 
O, I dare not be thus happy ! 

" Mart.'' 



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V. 

CHANGES AT HOME. 

The first change consequent upon the death of 
old Mrs. Lovell, was the leaving of the house in 
Pearl Street. This, to Mary, was not a small mat- 
ter. It was not the mere moving of furniture, nor 
the living in one street rather than another, of the 
same town. It was the loss of the earliest and only 
HOME that she had ever known ; and none are to be . 
envied who cannot enter into the feelings which 
such an event must awaken in a heart like hers. 
With little of the romantic in her nature, and as 
great independence of the merely local and external 
as is often seen, her love of family and early friends, 
her memory of childhood and all its associations, the 
very changes and sufferings which had made so large 
a part of her life, were all identified with " that 
house " as the place of their birth, and bound her to 
it by the strongest chords. Within a month of the 
day of her grandmother's death, she wrote her last 
letter there, which, with the first that was written 
out of the house, will show what she felt, and why. 

" Boston, November, 1817. 
^^ It is with many new and peculiar feelings that I attempt 
to write you for the last time from this blessed spot, ren- 



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58 CHANGES AT HOME. 

dered doubly sacred to me from having been the scene of 
that intimacy which ever has been, and I trust ever will be, 
one of the purest sources of happiness which it has pleased 

my Heavenly Father to bestow on me It has been one 

of the happy effects of the trials which, during the last few 
years, have fallen to my lot, to produce a more unreserved 
acquaintance between us than under any other circum- 
stances could have been effected. I bless them in all their 
influences, but particularly in this, that they have brought 
me the knowledge and affection of such a friend. I should 
blush at the recollection of the numberless follies, weak- 
nesses, and sins which this frail heart has discovered to 
you, but I wish you to know me entirely ; the candid con- 
fession of faults is the greatest proof of confidence I could 
give. But that delightful intercourse which has so much 
conduced to this must for a time be broken off, perhaps 
• never again to be renewed in this changing world. Change 
of situation will necessarily preclude the possibility of that 
continued intercourse of thought and feeling, which has 
been the joy of the past. I cannot admit the idea that this 
will weaken the bonds that unite us, much less can I think 
it will break them. But I have been the creature of situa- 
tion ; my character (if any thing I possess can be entitled 
to the name) has been moulded by circumstances peculiar 
in their nature, and which will soon cease to exist What 
I shall be in the wide world into which 1 am going to enter, 
I know not. 1 hope, yet fear to change. Without a guide ' 
to lead me in the* right path, I fear my inexperienced steps 
will stray into some of the many fascinating, delusive 
snares which are found in every direction. My course has 
hitherto been over an old and beaten track, secure by its 
remoteness from all temptation. What, then, shall I do, 
when the whole host of the world's allurements are pre- 
sented at once to my weakness ? 



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CHANGES AT HOMB. Otf 

** I wish I could describe to you the feelings which the 
Tery prospect of leaving this house excites in this poor, 
weak heart, — so weak that it cannot subdue or control its 
emotions. It would seem romantic and visionary to any one 
who had been accustomed to change ; but this house sup- 
plied in a great measure the relation of instructor, parent, 
and friend. And it is true, that in every part are recorded 
by association the admonitions of those friends I have known 
in it, or lessons which the experience of repeated trials has 
impressed in indelible characters on these scenes. Here, 
when temptation assailed, and this frail heart was on the 
point of surrendering to it, would the remembrance of 
former good resolutions, presented by the very walls around 
me, recall my wandering virtue, and strengthen me to new 
exertions. And to that sacred retreat, that sanctuary of all 
my joys and sorrows, I owe, if not the creation, at least the 
preservation of the best feelings I possess. There I find 
the history of the most important moments of my life, for 
in that spot did the first sincere and heartfelt aspirations of 
my soul to its Creator find utterance ; and there, too, have 
I always found support under trial, in prayer. It were an 
endless work to recount all the associations which attach 
me to this only home I have ever known ; it would be to 
give you a minute account of every transaction which has 
taken place since I lived here. 

« Mart." 

''Boston, December, 1817. 
" For the first time since I led that loved spot in Pearl 
Street have I seated myself at my desk ; and, although my 
object in now doing so was a very different one, I cannot 
resist the impulse which the sight of it gives, to renew the 
employment, so wont to be pursued at it, of pouring forth a 
few of my feelings to my friend. It is so long since I have 
had an opportunity to do so, and so various have been the 



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60 CHANGES AT HOME. 

occurrences, and still more various the feelings which it has 
been my lot to experience in the course of the last two 
months, that, though my mind is full of what I wish to com- 
municate, I am as much at a loss what to write as if all 
was vacancy. This poor little, unconscious desk has car- 
ried me back, against my will, to scenes which it were 
wise seldom to think of. The last time I wrote at it was 
the last evening I spent in the *• oaken parlor,' when all 
was sad and solitary. But I cannot dwell on it. I find in 
the record of that evening prophecies which are hourly 
fulfilling. I felt deeply impressed with a sense of insuffi* 
ciency to meet with, and bear' aright, the temptations 
which a life of indulgence would present. I felt that I was 
not fit for society, and I feel so still, but more sensibly, 
more truly, for it is now the lesson of experience, sad in- 
deed. But a truce with such feelings ; — it is not of them 
I wish to write. This wicked desk has conjured up the old 
complaining spirit which so used to haunt me whenever I 
attempted scribbling to you. I am happy, contented with 
any change that has or may take place. I only ask a less 
selfish, more disinterested frame of mind, — to be more 
independent of the opinion of others, when a consciousness 
of sincere endeavor to do right acquits me of actual trans- 
gression. Selfish are all my regrets, all my trials, and 
wherefore, then, trouble another with a detail of what self 
alone can sympathize in, or ameliorate, or cure ? I will 
not ; — for once, I will follow reason rather than inclination. 
" The more I know of the world, the more I see of the 
beings who constitute what is so called, the more the hopes 
and wishes which excite and keep alive their energies sink 
into insignificance, and the more my own restlessness and 
anxiety about the cares and pursuits of life excite my as- 
tonishment and contempt We surely were not placed in 
this world solely to be occupied by its allurements, or, with- 



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CHANGES AT HOME. 61 

It reference to the design of our Creator in placing ut 

)re, to pursue that which seems to us the most easy and 

easant path. And with our reasons convinced, how can 

p so unweariedly pursue that phantom happiness which 

^ here no fixed ahode ? We acknowledge that nothing 

5re can satisfy us, and yet vainly delude ourselves with 

le hope of soon attaining some ideal joy which, like the 

hilosopher^s stone, will convert all into solid happiness. 

toe would think I had been disappointed in some fond 

ope, or found too late my fancied joy a dream. But no, 

I am not disappointed, for I have never anticipated ; and if 

aught I have said savors of this temper of mind, I would 

recall it. 

" Mr. Ck>lman advised me never to write in the evening, 
lest I should deceive myself and my friend with an exag* 
gerated account of what in the light of day would prove 
false. I am half asleep, and therefore will take his advice, 
* and I already find myself on the verge of the gulf, — self- 
deception. 

" M. L. P." 

To some it will seem strange, that one of such 
faith and principle, with no proneness or taste for 
the follies of the world, should express fear of ^^ fas- 
cinating, delusive snares," or think for a moment of 
the " whole host of the world's allurements." But 
this will be understood by those who remember that 
strength does not lie in a sense of security, nor wis- 
dom in assurance. It seems to have been ever a 
part of Mary Pickard's wisdom, to own her weak- 
ness. And more than this, the evil that she feared 
was not that coarse, palpable thing usually called 
" vice," but the invisible, subtle evil, so serious to the 
sensitive and pure mind, though by the many lightly 
6 



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62 CHANGES AT HOME. 

regarded. ^^ I fear not actual vice," she said at this 
very time, " but to become thoughtless, forgetful of 
duty, unmindful of my highest interests, is to my 
mind a more deadly sin than many which are ac- 
counted by the world crimes. It is this I most 
dread. My conscience, or, should that fail, my 
friends, would save me from the first, but who can 
control the thoughts of my heart ? " Thus fearing, 
thus armed, she went out into the world, beginning 
at this point her life of self-guidance. Of her means 
of support we know little. She was not dependents 
From her grandparents, to whom she had been so 
true a child, she received enough to enable her to 
assist her father in his depression, though it is evi- 
dent that he took no more than was absolutely ne- 
cessary, and that she retained enough for her wants, 
more than she used to the time of her marriage. 
This could have been accomplished, however, only 
by a uniform and strict economy, whose necessity 
she never regretted, except as it curtailed her chari- 
ties. 

And now began a life of business and of motion. 
Since her return from England, at the age of five, 
Mary had been from home very little, and only for 
her schooling. Hereafter she is to become a travel- 
ler, to a greater degree than was then common for 
a lady, and greater than she desired. Her journey- 
ings, we infer, were always more for others than her- 
self; either for the gratification of friends, or in aid 
of her father. For she seems to have become, in 
various ways, his active as well as domestic helper, 
and was intrusted by him, we should judge from 



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CHANGES AT HOME. 63 

their letters, with important business. For some 
purpose of this kind, in the year following our last 
date, she went, for the first time, to New York. And 
the account she gives of the preparations and the 
journey, while it shows what changes there have 
been since, shows also how much there was on her 
mind and her hands. She speaks of getting but 
four hours for sleep from having " so great a variety 
of occupation, — so much for my poor, weak head to 
think of." And then, half playfully, half in earnest, 
she writes of being " at last equipped for a journey 
probably of two months." But we must give a part 
of the letter itself; showing, as it does, how near to 
her, even in her busiest moments and most fatiguing 
labors, were the higher cares of the mind and the 

BOUL 

*' I am glad of having a great deal to do ; any thing that 
will call my little powers into exercise gives me a transient 
feeling of consequence, which, as it is highly flattering to 
vanity, produces rather pleasant sensations. I will not 
enter on the subject of leaving home, and setting out on an 
expedition fraught with untried temptations, and presenting 
even in the most favorable view a scene of life little calcu- 
lated to satisfy my taste or warm my heart. But I believe 
there may be instruction found in every situation, and I hope 
that seeing eyes and an understanding heart will be given 
me, to discern and improve it I cannot tell you how 
much more I feel than I ever did before, at leaving home ; 
— I cannot; it is in vain to attempt so vast a subject at 
such a time. I have been highly favored the last two Sun- 
days in hearing two of Mr. Channing^s most delightful ser- 
mons, which I hope will not be soon forgotten. Last 



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64 CHANGES AT HOME. 

Sunday was the anniversary of many eventful days to me* 
The first Sabbath in September has for many years been a 
memorable day to me, and this last, I think, exceeds them 
all. It is three months since I have been at home on Com- 
munion-day, and the coldness which I had felt creeping 
through my very soul gave me a feeling of hope that I 
should find something to excite and elevate my affections. 
I never felt more entirely humbled to the dust, or mora 
sensible of the immense privilege we enjoy, in having such 
a man to guide us on our way. But I am so excessively 
weary that I cannot write more, — scarcely to assure you 
of the warm afiection of your 

"M.L. P." 

The journey to New York, by way of Providence 
and Norwich, was " a week's work," though it seems 
to have been all used in travelling, but with many 
" adventures " and delays incident to the beginning 
of steamboats, — against which, notwithstanding the 
discomforts and perils, Mary expresses herself " not 
so prejudiced that I should be unwilling to step on 
board one again." The letters she writes from the 
great city, so new and strange, are almost exclusive- 
ly business letters to her father, and his replies show 
that he had given her important commissions, to be 
discharged in person, and in her own discretion. 
Directions are given for the sale or purchase, not only 
of muslins and moreens, but also of skins, saltpetre, 
and the like. And at the end of several weeks, in 
which she seems not to have indulged herself in 
much recreation, she speaks of returning as soon as 
she " has seen the city." 

But instead of returning, she was induced by a 



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CHANGES AT HOME. 65 

tempting opportunity to go still farther from home, 
and ^th no time to get her father's permission, — a 
liberty evidently new on her part, and receiving at 
first severe reproof -from him. The incident is not 
important, except as showing their relation to each 
other, and the manner in which she incurred and 
endured (being now a woman) the only harsh lan- 
guage that we find addressed to her by her father, -— 
though it is clear that he always inclined to be ex- 
acting. The trouble in this case was, that he first 
heard firom another of her being seen on her way to 
Baltimore, when he thought her safe with Mends in 
New York, if not on her way home. The fact was 
easily explained. A gentleman with whom she was 
intimate invited her to accompany him to Baltimore, 
where she had long wished to visit a cousin newly 
married and settled there ; and, with the approval of 
those with whom she was staying, she accepted the 
invitation as suddenly as she received it, <^ and in two 
hours was in the stage for Baltimore," to ride night 
and day till she arrived there. As soon as possible 
after her arrival, she wrote to her father all the cir- 
cumstances, ^ving her reasons in a way that should 
and did avert his displeasure entirely. But unfortu- 
nately he had already heard of the runaway by acci- 
dent, and one is forced to smile at the manner in 
which it affected him. Not waiting to hear firom 
Mary, he instantly wrote to the lady in New York 
with whom she had staid, — ^ I am exceedingly 
vexed and mortified that she should do any thing so 
foolish, and cannot conceive how she will be able 
to justify herself; had I had any idea she would 
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66 OfiANGBS AT HaiCE. 

have been so indiscreet, I would not have consented 
to ber leaving Boston. I have been expecting daily 
to hear what was likely to be done with some mus- 
lins she bad the charge of; but instead of attending 
to that, she is flying like a wild goose about the 
country. These girls in their teens [Mary was just 
twenty] should not be let out of their leading-strings ; 
nor would her's have been let loose, but from confi* 
dence in her disaretion." Yet in company with this 
letter he sent a note for his daughter, which begins 
with saying he can hardly call her <' dear," but ends 
in a very different tone ; and the first letter he re- 
ceives sets all right His only anxiety now is to 
have her with him, coupled, however, with a fear as 
to her companion home, and again making us smile 
by a prediction which has been singularly reversed 
in the fulfilment. " If you are well, pray come by 
the first good opportunity. I am afraid you will 
wait till the end of the month for the parson ; your 
being so fond of parsons is rather ominous, and you 
had better almost be any man's wife than a par- 
son's." The parson referred to was Mr. Colman of 
Hingham, now returning from a visit to Baltimore. 
It is a pleasant conclasion of this little episode, and 
offers a hint to children as well as parents, that, when 
Mary found how much her father had felt^ without 
blaming herself for doing what seemed right and a 
duty, she expressed such sorrow for the pain she had 
given him, in terms so respectfal and fiiia), as to turn 
all his severity against himself, and increase his ad- 
miration and love for her. The next time he refers 
to her fondness for the ^< clergy," it is in a vein of 



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CHANOBS AT HOBfB. 67 

peasantry which seldom relieves bis merchant-like 
lettars. " Could you not, my dear, enliven your let- 
t^s by writing of persons and things which you have 
seen ? I think your letters are too much tinctured 
with what may be called moral philosophy, for so 
young a person. You are so fond of the clergy, you 
will get into a habit of writing like one of them, and 
if you were to turn Quaker, I have no doubt but you 
would preach yourself. Tell us something of Balti- 
more, how it is ^tuated, &c ; and, as Mrs. Slipslop 
says, something of the * contagious country.' Pray 
take care of your own health, and get the family 
well soon." 

The last words refer to the actual cause of Mary's 
protracted absence. On returning to New York, in- 
tending to go home by the first opportunity, she found 
her good friend, Mrs. Harman, whom she was visit- 
ing before, dangerously ill, the husband absent, and 
the family in great confusion and trouble. At once 
she became the director and nurse, — offices which 
she seemed destined to fill wherever she went, as her 
subsequent life will show. All thought now of her- 
self and her plans yielded to the present duty. And 
not an easy duty could it have been, as she describes 
the severity of the mother's sickness, the care of 
difficult children, and her responsibility in another's 
house and a strange city. As soon as they were in 
a condition to be left, she returned to Boston, though 
Mr. Pickard even urged her to stay longer, for rest 
and her own gratification. 

For a year or more Mary and her father remained 
together in Boston, with no change or incident to be 



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68 CHAN0B8 AT HOME. 

noticed They were living at board, so fjBtr as we 
find, though they may have taken a house, as he 
seemed very anxious before her return to be alone 
with her, having an aversion to company, and pre- 
ferring her society and care to all other. 

In her correspondence at this time, the prevailing 
theme and object, as usual, were religion and its 
inflnences, for herself and others. We cannot but 
observe the preponderance of this theme, and yet its 
perfectly natural and healthy tone. With nothing 
dark or melancholy in her religious views, with an 
habitual horror of ostentation and cant, she lost no 
opportunity to cherish and diffuse an all-compre- 
hending faith. The letters which follow, addressed 
to her constant friend, declare their own occasion 
and design. 

** Boston, Auffust 12, 1819. 

^^ There was something in the strain of your last letter 
to me which has given me some feelings of anxiety. You 
refer to the course of medical discipline which has been 

pursued with Mr. with expressions of regret, which, 

though natural, must add greatly to every other painful 
feeling that his present situation, and perhaps loss, must 
inevitably excite. I cannot reprehend you for what I know 
but too well is the natural impulse under such circum- 
stances ; but I would, if it were possible, point to a healing 
balm for that worst of all wounds, — fruitless regret. 

** I am no fatalist, but the continual influence of an un- 
erring Providence is a truth which was early impressed on 
my heart, and which daily observation has confirmed and 
strengthened. The simple order of nature speaks it with a 
powerful voice ; the sacred pages of God*s own book pro- 
claim it in terms which cannot be misconstrued ; and would 



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CHANGES AT HOME« 69 

we impartially review our own lives, should we not see 
in them incontrovertihle proofs of an unseen power, that 
guided and directed many things for our happiness which 
our blindness would have wished otherwise ? And are we 
to assent to this truth only when our minds can clearly see 
its reality? Are we to withhold our c<Hifidence in Him 
whom we have always found mighty to save, because we 
cannot in a single instance see its practicability ? O, no ! 
far be it from us, who profess to acknowledge the being 
and attributes of a merciful God, to shrink when he puts our 
faith to the test Are his so often repeated expressions of 
love towards his creatures mere empty sounds to deceive 
the credulous, or assist the imagination in forming a perfect 
model of moral sublimity, but to wither into airy nothing 
when we dwell on them for support ? This we would not, 
most certainly, admit in our actions, and why should we 
even in our thoughts ? Surely, believing, as we do, that 
his promises are sure and steadfast, we may in the darkest 
hours of adversity find consolation in the thought, that, how- 
ever mysterious may be his decrees, there must be some 
good result, some benevolent design, concealed beneath 
the most doubtful appearances. 

'^ Cowper has beautifully versified this idea in his hymn, 
beginning 

< God moves in a mysterioiis way. 
His wonders to perform ' ; 

you will find it in Belknap. Read it for the sake of one 
whom in all trials it has animated and consoled. Forgive 
me for dwelling so long on this subject Do not infer that 
I think it new to you, but it is one in which I have felt most 
deeply, on which, too, I have had the most severe contentions 
with the spirit that warreth within, and one which, of all oth- 
ers, it is necessary for our happiness and goodness to estab- 
lish in our hearts, that it may effectually influence our lives. 

" Maby." 



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70 CHANGES AT HOMS. 

<< Bru$h ma, SepUanber 22, I8I9. 

*' It is now a month since the date of your last letter, 
during which time I think I have at least once written you ; 
hut our intercourse is now so difierent from what i would 
desire at this peculiarly eventful period, that it seems as 
if I did nothing, if I do not tell you every day how much 
depends on its events. I have heen with you in a happy 
vision, and awake to the sad disappointment that it is hut 
a dream, and to the consciousness that for a long time my 
unfruitful pen will he my only means of communication. 
It would be weak to repine at what is inevitable ; I will not 
give way to it. How often have you told me that you were 
almost tempted to pray for trial, that you might know the 
true state of your religious life, that you might have your 
faith put to the test, and the veil of self-deception taken 
from your eyes ! Often have I prayed that, whenever it 
should please the Disposer of all things to send to you sor- 
row and affliction, you might find strength and support 
where least expected, not from your own resources, but in 
that arm which is mighty to save to the uttermost all who 
seek. It is not, however, simply in the belief that whatever 
He appoints is right, that you are to receive his dispensa- 
tions ; difficult as is the task, we must not rest satisfied with 
ourselves until we have learned to receive with cheerful ac- 
quiescence what the world calls trials ; until we have learned 
to view all events as tending to the same great end, and be 
thankful for what is denied, as well as what is received ; 
knowing that there is but one great object in each. This 
may at first seem too high an aim, even above human 
powers to attain. But it calls not on us to give up natural 
feeling, only to guide it aright, and the higher our standard 
of excellence is fixed, the greater will be our efforts to 
attain it, and our success unquestionably proportioned to it. 

^^ But why talk to you of what you have already more 



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CHANOBB AT HOMB. 71 

knowledge? Forgive me; I lost, in the interest I felt in 
your present happiness, the remembrance that you were 
not in want of counsel on a subject on which you hare 
already experienced enough to feel its importance. But 
do not, my dear friend, look only on the dark side of the 
picture; do not suffer your mind to lose its activity, be* 
cause confined at present to one subject. It is not to con- 
tract our feelings, but to expand and teach them to enter 
into the feelings of others, that we are made thus to ex- 
perience what it is to suffer. Should it not quicken our 
efforts to alleviate, to our utmost endeavor, those who are 
tried also, and by a cheerful example lighten the hearts of 
fellow-sufferers ? I have felt, and know therefore too well, 
the tendency of severe trial to enervate the mind, and lead 
us insensibly to give up our ambition to act on any other 
subject ; but our general duties are not the less imposing, 
because a particular one requires more attention, nor are 
we to give way for a moment to the impulse of self-indul- 
gence, because we feel any peculiar right to it 

All this is unnecessary, but you can conceive how deeply I 
feel interested in the result of this great trial of your Chris- 
tian faith. I know its difficulties, therefore can appreciate 
its triumphs. 

" Maet." 

*" Boston, 1819. 
^^ I leave the dismal beginning of a letter, intended to 
excite your compassion for my suffering under the confine- 
ment of a cold, and it would be rather mal apropos^ after 
what has passed, to proceed in due form to give an account 
of myself during the long period since I last saw you. But 
in order to preserve the unity of time and place, I must first 
revert to the accident which brought us together so oppor- 
tunely. I will not pretend to defend the prudence of the 



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73 CHANGES AT HOMB. 

action, but acknowledge it was rather the impulse of strong 
desire to give some one a little pleasure, than the sober dic- 
tate of reason, and I felt that, in M 's solitary state, she 

would be glad to see any one. I know it was wrong in aae 
point of view, but right in another. I was rewarded for a 
severe sickness, as far as regarded my own sufferings, 
should one have ensued. I had a very pleasant ride, and 

became more acquainted with J than I could in any 

other way. I was agreeably surprised to find in his conver- 
sation so much depth of thought and knowledge of mankind. 
I am glad of any opportunity to extend my acquaintance 
with character, in its infinite variety. There is no human 
knowledge, I am persuaded, which has so great an influence 
on our happiness. We learn to estimate ourselves more 
justly, and in the formation of our own characters we are 
enabled to discriminate between right and wrong more ac- 
curately; for in nothing are we more liable to confound 
them, than as respects our own feelings and motives. Is it 
not wilful blindness that leads us so of\en to ridicule in 
others what we unconsciously practise ourselves? Why 
are we not as cautious to ascertain the motives of the con« 
duct of others as of our own ? We console ourselves, 
when we have done any thing which to the eyes of the 
world appears weak and foolish, with the thought that our 
motives are good, and with a consciousness of having done 
what was right. All else is of little importance ; but did 
we believe that our friends were as much influenced by 
appearances, in their judgment of us, as we are in ours of 
them, I doubt if the approving smile of conscience would 
always compensate for the loss of the good opinion of those 
we love. Let us not, then, judge solely by the conduct oi 
any what are their real characters ; peculiar circumstances 
may prevent even our most intimate friends from dis* 
closing to us their particular reasons for every action ; but 



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OHAITGBS AT HOMB. 73 

in that case, if it be a tried friend, it were surely a proof 
of friendship to believe that it is at least felt by him to be 
right And with regard to people in general, let charity 
have its perfect work, and let us think all are free from delib- 
erate faults, till we have good reason to suppose otherwise. 
This is, perhaps, if understood literally, rather too liberal a 
plan for this world of sin and wickedness ; but as far as is 
consistent with reason, and our previous knowledge of men 
and manners, is it not just to judge of all as we would be 
judged ? I h&vefelt the want of this spirit of impartial jus- 
tice, and speak from experience in some respects ; in one, 
I hope never to be tried. I have been what you call mys- 
terious ; could you understand me, you would, I am sure, 
approve. Believe me, I am not governed by caprice in 
my treatment of friends ; if any thing may have appeared 
so, there has always been a motive, and I feel that I may 
confidently rely on your friendship for all charitable con- 
struction 

^^ I am in a sad state. I long to see you, in hopes of pro- 
curing some remedy in ydur better regulated mind. I am 
so much under the dominion of certain sickly feelings of 
late, that I begin to think my mind will never recover its 
healthy tone again ; active employment for the good of 
others is the only preventive for such disorders. I have 
not at present any prospect of such a means towards my 
own recovery, but trust the vital energy of my being is not 
quite extinct, and that ere long it will rise and subdue the 

weaker powers I have just thought that it is the 

spring-like feeling of the day that has such a weakening 
effect on my mind. Why do we indulge so much in ideal- 
ism, instead of the real pleasure of our existence ? I have 
no opinion of this giving way to imagination in our estimate 
of life. 

" Mary.'' 
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74 CHANOB8 AT BOMS. 

In the month of October a death occaired which 
awakened all her synnpathy, and the sympathy and 
sorrow of a large community. The Rev. John E. Ab- 
bot, whose life and character Henry Ware has made 
familiar to ns all, died in October, at his father's in 
Exeter, where Mary's friend was staying as a rela- 
tive. To both of them he had been a Christian helper 
when they most needed Christian counsel and en- 
couragement. His short life was, indeed, a blessing 
to all who knew him, and his death full of '< joy and 
peace in believing." Again was the pen taken, and 
solace offered. 

*" JBoaton, October 15, 1819. 
" I attempted, my dear friend, to write you on Tuesday, 
for 1 felt then that, all being over, 1 could calmly write of 
what had passed, and direct your feelings and my own to 
the future. But I knew from experience that a few days' 
delay would find you more in want of a letter ; as the ne- 
cessary exertion which attends a scene like that you have 
passed through occupies the whole mind while it is neces- 
sary to support it, but leaves, when it is passed, a vacuity 
which needs some external power to fill it. Perhaps I too 
easily found in this an excuse for leaving my letter unfin- 
ished, and now that I review it, 1 blush at my own weak- 
ness. I sought to relieve my own heart, instead of strength- 
ening yours. 1 have been with you every moment since I 
last wrote you, and too fully realized all that you have suf- 
fered. At the moment I was writing you, that pure spirit 
was taking its flight. 1 felt it as by intuition, and needed 
not further confirmation. But it was a relief to know that 
his blessed spirit was for ever beyond the reach of pain 
and anguish ; that it was exalted to its native home, there to 
realize all that his brightest hopes could anticipate of a glo- 
rious immortality. 



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CHANGES AT HOME. 75 

** I feel an almost total inability to write you on this sub- 
ject. Could I talk to you, there would be time to enlarge 
on all the thoughts which it suggests. But they are so vari- 
ous, so interesting, so overpowering, that I know not on 
which to dwell. His virtues are too deeply imprinted on 
our hearts to receive any additional weight by enumeration. 
We can only go forward with them to that world where 
they shall meet a reward proportionate to their value. The 
remembrance of his character, while it awakens every 
emotion of afiection which he excited while on earth, sheds 
on the heart a light which unfolds to the eye of faith its 
glorious perfection in heaven. Nothing in him can have 
escaped the mind of one so closely connected with him ; 
friends need not to be reminded of what is imprinted in indel- 
ible characters on their hearts. But the thought that what 
we so loved and cherished is gone for ever from us, that 
the form by which we have held communion with the spirit 
is hid for ever from our view, the chilling realities of death 
and decay, as they appeal to our purest earthly feelings, 
are the most difficult to contend with. Our brightest visions 
of the future have a most powerful drawback in the horror 
with which nature shrinks from the sad appendages of 
death. 

^' It is this, I think, which more than any thing else makes 
us look forward to our own dissolution with instinctive 
dread, and leads us to avoid, if possible, every thing that 
reminds us of it But when we view it as it really is, but a 
step in the ceaseless progression which is to carry us on to 
eternity, as a mere change of the external habitation of our 
spirits, a removal of the greatest impediments in our pro- 
gress towards perfection, then, indeed, it loses all its terror, 
and we think of our friends who have passed through it 
as absent only in body, but present in spirit. Our own 
floulfl, though still connected with an earthly load, form by 



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76 CHANGES AT HOME. 

their derivation from heaven a part of the spiritual world, 
and in proportion as they become purified from the corrup- 
tion of the world, they approach the state of those beatified 
beings who have finished their course. And therefore, 
though separated from them in this world, we are allied to 
them more closely than earthly ties could bind us, and must 
patiently wait for the fulfilment of our Father's plans for 
our joyful removal to them. This is, indeed, a new incen- 
tive to exertion, to prepare ourselves for this change. I 
have feared it might supersede a still higher motive ; but 
how far it may be permitted to influence us, I dare not de- 
termine. That our earthly affections may be a means of 
leading us to the Creator of them and of all our powers of 
thinking and feeling, I believe must be true, or they would 
not have been given us as sources of such pure enjoyment 
here. But their tendency to make us forget all other con- 
siderations, to absorb those thoughts which should be direct- 
ed to higher objects, is the trial which- always attends every 
means of worldly enjoyment we possess, and as such ^ould 

be combated with our utmost powers 

*' Yours, most truly, 

" M. L. P." 

In the summer of 1821 Mary went with her fa- 
ther to live in Dorchester. And the change from 
town to country, and from a life of business and 
care to the free and still enjoyment of nature, seems 
to have had both a favorable and unfavorable effect 
upon her mind. Unfavorable in part, if we may 
trust her own account of herself. In this account, 
however, there is a nearer approach to morbidness 
than we have before seen, and a kind of self-dispar- 
agement, which must have been sincere at the time, 



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CHANGES AT HOME. 77 

but was not, we think, a part of her essential charac* 
ter. Humble she was always ; truly, deeply humble ; 
yet no one knew better than she, or acted more upon 
the truth, that genuine humility says very little about 
itself. And the expressions of it which appear in the 
letters that follow were made, we are to remember, 
to a confiding friend, to whom she declared all that 
she felt, though it were but the feeling of the mo- 
ment, and the next moment recalled. She says her- 
self, in this connection, — "I believe I have given an 
extravagant detail of my danger; and I may be un- 
der the influence of one of those fits of distempered 
mind, to which I have always been prone." If this 
were so, it shows the more what efforts she made, 
and how completely she brought every such dispo- 
sition under the sway of principle, so that few who 
knew her ever suspected, we imagine, that any effort 
was necessary. 

But we are ourselves overstating, it may be, the 
disposition to which we refer. Wherever it appears, 
as here, it is connected with such just and exalted 
sentiments, that it seems incidentcd and unimpor- 
tant. 

« DorcheaUr, June 18, 1821. 
" The first line which I date from this place is to you, 
my friend, to whom my first feelings, on all occasions of 
self-interest, turn for sympathy. Your friendly curiosity is 
awake to know what efiect a new kind of life is to have on 
a character which I know you feel of some importance to 
yourself. I would not imply that this selfish reason is the 
only motive of your interest, but I seek rather to find in it 
some pretence for indulging myself in the egotism which is 
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78 CHANGES AT HOME. 

creeping over me ; and which led me to this desk for relief. 
How much will one short week of quiet reflection teach of 
our own hearts 1 How deceived are we, if we imagine we 
know ourselves thoroughly, when we have been but par- 
tially exposed to that change of circumstances and situation 
which alone can develop character even to one's self ! I 
have found, indeed, just what I anticipated, that the change 
from constant activity to perfect stillness and inaction would 
of course produce a vacuity which time and habit would 
alone overcome ; but I knew not the whole weakness of my 
mind. In the bustle of a busy life (idly busy, perhaps, but 
not the less exciting) I had almost lost sight of my natural 
propensities. Accustomed to find objects to occupy my 
powers wherever I turned, I mistook the simple love of be- 
ing employed for real energy of mind, and therefore did 
not even apprehend the want of power to direct these ener- 
gies to whatever I pleased. But it is not as I thought. My 
natural turn of mind (if I may so call what is perhaps more a 
weakness of heart) is for that calm, saddened view of things, 
which seeks enjoyment from the contemplative in charac- 
ter, and lives rather on the food of imagination than reality. 
I never found in words a more accurate description of the 
prevailing mood of my natural feelings than in that exquisite 
little poem, ' I 'm pleased, and yet I 'm sad,' — yet not of an 
uneasy, discontented temperament, but simply inclined to 
the purest refinement of melancholy. Trials which called 
for vigor of mind and cheerfulness of manner, a situation 
whose duties required the full employment of time which 
might otherwise have been wasted in cultivating this pro- 
pensity, and perhaps a little pride lest those who could not 
understand it should discover it, and I hope a principle 
which taught me to wage war with what must interfere with 
higher duties, — all these combined to stifle the propensity, 
and I sometimes thought had almost extinguished it But 



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CHANGES AT BOMB* 79 

now, removed from those occupations which demanded 
thought as well as action, thrown entirely upon myself, with 
every thing around to inspire the enthusiastic indulgence of 
fancy, my imagination has suddenly taken the reins, and I 
find it will not be without a struggle that reason and princi* 
pie will recover them. 

*•*' I suppose I must set about some new study or dry 
book, if I cannot find some animate subject to interest and 
fix my mind. There is a little deaf and dumb girl just op- 
posite us, and if I knew the process I would teach her to 
read. I must have something to do which will rouse my 
mind to exertion. I have employment enough, but it is not 
of my mind, said that is unfortunately one which will retro- 
grade if it does not progress. I am delighted with our sit- 
uation, and cannot describe to you the sensations of first 
realizing that I am living in the pure, unconfined atmosphere 
of nature. It has a power, which I hope familiarity will 
never efiace, of elevating the heart to Him whose ^ hand I 
see, wrought in each flower, inscribed on every tree.' It is 
a privilege which I hope I shall fully estimate, to be thus 
reminded at every glance of the love and power of our Fa- 
ther in heaven. I am grateful for that goodness which has 
appointed me so much of the purest enjoyment of life, and 
I would testify it by devoting all my powers to his best ser- 
vice. I was not made for solitude of heart, and I would 
find all that my heart requires in the love of divine perfec- 
tion. I think Foster will do me good, — ^On the Epithet 
Romantic' 

^^ I have just been taking a delightful walk, as the sun was 
setting gloriously, and I think if you were only with me I 
should enjoy it tenfold. I wish you could arrange matters 
to come out with father one night before you go, and we 
will go to Milton. 

" Mary." 



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80 CHANGES AT HOME. 

« Dor<Jte8ter, Jviy 25, 1821. 
*^ I wrote you last rather a monotonous round of sedenta- 
ry employments, occasionally interrupted by a visit to the 
city, or a ride about the country. On the whole I enjoy life 
highly, although my present mode is so novel a one, that 
I am sometimes at a loss to decide whether it is actual en- 
joyment or negative indulgence of ease. But country life 
is a privilege I estimate most highly ; that I can at all times, 
when I raise my eyes, find my thoughts so forcibly directed, 
by all I behold, to that ' still communion which transcends 
the imperfect offices of prayer and praise M I am persuad- 
ed that it is far easier to cultivate a devotional spirit here 
than in the confusion of life, and to have a deeper sense 
of the presence of God in the heart. Feeling is little, to 
be sure, unless it fortifies for action; but in the hour of 
trial, we find great assistance in recalling past exercises, 
and in spiritual as well as temporal concerns habit is a 
powerful coadjutor. That high-wrought state of feeling 
which some of the splendid appearances of nature often 
produce on a heart which has once felt the power of piety, 
is ridiculed as enthusiasm of the most dangerous kind ; and 
I do not myself think it is any test of religious character ; 
but as far as the enjoyment of the present moment is of any 
importance, what can exceed it ? We are, indeed, too apt 
to feel that we have been on the mount, when it was but a 
vision which we saw ; but where it does not so deceive us, 
nothing but a good effect can result from its indulgence. 
I recollect part of a description of this state of mind in 
Wordsworth's Excursion, which from its accuracy has re- 
mained in my mind, though I forget the scene which sug- 
gested it : — 

* Sound needed none, 

Nocanv form of words ; his spirit drank 

The spectacle ; sensation, sonl, and form 

All melted in him ; the/ swallowed ap 



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OHANGEB AT HOMB* 81 

His animal being ; in them did he live, 
And by them did he live ; they were his life. 
In snch access of mind, in such high hoar 
Of Tiflitation from the living God, 
Thought waa not ; in enjoyment it expired. 
No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request. 
Rapt into still communion that transcends 
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise. 
His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power 
That made him ; it was blessedness and love.' 

" I have got Samor to read, becaus# you recommend it, 
and am shocked to find how unfit my mind has become for 
every kind of application in the way of reading. I know 
you think I am greatly deficient in that kind of literary taste 
which fits one for an agreeable companion, — and I feel 
most sensibly that it is true. But I am fully persuaded that 
if the sentimental requisites of an interesting character are 
only to be derived from books, I must go through life the 
plain matter-of-fact lady I now am ; it is too late for me to 
work a reform. 

" Maey." 

Not long afterward, an event occurred of no little 
interest and importance to Mary, — the marriage of 
her tnie friend, now Mrs. Paine, who went to reside 
in Worcester. In a letter dated Ma^ 1822, we 
find a full expression of the thoughts and wishes 
caused by this event, but of too personal and private 
a character to be used. The letter closes with an 
allusion to herself, showing that she had trials and 
experiences of her own, not to be disclosed to the 
public eye. She speaks of the previous winter, as 
" a remarkable era, never to be forgotten. Its per- 
plexities have passed away, but its blessings have in- 
creased and become consummated. We have all 



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82 CHANGES AT HOME. 

fouad it an important period, and to some of us the 
most so of life. How far it has improved us, He 
who searcheth the heart alone knows ; but for myself, 
I feel that it has been a scene of more mental suffer- 
ing than I ever before knew. You have seen it, and 
will not misunderstand me when I say that, had I 
been more indifferent, I should have escaped much 
torture. But it has been a good lesson for me." 

There are few greater demands upon the exercise 
of a sound discretion and practical wisdom, than the 
giving counsel and exerting a right influence on seep- 
tical minds. Nor is it often that such minds are 
willing to open themselves, and confide their doubts 
or indifference to a Christian friend. Unfortunately, 
Christians are apt to be either too careless in their 
conduct, or too morose in their manners and severe 
of judgment, to make a favorable impression on the 
sceptical, and win their confidence in the assurance 
of a generous sympathy. We dare not conjecture 
how much of the infidelity of the world, and the un- 
happiness of the unbelieving, is owing to this cause. 
We are sorfietimes driven to the fear, that Christians 
themselves may have as much to answer for as those 
whom they exclude for their unbelief, and whom 
they fail to impress with the power of their own faith, 
or the beauty of their holiness. We have many in- 
timations that this was felt peculiarly by her of whom 
we ^^Trite. And it is one indication of character, and 
of the aspect and influence of her faith, that many 
came to her freely with their doubts and difficulties. 
Some of the particular cases cannot be published. 



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CHANGES AT HOME. 83 

But where no names are used in her account of them, 
nor a hint given of the persons intended, there can 
be no impropriety in offering the facts as related. 
The reflections with which she accompanies them 
may be profitable to both classes of minds, the be- 
lieving and the doubting. 

Under date of August, 1822, Mary whites to her 
former instructors in Hingham, giving with other in- 
cidents the following case of hard indifference, if not 
infidelity. 

" This leads me to a subject upon which I want assist- 
ance. I have lately met with a person of my own age, 
who, though living in a Christian land, under the public dis- 
pensations of the Word, from the more powerful influence 
of those with whom she has lived and the want of education, 
is as it were wholly ignorant of what religion is, in any 
form, except as it is m^ some way connected with going to 
church, but without the least /eeZin^ of what that connection 
is. She is not deficient in strength of mind, or capacity to 
receive instruction on the subject, but without any idea of 
the necessity of any other principle of action than she al- 
ready possesses ; that is, a firmness of purpose proceeding 
from natural decision, and a patience under trial, because 
experience has taught the weakness and uselessness of irri- 
tation. Now this seems to me an opportunity of doing 
some real good. I have almost unlimited influence over 
her from the strong affection she feels, and, as my oppor- 
tunities are few, I cannot neglect this one without reproach. 
But that dreadful consciousness of incapacity will place its 
iron hand on my wishes. I am aware that much might and 
ought to be done, but that much, if not every thing, depends 
on the first impression. She must be made to feel the neceS' 
9ity^ in order to be excited to the pursuit of piety ; and how 



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84 CHANGES AT HOMB. 

this is to be done I know not. Never did I feel so forcibly 
the imperfection of the characters of Christians, as on this 
occasion. To be able to point to one example of the power 
of religion in producing that uniform loveliness of charac* 
ter and l^ppiness of life of which it is capable, would do 
more than volumes of argument to such a mind and heart. 
It has made me shrink at my own unworthiness of the name 
I bear. Could you find a moment to assist me in this un- 
dertaking, you would confer an unspeakable kindness. 

" M. L. P." 

Another more decided and serious case came to 
her knowledge about the same time, — a case of 
avowed atheism, confided to her for relief, and most 
kindly and wisely met by her ; so that, while she sup- 
posed no effect had been produced, the work was 
going on, and an intelligent, troubled spirit came out 
of darkness into marvellous light This success, 
which seems to have surprised her, was apparently 
owing to the beauty of her own religion, and the 
harmony and happiness of her life, which the doubter 
could not fail to see, which indeed first induced the 
confession, and was more effectual than any formal 
arguments ; another evidence of the power and re- 
sponsibility of the Christian course and character. 
** What a responsibility did this trust impose on 
me ! " Mary writes ; " for I knew that no human being 
but myself was aware of it. It was too much to 
bear alone ; I was unequal to it, I dared not attempt 
it for a time, I knew that so much depended on the 
very first step in such cases." 

The counsellor to whom she would gladly have 
gone for aid, her beloved pastor, was then absent» 



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CHANGBB AT HOMB. 8S 

travelling in Enrope for his health. He retoraed the 
following snmmer; and the account she gives of 
that happy event, familiar as the facts may be to 
the readers of the Memoir of Channing, will be in- 
teresting to many, as the impression of one who saw 
and heard for herself. 

« Dorchester^ Augtat 25, 1823. 

** Mt dear N : 

" I have just returned from passing the day with E-^— , 
and although it is late, and I am very tired, I cannot resist 
the strong desire 1 have to send you a few lines by her to- 
morrow, that I may give you some faint idea, at least, of 
what you would have felt, had you heard Mr. Channing yes- 
terday. But to begin at the right end of the tale, I passed 
Thursday in town, and learned that Mr. Channing would 
possibly come in a vessel which was expected daily. On 
Friday I was at Nahant, and saw a ship enter the harbor 
which might be that. Saturday I went to Newton, and on 
my return was told that he had actually arrived, and was to 
preach the next morning. I could scarcely credit it, and it 
Was not until my arrival at home, when I received a note 
from George requesting me to come in to hear him, and pass 
the day in Pearl Street, that I could be convinced it was ac- 
tually true. I went in on Sunday )norning, and with what 
sensations I saw the church filling, and every one looking 
round in anxious expectation, you may perhaps imagine ; 
it was a feeling more of dread than pleasure, lest the first 
glance at his face should destroy all our hopes. He wisely 
waited until all had entered, and when- his quick step was 
heard (for you might have heard a leaf fall), the whole 
body of people rose, as it were with one impulse, to welcome 
him. He was much afiected by this, and it was some sec- 
onds before he could raise his head ; but when he did, it 
made the eyes that gazed on him rejoice to see him, seated 
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66 CHANGES AT HOME. 

in his accustomed comer, looking round on his people with 
the most animated expression of joy glowing on his face, 
and with the evidences of improved health stamped on 
every feature. His skin was much burned, to be sure, 
which may have given him cm appearance of health that 
did not belong to him, but the increase of his flesh and the 
animation of his countenance promised much. 

^^ Mr. Dewey commenced the services as he used to do, 
but when, after the prayer, Mr. Channing rose and read 
his favorite psalm, — 

' My sool, repeat His praise, 
Whose mercies are so great,' 

I could hardly realize that he had been absent, his voice 
and manner and action were so exactly like himself in his 
very best days* He stood through the whole psalm, and 
seemed to join in and enjoy every note of the music. He 
could not control a smile of joy. But of what followed I 
can tell you little. You have heard him when he felt 
obliged, as then, to dismiss the restraints of form, and 
speak freely the thoughts that filled his mind, and have 
perhaps often thought with others that he went too far, was 
too particular, too personal ; but yesterday, I believe the 
most uninterested person present could not find fault. I 
thought it was the most deeply affecting address I ever 
heard ; it was'ilso deeply and decidedly practical. There 
are few occasions which will authorize a minister to excite 
the feelings of his audience in a very great degree, and 
none which can make it allowable for him to rest in mere 
excitement. But when their minds, from any peculiar cir- 
cumstance, are particularly susceptible, I know no reason 
why it should not be permitted that they be addressed 
familiarly and affectionately on the subject of it. But you 
need not that I should defend Mr. Channing from the 
charge of egotism. You understand his motives too well 
to require it. 



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CHANGES AT HOME. 87 

** His text was from the hundred and sixteenth Psalm : 
*What shall I i;ender unto God for all his mercies? I 
will offer the sacrifice of thanksgiving, I will call on the 
name of the Lord, I will pay my vows unto the Lord now 
in the presence of his people.* Returning, as he said, un- 
der such peculiar circumstances of mercy to his home and 
his people, he trusted no apology was necessary for waiviilg 
the common forms of the pulpit, that he might speak to his 
people as to his friends, that he might in the fulness of his 
heart utter its emotions to those who, he trusted, could un- 
derstand and sympathize with them. As he slightly re- 
viewed the views with which he left us, the mercies that 
had followed him, and the blessings which were showered 
on his return, he seemed almost overpowered with the ful- 
ness of his feelings, and I feared he would not be able to 
go on. But his voice rose as he said, ^And now what 
shall I render for all these benefits ? I will first pay my 
vows unto Him, whose mighty arm hath been stretched out 
to save, whose never failing love hath everywhere attended 
me.' The ascription of praise which followed was more 
truly sublime than any thing I ever heard or read. His 
solemn dedication of his renewed life to the service of Him 
who had borne him in safety over the great deep, who had 
sustained him in sickness, comforted him in affiiction, and 
crowned all his gifts by giving him strength to return to his 
duties, was almost too much to bear. It was a testimony 
to the power of religion, which spoke more loudly than all 
the books that ever were written to prove it. But he meant 
not to speak of his past experiences merely to relieve his 
own heart ; he had but one great object in view, the good 
of his people, and he would not lose sight of that even 
when the fulness of his own feelings might almost be al- 
lowed to engage his whole mind. He could not be ex- 
pected to enumerate all that he had learned during his 



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88 CHANGES AT HOME. 

absence, but one thing he could assure us ; that at every 
step, under all circumstances, in every country, and with 
every variety of character, he had become more and more 
convinced of the value and necessity of the Christian reve- 
lation.*' 

The last of that succession of bereavements which 
Mary was so early called to meet, and by which she 
was left as alone in the world, was now at hand. 
Since the death of her mother, in 1812, when there 
devolved mainly upon her, at the age of fourteen, 
the care of a dispirited and feeble father, and two 
aged grandparents, with other members of the fam^ 
ily in a most trying condition, she had lived eith^ 
in the sick-room, or in a press of domestic cares 
and business avocations. That these often made a 
severer demand upon her strength and patience, as 
well as affection, than any one knew at the time, or 
indeed ever knew, appears from various intimations 
in her letters and life. And all this was now to be 
brought to a crisis by the death of her father ^ leav- 
ing her without one near relative, or proper home. 
They had been boarding for some time in Dorches- 
ter, in the family of Mr. Barnard ; where she received, 
as she says, " the greatest kindness and affection," — » 
and she felt the need of it But let her give the cir- 
cumstances in her own words. 

« Boston, November 1, 1823. 
" My dear Fbiend : — 

^^ I have been wishing this whole week to find time to 
write you, but it has been wholly impracticable. I have 
been in a perpetual agitation from sundry unexpected oc- 
currences and continual interruptions from visitors. Iq 



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* CHANGES AT HOME. 89 

fact, at no moment of my whole existence have I more 
wanted your counsel and sympathy. You know it is my 
lot to be assailed in more than one direction if in any, and 
it has been more remarkably the case now than ever. 
I thank you most sincerely for your two good let- 
ters ; it was more than I dared expect, and it was a cordial 
to me to receive the kind expression of your sympathy, 
though I should not have doubted its existence without it. 
You say you ' have heard but little of me,' and it was 
scarcely possible that you should hear of the immediate 
circumstances that attended my trial. It was so sudden 
that I was, as it were, alone, and I have feared that, in in- 
dulging myself in writing to you of it, I should give way 
too far, and distress and weary you. I have realized more 
than I ever did in any of the various changes I have met 
with, that ' the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb,' and 
even in the very extremity of trial we can be strengthened 
to support all with calmness. 

" For the first three days of my father's sickness he 
seemed to have only a severe cold and slightly disordered 
stomach, and though I had called Dr. Thaxter, it was more 
to satisfy him that the medicine I gave was necessary for 
him, than from any doubt that I could do all that was need- 
ed ; for he had often appeared more sick, and I had ad- 
ministered to him without any advice. On the morning of 
the fourth he appeared to be a little wandering, but re- 
mained quiet until night, when he was very violent for two 
or three hours ; and the following day I was told by the 
physician that nothing but a miracle could preserve his life 
until the next morning. I heard it calmly, I believe be- 
cause I could not realize it. He did not seem to be con- 
scious that he was sick ; he did all that I asked him to, but 
did not seem to know me. I soon found that the doctor's 
prediction was but too true, for symptoms of decay in- 
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90 CHANGES AT BOMB. • 

creased very rapidly, and at three the next morning hs 
breathed his last, as a child would go to sleep. Not a 
struggle indicated the approach of the destroyer. I held 
his hand, and gazed at him until I was taken from him 

senseless. No one was with me but Mr. B , and Mr. 

E , his son-in-law. I recovered myself in a few mo- 

ments and founds Mr. E fainting ; this obliged me in- 
stantly to rouse myself to action, which was all mercifully 
disposed, and I sat down quietly with them for the remainder 
of the night, giving directions wheli any thing passed my 
mind, or remaining silent, knowing all would be done just 
as I wished. 

^' It would have seemed dreadful to me had I anticipated 
passing through such a scene with only two gentlemen, 
who a few months before were perfect strangers to me ; 
but it never passed my mind that I was not with my nearest 
friends. I could not in volumes tell you of all their kind- 
ness. It was one of the striking testimonies of God's mer- 
ciful care of me, that He placed me with them. Indeed, 
His goodness towards me has been most wonderful, and 
above all, that He has enabled me to feel it continually ; 
even in the awful stillness of that night I never lost sight 
of it. I could feel as it were His arm beneath me ; and I 
can truly say I never experienced that fulness of heavenly 
peace which results from undeviating confidence in Him, 
which I then did. It was an hour of peculiar elevation 
which I can never forget, and which I trust will ever be a 
source of unfailing support, as it must be of gratitude. 
What beside could have sustained me amidst its horrors ? 
All that I could call my own was departing from me, and I 
was standing as it were alone in the universe ; but I felt that 
I was the object of His care who was all-sufficient, and I 
found in that consciousness a calmness which nothing could 
move. I stood firm and erect, though the storms of life 



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CHAKGES AT HOME. 91 

seemed to have concentrated their power to overthrow me, 
and I felt that the Power which enabled me to do this 
would never forsake me, for it was not my own. We may 
talk of the resolution and fortitude which some possess, but 
what would it all be at such an hour ? Nothing, — less 
than nothing. I gave up all reliance upon myself, or I 
should have utterly failed. Every thing was directed with 
the utmost mercy. Even his unconsciousness, which I 
thought at first I could not bear, was a mercy to him, for 
how much was he spared by it ; he could not have left me 
alone without a severe struggle. 

^^ I am now fixed for the winter, and shall soon feel, I 
doubt not, as much at home as it is possible for me to 
feel ; and if the greatest kindness and affection that ever 
were shown to any human being can make me happy, I 
shall be so, for I have it. 

" With love, I am yours, 

" M. L. P." 



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VI. 

VISIT ABROAD. 

Mary Pickard was now alone. Every member 
of her own family had gone, and she had witnessed 
and smoothed the passage of every one. She had 
only entered mature life, but her twenty-five years 
of experience and change had been equal to doable 
that period of common life. Already had she learned 
the great truth, which to many comes late, if at all, — 

'* We live in deeds, nolf years ; in thonghts, not breaths ; 
In ieelings, not in figures on a dial." 

Heretofore she had always had an object to live 
for, — some one dependent upon her affection and 
exertions, to whom it was happiness enough to min- 
ister. Now there was no one ; and we wonder not 
that she said, '< I seem to hang so loosely on the 
world, that it is of little importance where I am.'' 
It was indeed a singular providence which at this 
moment opened to her an entirely new field, yet one 
wholly congenial with her tastes and wishes. 

Her only relatives on the father's side were in 
England, connections whom she had seen only as a 
child twenty years before, but had always hoped to 
see again. And not for her own gratification only, 
but that she might be of service, if possible, to those 



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VISIT ABROAD. 93 

who were in depressed and obscure condition, as 
some of them were. This consideration, which would 
have offered least inducement to most young minds, 
perhaps have kept them away, was an incentive to 
Mary, and gave her a right to find in the opportunity 
a duty as well as a pleasure ; especially as the occa- 
sion given her was itself an opportunity to serve an 
invalid friend. The circumstances will appear in 
the following letters to Miss Gushing and Mrs. 
Paine. 

"Boston, MBurck 8, 1824. 

" My deae Miss Gushing : — 
" If sorrow for sin is any ground for forgiveness, I 
trust you will grant it to me, for my shameful neglect of 
you. Do not think that forge tfulness or want of interest 
has led to this; you know me, I trust, better than to be- 
lieve that, and you know my faults too well not to be able 
to account for it, from my too deeply rooted habit of pro- 
crastinating. Often during the past winter have I thought, 
if I could only see you, I should be sure to find the guid- 
ance and sympathy which I have longed for ; but when I 
thought of writing to you, 1 felt the selfishness of troubling 
you with my own perplexities, knowing thai, as my mind 
was so much occupied by them, I could not compensate you 
for it by any other communications I could make. The 
last six months have indeed brought to me a constant strug- 
gle of feeling. Left as I was to choose my own path on 
the wide ocean of life, with health, strength, and some 
means of influence, the responsibility which it imposed to 
use to the best possible advantage the powers that God 
had given me, to promote the end for which I knew they 
Yfeie given, was almost overpowering, — and at times 
I -would have given myself up willingly to the control of 



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94 VISIT ABROAD. 

any one who would relieve me from the burden. I have 
experienced in so many striking ways the great goodness 
of God in giving me light to guide, and strength to sustain 
me in hours of trial, that it is, I know, but practical infi- 
delity to doubt for one moment that his protecting influence 
will still be extended towards me, if I try my utmost to 
attain a knowledge of duty, and persevere to my best abili- 
ty in the path which conscience dictates. But the difl&- 
culty is, that, though in great events where we see at once 
that no human power can aid us we cannot but acknowl- 
edge that He is sufficient for all things, we are too apt to 
lose sight of this truth in cases in which human agency 
must be exerted, forgetting that God is as surely the operat- 
ing cause in one case as the other. When it appears that 
our fate may be determined by a single word which we 
feel the power of uttering, we can scarcely help thinking 
that upon our own heads must be all the consequences 
which may follow ; and thinking thus, we must realize our 
weakness and insufficiency. 

*' All this has been preying upon my mind, and its effects 
have been deplorably contracting to my thoughts. I have, 
indeed, been outwardly much occupied by various pursuits, 
trying to do something for others, but my thinking has been 
nearly all fof myself. This is my only excuse for not 
writing you more, and I think with this specimen you will 
be satisfied that I have not before attempted it. I believe 
that all the events that befall us are exactly such as are 
best adapted to improve us ; and I find, in a perfect confi- 
dence in the wisdom and love which I know directs them, 
a source of peace which no other thing can give ; and in 
the difficulty I find in acting upon this belief I see a weak- 
ness of nature, which those very trials are designed to assist 
us in overcoming, and which trial alone can conquer. 
Whatever is in store for me, I trust that I shall not forget 



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VISIT ABROAD. 95 

that the first and only important object of existence is to 
promote, as far as my powers may extend, the cause of 
holiness. That every one, however humble their station 
and limited their capacity, has some power to do this, I 
doubt not, as I find in every line of God's word a command 
to do so ; and I pray that my feeble efibrts may be fully 
devoted to this end. 

^^ March 15. What changes a few days may produce 
in one's prospects 1 Little could I think, a week ago, that 
the conclusion of this letter was to tell you, that in less 
than another week I should be floating on the vast ocean, 
on my way to England. But so it is, and I hope that the 
suddenness of the determination to go has not shut from 
my eyes any very important consideration against it. It 
seems to me like a dream, for it is only in my dreams that 
I have ever thought of it as a possibility. I have wished to 
see my relations there, having always kept up a constant 
correspondence with them, and felt very much interested 
in them ; but since my father's death, I have viewed the 
accomplishment of this wish as an impossibility. But now 
that so good an opportunity has ofiered, I cannot hesitate 
to accept it. I seem to hang so loosely on the world, that 
it is of little importance where I am, as it regards duties, 
and it is an advantage to enlarge one's ideas, which I feel 
ought to be improved. To tell you all that I feel at leaving 
home would be impossible ; it is a most solemn undertak- 
ing, and when I glance at the possibilities connected with 
such a step, it almost overwhelms me. 

** I wish I could see every one of yOu once more. My 
heart is indeed too full to tell you half that I wish. 
^^ Yours most afiectionately, 

" M. L. P " 



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96 TISIT JkBROAI). 

^'Botlon, March 13, 1824. 

" My deae N : 

^^ I have been sitting many minutes with my pen in my 
hand and paper before me, trying to bring to myself suffi- 
cient resolution to tell you the new and surprising turn 
which has taken place in ray wayward destiny. I have 
been so long the creature of circumstances that you must 
be prepared for changes of all kinds in my lot ; but I know 
not how it will strike you when you learn for truth, that in 
one week from to-morrow I sail for England. I thought 
that I was entirely willing to go, but as I find myself telling 
you of it, and think that it is utterly impossible for me to 
see you again, my heart sinks within me, and I almost 
shrink from it In fact, this is the first moment I have re- 
alized it. I knew nothing of it until the day before yester- 
day, when Edward Robbins sent to me, to say that his phy- 
sicians and friends advised his taking a voyage, and that, if I 
could go with him, it would decide him to take their advice. 
I had thought of the subject so much, thai I was prepared at 
once to answer. It is a very desirable thing for me to visit 
the few relations which I have there, and I could never 
give up the expectation and endeavor to accomplish it My 
dependent state was the only barrier, as I could never go 
unless under the protection of one of the few male friends 
from whom I should be willing to receive such an obliga- 
tion, and it was so unlikely that either of those few would 
ever think of going, that I had but little hope I should ever 
realize my wishes. But this proposition at once removed 
all difficulties. Our families have been so long connected, 
and Edward himseCT has been so particularly kind to me 
through life, and more than ever since I have been without 
a parentis protection, and is in every respect so exactly cal- 
culated to make one feel willing and happy to be under 
obligation, that I could not but feel that now was the time 



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TISIT ABROAD. 92^ 

(if ever) for me to accomplish this great object. Doubts 
about the sufficiency of my means, and some scruples about 
my right to employ them in this way, made me hesitate a 
few hours ; but in less than four I decided, with the advice 
of all whom it was necessary to consult, that it was right to 
improve the present, as all future opportunities were uncer- 
tain. That it cost me a deep inward struggle to make my 
feelings acquiesce, you will not doubt. The first day I felt 
like a child. I could not glance even at the reasons which 
favored my going without sad and overpowering retrospec- 
tion, and the thought of the uncertainty of the result, the 
thousand possibilities involved in such a change, almost 
turned my brain ; and yet every one was wondering how I 
could look so composed and keep so still. It is singular 
how much little things sometimes concur to aid us. It was 
Thursday, and I was just going to lecture, as Mr. Robbins 
came in with his proposal. I went still, and Mr. Walker 
gave us one of the most delightful, strengthening sermons 
bpon the influence of the Spirit, and the all-sufficiency of 
trust in its guidance, that I ever heard in my life. I believe 
no other subject could have fixed my attention, and it did 
fix it most effectually. 

" I know it is utterly impossible that I should see you, 
therefore I will not dwell for a moment on the thought. I 
have, of course, a great deal to think about, although lit- 
tle personal preparation ; but I must leave every thing in 
which I have the least concern just as I should wish if I was 
certain I should never return. God only knows what the 
future will bring to me, but I hope to find myself wholly 
willing to yield myself to the disposal of his providence. 
We think of these changes for others, and feel little doubt 
about their safety, but when the case becomes our own, it 
is another thing. To embark on the wide ocean in a little, 
frail vessel with perfect calmness, requires a firmness of 
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98 VISIT ABROAD* 

faith of which qo one can boast until they have stood the 
test. I have no fear of it now, and I trust I shall find that 
the ground of confidence in the all-powerful God, which the 
experience of my life has given me, will be sufficient to 
support me in all events. I am willing to be put to the test, 
for if all that I think I feel is but delusion, I had better 
discover the delusion before it is too late. 

" We have taken passage in the Emerald. If I feel 
alone here, I don't know what I shall do in a land of 
strangers. We go to Liverpool, and probably immediately 
to London from there. I go with very moderate hopes 
about seeing the wonders and beauties. I must be satisfied 
with seeing people, not things. I shall have no right to 
travel much, and shall have no advantages not common to 
the most insignificant ; nevertheless, if I can attain my prin- 
cipal object, all the rest will be unexpected gain. It is 
most probable we shall be gone a year, but it is possible we 
may return in the fall. 

" What a variety for one poor soul in the last four 
months ! It absolutely makes me giddy to think of it all. 
But what a source of comfort is it, that in all things I have 
sought guidance where I believe it is ever freely given; 
and I do believe, whatever is the event of all this, it must 
be the direction of Him who knows and governs all things. 
I must not write more. 

*' Yours most affectionately, 

« M. L. P," 

A particular friend in Milton, one of the truest 
and noblest friends that Mary, or any one ever had, 
describes her as at this time "worn to the bone" 
with care and trial ; and then breaks forth in praise 
of her, in unmeasured terms ; adding, " Yet, with all 
this superiority, where is the other being on whom 



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TISIT ABROAD. 99 

any poor fool can repose with such trast and con- 
fidence, as on her? My meanest thought is not 
checked in the utterance, because her mind is so 
flexible it stoops to the lowest I am only afraid of 
adoring her, so I may as well hold my peace.*' This 
was said in earnest, and is one of many expres- 
sions of admiration and affection called out by her 
departure. 

Of her progress and occupations abroad, our 
knowledge is drawn exclusively from her own letters. 
These, therefore, we shall use freely, leaving them 
to show their connection as far as they can, and 
make their own impression ; begging the reader to 
remember, however, that they were all written in the 
haste of travelling or the fatigues of watching, and 
that their literary merit or public appearance was the 
last thought to occur to the mind of the writer. She 
wrote a great deal, and we confine our selection 
chiefly to passages relating to personal experience* 
rather than descriptions of places or works of art. 
For these last she allowed herself little time, though 
keenly alive to the enjoyment of all grandeur and 
beauty, and giving passing indications of her power 
of appreciating and delineating. 

Arriving in Liverpool in April, she was made to 
feel at home immediately, by the kindness and sym- 
pathy of a kindred mind, in one to whom Dr. Chan- 
ning liad given her a letter, and whose name and 
sad fate are familiar to many, — Mrs. Freme, daugh- 
ter of the Rev. Dr. Wells, who settled in Brattleboro', 
Vermont, where she afterward perished by fire. Ma- 
ry's account of her interview with that excellent 



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100 VISIT ABROAP« 

woman is characteristic, as her first interest in a new 
country. 

"London, AprU 19, 1824. 
** In Liverpool, I went with Mrs. Freme to visit the Fe- 
male Penitentiary, and took a long walk with her. She had 
relinquished an engagement out of town to go with me, and 
I know not that I ever felt more grateful to a stranger in 
my life. She is an uncommonly sensible, kind woman, ex- 
tremely interested in the encouragement of all good works, 
a warm Unitarian, and a truly liberal, benevolent Christian. 
I never enjoyed any thing in my life more than the conver- 
sation I had with her. I had begun to feel the want of that 
free intercourse upon those subjects upon which we can 
speak only to those who we are sure are equally interested 
in them ; and in a strange land, to meet with one who 
not only entered fully into every thing I wished to say, 
but carried me on to higher, more improving and elevated 
thoughts, was indeed a privilege.'' 

'' London, May e, 1824. 
" Mr DEAE Ann : — 

^^ It was a great deprivation to me to be unable to write 
at sea. I hoped to have had a large packet for the many 
kind friends who aided and blessed my departure, express- 
ing something of the gratitude which overpowered me. I 
have sometimes feared that you thought me insensible to it 
all, for I dared not try to utter even a word of what I felt 
lest I should lose my self-possession entirely, and trouble 
them more than my thanks would please them. God alone 
knows how fully I appreciated it all, and when I look back 
upon the period which elapsed after my father's death until 
I left you, I know not how to speak my astonishment that 
such a one as myself should have been so signally favored. 
For your Aunt Nancy I can only say her reward must be 
beyond this world ; nothing that I or any one here can do. 



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VISIT ABROAD. 101 

18 adequate to it. Never was a human being so blessed 
with kind friends, and could I feel that I had been as grate- 
ful as I ought to have been, I should be happy. But the 
entire absorption of every thought in self, during the past 
winter, is now a subject of much reproach. 

^^ I had time to think of all this during the long days and 
wakeful nights on the voyage, and I do assure you I took 
a new view of every thing connected with it. Whether it 
was the absence of every thing else to interest my mind, or 
the natural increase of our attachment to all objects when 
we are going from them, I know not, but there were mo- 
ments of acute agony, when I thought of the return I had 
made for the kindness manifested towards me. How often 
I longed to be for a little time on the little stool in the draw- 
ing-room, giving utterance to my spirit ! There was so 
little in the monotony of sea-life to interrupt the train of 
one^s thoughts, that I could not sometimes get rid of an idea 
which possessed me, and I oAen woke up, wearied with the 
continuation of one and the same dream, night afler night. 
But I did enjoy a great deal at sea, there was so much to 
elevate the mind in the very situation ; and the want of con- 
fidence which I felt from the first evening in the head of 
the concern tended most powerfully to raise my thoughts 
above all second causes, to the One Great Cause and Sup- 
porter of all things. Never did 1 so deeply feel our entire 
dependence upon the power of God, never did I so fully 
realize the impotence of human skill, as when I saw it 
contending with the winds; and yet there was something 
ennobling in the idea, that human skill had contrived and 
taught to guide such a vehicle as a ship upon the trackless 
waste of waters ; and while we irace all this power to the 
original source of it, we cannot but feel that He has given 
to us a noble nature. Oflen when the sea was rising in 
immense waves on every side, and the ship tossed about as 
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109 VISIT ABROAD* 

though it were but a little shell which the waters would aooo 
overwhelm, have I felt as I never before did the immense 
value of that religion which was able to calm all fears, and 
raise the mind to a state even of enjoyment, under such 
terrific circumstances. What but a firm confidence that, 
whether we live or die, or whatever event befall us, it is 
in Infinite Wisdom that it is so, can give this composure ? 
Shall we not then hold fast and cherish such a faith ? shall 
we not seek to understand its nature, and endeavor with our 
whole hearts to ingraft its principles upon our characters ? 

*'*' Tell me as much about Mr. Channing and his sermons 
as you can. I went to chapel on Sunday with Mrs. Kinder, 
but heard very poor preaching, to very poor houses. But 
Mr. Channing told me just what to expect, therefore I was 
prepared for it. Poor as it was, however, the delight of 
finding myself once more in a place of public worship 
overbalanced all, and when I heard the same tunes sung 
to the same words which I had heard in Federal Street, it 
was a little more than I could bear firmly. I am charmed 
with the whole Kinder family; they are too literary to 
make me feel able to communicate the least pleasure, on 
account of my ignorance upon all literary subjects, but they 
are every thing that is kind, and very agreeable, and I find 
a good lesson for my humility when I am there. 

" Maey." 

<*Zofidbfi,JI%26, 1824. 

" My dear Friends : — 
" For the first four weeks I resisted all the entreaties of 
my cousins to go to them, because Dr. R was so de- 
pressed and ill, and it was so bad for Mrs. R to be left 

alone. But the third week Dr. R improved very much 

in health, and somewhat in spirits. And though he ofiered 
me many great inducements to accompany them to Lea- 
mington, I cpuld not think it quite right to do so, as my 



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VISIT ABROAD. 108 

•ociety would not be as necessary to them as it had been, 
and they were going to a fashionable watering-place. I 
had seen nothing of my own friends, and as Mrs. Bates 
and Mrs. Morton had asked me to stay with them when I 
first arrived, I took the liberty of accepting their invitation 
for a few days. 

**! believe I told you I had a kind letter from Uncle 
Ben, and have since had a visit from his son, who heard of 
our arrival, and came up the next day, in true Lovell style, 
to take me home with him to Waltham Abbey, near En- 
field. 

^' Through the kindness of Mr. Kinder's family I have 
had many privileges. By their intercession I have been 
admitted to Newgate, and though Mrs. Fry was not there, 
I was very much gratified. I met with a young Quakeress, 
who was rather handsome, was very intelligent and kind, 
and has been very attentive to me. Mrs. Fry is too much 
out of health to go often, but I am to be informed by my 
little friend when she next goes. 

'^ Walking to Newington with the Kinders, to return a 
call, they asked me if I would go with them to see Mrs. 
Barbauld. To be sure, it made my heart beat, but I could 
not say no. It was indeed a privilege, and I wish I could 
tell you all about it. She spoke with great feeling of those 
of our ministers whom she had seen, — Buckminster, 
Thacher, and Channing. Having never seen Mr. Thacher^s 
sermons, I had the honor of sending them to her, and of 
» writing her a note. A note to Mrs. Barbauld ! What pre- 
sumption I Yet I was asked afterward to dine with her. 
She is remarkably bright for her age, speaks of death with 
the firmest hope, and I really felt as if I were communing 
with a spiritual body. Though now eighty-two, she pos- 
sesses all her faculties in full perfection. Her manner is 
peculiarly gentle, her voice low, and very sweet. 



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104 VISIT ABROAD. 

*^ I went with the Kinders to see some rich Quakers, who 
are very active in the school concern, and also to a meet* 
ing of the British and Foreign School Society, where I saw 
the Duke of Sussex, and heard some fine speaking. They 
go upon the Lancaster and Bell system, and truly wonder- 
ful is their success and usefulness. I have heard Madame 
Catalani, and some of the finest singers, at a concert at the 
Opera House, and was as much amazed as it was possible 
to be, notwithstanding all I had heard. But some of those 
with less power pleased me more. No one can equal her, 
or be compared with her. Braham sung with her, with a 
full band, and her voice was heard above alt ; it is tremen- 
dous, for the house is immense, and she entirely filled it 
At a meeting of the Sons of the Clergy at St. Paul's, I 
heard some very fine sacred music. About thirty little 
boys sang the high parts, and chanted the responses. The 
church was very full. The Duke of Clarence, Lord Mayor, 
and a goodly company of the dignitaries of the Church, 
filled the seats of honor. Nothing could be more solemn 
than the whole scene, and when at parts of the service the 
whole' congregation joined in the chant, the dome rung 
with the sound, and one almost looked to see if the statues 
around were not roused. 

" Do you fear that my head is growing giddy, with all 
this variety ? At present there is no danger. My thoughts 
turn too oflen homeward, to be very much engrossed by 
any thing here, and my heart will feel sad when I think of 
the time which must elapse ere I see it again.'' 
fi 

""Broadwater, Waring, June II, 1824. 
" My dear Cousin : — 
"On Saturday, the 29th, I received a letter from Dr. 

R saying that Leamington did not agree with him, 

that Mrs. R was quite unwell, and they begged, if pos- 



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VISIT ABROAS. 10$ 

8ible, that I would come to them the next day, with some 
plan of proceeding for them, for he felt wholly unable to 

decide what to do. After some debate with Mrs. S 

I concluded that it was a duty to give up all my own views, 
and do what I could fox him, as there was no one else who 
could assist them in this land of strangers. Accordingly I 
wrote him that I would join them on Tuesday, as it was not 
in my power to make such an entire change in my arrange- 
ments before. I had just prepared on Monday to start, 
when another letter arrived, saying they should be in Lon- 
don at night 

" We propose going from here to the Isle of Wight, and 
round to the western part of England, Bristol, Bath, and 
Wales. I hope on the way to have a peep at Mrs. Mc Adam, 
who is now at Plymouth, for it is rather tantalizing for us 
to be kept so long separated. I would not have believed 
that any thing would have kept me so long from my friends 
after I had found myself in England. But it is well to be 
obliged to control our selfishness in England, as elsewhere. 
The little I have seen of my relations has only increased 
my desire to know them and be loved by them. My re- 
ception at Uncle Ben's was more like that which I hope to 
have at home, than any thing I could have expected in this 
strange land. He is a warm-hearted old man, with all the 
best of the Lovell feelings in full vigor. He was very 
much attached to my mother, and retains a stronger interest 
in his Transatlantic relations than I could have thought pos- 
sible after an absence of fifty years. He was very much 
overcome at seeing me, and wept 6ver me like a child. 
They demand Uiree months, at least, from me, but I am 
afraid I shall not have half that time for them. You don't 
know how delightful it was to be among people who seemed 
80 like my own home friends." 



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106 VISIT ABROAD. 

•^ Broadwater, June 11, 1824. 
" My dear Ann : — 

"You have been sorely afflicted indeed, doubtless for 
some good purpose. I am rejoiced to find by your letter 
that you are disposed to view it so, and improve by the 
chastisement I hope it will lead the way to a more free 
communication with our good minister. It is a great privi- 
lege, and one which ought to be improved. I have learned 
since I have been here to estimate our advantages in this 
and all other religious affairs, as I could never have done at 
home. In London, it seems to me that there is no more 
connection between minister and people, in the Established 
Church, than if they had no influence whatever to exercise ; 
and among the Dissenters I have met with, the case is not 
much better. They are so scattered, and wander about so 
much, that it is difficult to have much intercourse, or keep 
up much interest among them 

*' I have heard but one sermon since I have been in this 
country which made the least impression upon my mind, 
and that was from one from whom I expected nothing that 
would satisfv me. This was Mr. Irving, whom Mr. Chan- 
ning mentioned as the popular favorite in London. He is 
a most singular-looking Scotchman, a pupil of Dr. Chal- 
mers, and now so much the fashicMi, that tickets of admis- 
sion are sold, to enable those who wish to hear him to go 
in before the hour when the doors are thrown open. Even 
in this way it is like the theatre of a Kean night, and for 
two hours before the service commences the crowd is im- 
mense. His manner is very like Kean^s, most impassioned^ 
and when he commenced I turned from him in disgust. 
But there was that in the subject and substance of the ser- 
mon which noade me forget the manner in which it was 
delivered. It was, I understood, one of the least fkwery of 
his productions. I shall never forget it, I think ; but I 



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VISIT ABROAD. 107 

would not be obliged to go to such a place for the best ser- 
mons that ever were written. It was just like the theatre or 
some great exhibition. 

" You cannot think how I long, when the Sabbath comes 
round, to have an ear in Federal Street. I find, as Mr. 
Channing warned me, that travelling is a sad enemy to the 
cultivation of religious knowledge and improvement ; it 
does so derange the regularity of one's habits of thinking 
and acting. The day is too confused, and the nights too 
wearied. But there is much in the experience of every 
day to excite a strong sense of gratitude to that Providence 
whose care is extended over us in all places ; in the con- 
sciousness which we must have, even when the idea of 
separation from those we love presses most heavily upon 
us, that there is One, ever present, whose love for us is 
infinite. Yet it is not of feelings that I ought to speak ; I 
could fill volumes with the variety of thoughts which every 
day suggests, but I am learning to do without the communi* 
cation of them." 

From Broadwater the party of four went to the 
Isle of Wight, and made the usual circuit, in their 
little open carriage, through that charming region, 
''with nothing wanting but health, and with that 

deficiency all was a blank." Dr. R was too 

unwell to enjoy any thing, and Mary herself, for a 
wonder, speaks of suffering from a cough which she 
had had a month. But it did not prevent her from 
making what she calls " a break-neck excursion " 
up a precipice of about four hundred feet, at the 
southern part of the island. Of the country she 
gives a glowing description, for which we have not 
room. On leaving the island, Dr. R found it 



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108 VISIT ABROAD. 

necessary to return to Broadwater for medical ad- 
vice, and Mary, who had arranged to meet some 
of her relations at Plymouth at this time, readily, 
though not without regret, gave up her own plans^ 
and went back with the family to Broadwater. The 
place had little interest for her, and she writes of 
" useless idleness " as a new thing to her, and un- 
comfortable. But others did not think her presence 
useless, nor did she fail to find Employment From 
the wife of the clergyman, who had lately established 
schools in the parish on a new plan, she learned a 
good deal of the national system of education. Af- 
ter a short time, Dr. R determined to go to Paris, 

and she accompanied him. But of Paris itself she 
saw very little, being chiefly devoted to the care of 
her friend. And except for him, she had no wish to 
be there. " It may seem strange," she writes, " that 
I should not wish to see Paris, but the pleasure of 
every thing depends upon the circumstances which 
immediately surround us. Yet I am very glad I 
came, for, though I cannot be of much use, any one 
is better than none." 

Their stay in Paris was short In view of all 

considerations, Dr. R found it best to return at 

once to America, and sailed that same month from 
Havre, Mary remaining to make her visit to her 
friends in England. Her next letters are from Chat- 
ham. 

''Chatham^ September 7, 1824. 

" My dear Ann : — 
" You may easily suppose that my sensations at leaving 
Havre were not the most cheering. I knew that I could 



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VISIT ABROAD. 109 

have been of but little comfort to our friends on the voyage, 
but I could not help wishing that it had been so ordered that 
I might have returned with them. There was something, too, 
so very ionely in the idea of being left in a strange land, 
with no chance of escape for a certain length of time, even 
if my friends should take it into their heads to dislike me ; 
and worse than all, under my own sole direction, to govern 
myself and my actions only by my own judgment* Indeed, 
I did feel as though I should almost shrink from the effort it 
required ; but this did not trouble me long. I thought of 
the mercies of my past life, the great goodness and pre- 
serving care which had hitherto upheld me in many times 
of danger and difficulty. The night was a most beautiful 
one, and the very motion of the little vessel recalled so 
much which had once given me support under similar cir- 
cumstances, that my mind seemed to acquire a degree of 
calmness and firmness which was almost sublime. For this 
I have great cause of gratitude ; it was the gift of a Power 
mightier than I, and prepared me for the coming danger. 
We were two nights and a day crossing to Southampton, 
about twice the usual length of the passage, the greater 
part of the time in a violent storm and most dangerous situ- 
ation. I suffered more from sickness than in crossing the 
Atlantic, but met with very great attention from the ladies 
who were in the same state-room, and much entertainment 
beside ; but I never was more rejoiced than when I found 
myself in a clean bed on terra firma^ upon the second 
morning. 

" My first attempt at journeying alone was a very en- 
couraging one. A good old clergyman was my companion, 
and after three weeks in Fxance, I assure you, I enjoyed 
any thing like serious conversation ; though he happened 
to be a Methodist, he was a rational and learned one, and 
I believe I learned much that was useful from him. I had 
10 



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110 VISIT ABROAD. 

apprised my good cousin of my intended descent upon her 
family, and was received with open arms and much kind 
greeting by all her flock. Here I am, then, at last, and I 
know you are impatient to know all about them^ and the 

place in which they live. Mrs. S is in appearance but 

the shadow of what she was when her picture was taken. 
Trouble and age have made her thin and pale. But the 
perfect symmetry of her pretty little figure, and the bright- 
ness of her still beautiful eyes, enable one to see in her the 
remains of one of nature's fairest works. Her naturally 
good spirits are almost wholly subdued by the trials and 
perplexities which have followed her in constant succession 
for many years, and ill health and an anxious mind have 
created a disposition to despondency which even her piety 
cannot at all times overcome. This has unfitted her for 
great exertion, and, not possessing much natural force of 
character, it is impossible for her to make much effort even 
for herself. She is all gentleness, and full of affectionate 
feeling, and I oflen think, in looking at her in her happiest 
moments, that she would be a good personification of Shak- 
speare's Patience smiling at Grief. Her situation here is 
that of matron to the hospital, but it is almost a nominal 
office, a perfect sinecure, for she has scarcely any duty, 
and a comfortable income. She is now peculiarly tried, 
and seems to consider it an especial mercy that she has 
one to whom she can turn in her loneliness with something 
like a claim for sympathv- 

" There is a small Unitarian chapel here, and 

cousin N will say, * Why do you not go to that? • 

Merely because I found out but yesterday that there was 
such an one ; hearing a lady say, * We ought to tolerate all 
denominations but those dangerous enemies to religion, the 
Unitarians, — I cannot pass their chapel without shuddering,* 
— next Sunday I shall endeavor to ascertain the grounds of 



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VISIT ABROAD. Ill 

this pious hatred. But ia truth, if I had not learned liberal- 
ity before, I have had experience enough to teach it to 
me since I have been in this country, I have met with so 
many good Christians, of such a variety of sects ; and found 
that the bond of union created by a mutual desire to aid in 
the cause of benevolence was sufficient to excite interest, 
without any regard to different creeds or doctrinal points. 

*'*' I am constantly hearing now from all my little circle 
of relations, who seem determined to prevent my feeling 
alone, if their attentions can prevent it. Do not suspect 
me of vanity in mentioning all these attentions ; this is not 
the case, for the effect is rather humbling, and I fear when 
they know me better they will find a poor return for it all ; 
but I do feel such gratitude for so many unlooked for, un- 
deserved blessings, that I want you all to know it, that you 
too may unite with me in thanksgiving to God for his 
watchful care of me, a solitary orphan in a foreign land. 

^^ September 14. The day after I wrote the above, I 
received a letter from Mr. and Mrs. C , then at Rams- 
gate, a town upon the eastern shore of Kent, saying that 
they were making a short tour, and had intended coming 
to Chatham to see me on their way home, but thinking 
I might like to see Dover and its castle, proposed that I 
should join them there, and pass a few days with them. 
So, without hesitation, I got into one of &e many coaches 
which daily pass through Chatham, and in six hours was 
with them. The ride was delightful, through a richly 
wooded and highly cultivated country, the fine old city of 
Canterbury, and a number of pretty towns. My compan- 
ions in the coach were very genteel, intelligent people, and 
I was quite pleased with finding that it was a very custom- 
ary thing for a lady to travel inside a coach without escort ; 
I wished it were equally so to travel outside, I do so much 



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112 VISIT ABROAD. 

prefer to see all I can. This was on Hiursday last, the 
9th, and I remained with them until to-day, receiving every 
attention and kindness from them, and much sati^action 
from seeing the place 

'^ I returned here to-day. My cousin was to have met 
me at Canterbury, but was prevented by the weather. I 
rode the greater part of the way alone, inside, though the 
outside was full ; and you may tell Mary that my thoughts 
were often turned to her ; for a guideboard with the name 
of *' Milton ' upon it reminded me of my shameful neglect of 
our sweet time of that name. I had not once sung it since 
I left her, and found full employment for some miles in 
trying to bring it to mind ; and it was not until after recall- 
ing her looks and voice, and beating three strokes in a bar, 
over and over again, to try the power c^ association, that I 
could bring it to my recollection. But I sung it enough, 
when I did get it, to make up for all past deficiencies. It 
carried me back to last winter, and all your happy family, 
so fully, that my empty coach was soon peopled, and I had 
as pleasant a ride as need be. 

^^ I had the gratification of seeing the famous actress, 
Mrs. Siddons, at Dover, — a rare sight indeed ; she is a 
wonderfully handsome woman for her age, living in elegant 
retirement, in handsome style. 

" Maby." 

""Chatham, October 4, 1824. 
*' My dear Cousin : — 

^' I am delighted that Mr. Gannett pleases you all, and to 

hear such good accounts of Mr. Channing. The very idea 

of a letter from him was almost too much for my poor 

brain ; the reality would overpower me, I believe. I 

greatly fear, unless the spring should bring me some kind 

American friend with whom I can travel, that I shall see 

little more of England. But I will be satisfied, at any rate, 

if I can but find the means of seeing my poor aunt S . 



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VISIT ABROAD. 113 

" The return of this season brings so forcibly to my 
mind the recollection of the trying events of which it is the 
anniversary, that I find it difficult to prevent myself from 
dwelling too much upon it. I would not lose the remem- 
brance of it, for every hour of that time was filled with 
valuable experience of the goodness and loving-kindness 
of my Heavenly Father. I love to dwell upon it, and re- 
call every act of the many friends who then surrounded 
me with renewed feelings of gratitude towards them. May 
I yet be enabled to prove in my actions what I cannot ex- 
press in words. 

" M AKT." 

Mary Pickard is now among her kindred, those 
relatives of her father whom she had so long de- 
sired to know, and whom she hoped in some way 
to benefit For her idea of conferring benefits was 
never defined by the thought of wealth, or excluded 
by the want of it. That she gave most liberally, 
according to her means, at this very time, we learn 
from others ; her letters would never suggest it. In 
other and better ways, by most unexpected oppor- 
tunities, did she render service to many before she 
left England, where her stay was greatly prolonged 
beyond the first intention, for this very purpose. 
For ten weeks she remained in Chatham ; and 
though she does not say it, we infer from other in- 
timations that much of that time was occupied with 
the care of the sick, or in relieving some kind of 
trouble. It is in reference to Chatham that she 
says, " I am fated to find trouble wherever I go," — 
which is true of all who are willing to tctke trouble, 
that ihey may relieve others. 
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114 VISIT ABROAJO. 

From Chatham Mary went to Waltham Abbey, 
and passed three weeks with the son of the only 
sarviving brother of James LovelL And in Decem- 
ber, unwilling to be detained longer from the cousin 
to whom she designed to make one of her chief 
visits in England, and finding that sickness in the 
family prevented any one from coming for her, she 
took the coach alone, leaving London before day- 
light and riding to Salisbury, where some of her 
friends met her, and conducted her to their home at 
" Burcombe House," in that vicinity. And there she 
spent the next three or four months, in a way that 
her letters will best tell. These letters we give as 
we find them, without excluding the personal allu- 
sions and occasional descriptions of character ; since 
it is in just such descriptions, natural and easy, that 
we best read the mind of the writer and of those 
whom she portrays, as well as the features and 
ways of a common English household. And should 
these letters chance to fall under the eye of any to 
whom they allude, if any still survive, we trust they 
will pardon a liberty which exposes nothing that is 
not to their honor. 

^* Burcombe House, December 8, 1824. 
*' Congratulate me, my good friends, that I am at last 
under this roof, and have seen cousin Jane and all her dear 
family. I left London at five o'clock on Saturday, the 
4th, and I found myself at Salisbury at three o'clock, not 
at all fatigued. Cousin Jane and her son came to meet 
me ; but as their carriage was from home, they were in an 
open gig, and we thought it expedient to take a postchaise, 
as Burcombe is five miles from the town. But before I 



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VISIT ABBOAD. 115 

proceed to the events of my ride, I must tell you something 
of my cousin, as I know you are wishing to hear how she 
received me. Our meeting was just what you could easily 
imagine it would be, knowing her to be a person of ardent 
feelings, strongly attached to her dear uncle, and conse- 
quently determined to love his daughter, let her be what 
she might ; and afler the frequent disappointments we have 
had, with regard to meeting, we both had an almost super- 
stitious fear that something might yet happen to separate us. 
But we were at last together, and, if it took us both some 
time to realize it, we were not the less rejoiced to find it 
true. She has suffered much, and it has subdued her mind 
and spirits, and softened her manners. She is certainly 
one of the most entertaining women I ever saw, and one 
of the most interesting. She has strong powers of mind, 
and of course strong passions, warm-hearted, enthusiastic, 
prone to extremes, almost without restraint in youth, and 
the sport of adverse circumstances through life, ignorant of 
the only sure Guide to direct and guard the soul under the 
temptations to which such trials subject it. Imagine, then, 
what such a mind must be when brought by sufiering to a 
deep sense of religious obligation, turning all its energies to 
the accomplishment of good to others and the subjection of 
self, not content with feeling until every feeling leads to 
active exertion, — and you have my dear cousin before you. 
You will not be surprised that I should already dearly love 
her, and feel that it was worth coming so far to know and 
give her pleasure. Her mind is. just in that state which 
requires free discussion upon subjects of faith and practice, 
and shut out as she is here from society, and almost wholly 
without ministerial instruction, she suffers from the want of 
a companion who feels a like interest in the matter. How 
often do I wish for her the same privileges which I have 
had in Mr. Channing, or that you, my dear cousin, could 



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116 VISIT ABROAD. 

Step in and pour forth a little from your fund of knowl- 
edge. 

** But I have digressed vastly from my tale. To return 
to the inn at Salisbury. We soon seated ourselves in a 
chaise, trunks, boxes, and all, and were driving on at a 
furious rate towards Burcombe House, when, lo ! in a 
quiet lane, a mile at least from any houses, the axle of the 
front wheels gave way ; off went one wheel, and down 
went we, just at dark, and the rain falling in torrents. We 
soon found it was only a subject for laughter ; we had but 
one resource, which was to send the postboy back to Salis- 
bury for another coach, and to sit quiedy in the broken one 
until he returned. We had not, however, sat lotig, before 
Lord Pembroke's carriage came to our relief ; it had passed 
us full at the commencement of our disaster, and was sent 
back to take us home, or to Wilton House. As we did not 
like to take all the baggage with us, we left it in the care 
of a servant, and, glad to get out of the cold, we proceeded 
to my Lord's house. I could not but be amused, that my 
first introduction to this region should be to Wilton House, 
in an EarPs carriage. I was not sorry to have an oppor- 
tunity of seeing a place of which I have heard so much, 
and should have been quite pleased to have seen the great 
folks themselves ; but they chanced to be dressing for din- 
ner, and as our chaise soon came up for us, I had but little 
time to survey the place. The house is filled with pic- 
tures, statues, and ancient armor. I hope to have an op- 
portunity of seeing it more leisurely. 

"This whole family gave me a most hearty welcome, 
and I found that it would be my own fault if I was not 
loved by them, and happy with them. Jane has, indeed, a 
remarkably fine family, of steady principles and habits, and 
. sufficiently accomplished to be agreeable and well fitted for 
society. This is a very retired spot, and except a call from 



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VISIT ABROAD. 119 

Lord and Lady Pembroke when they are in the neighbor* 
hood, or a visit from some travelling acquaintance, scarcely 
any one enters the house except the family. 

*'..... The state of the poor in this country is so 
very difierent from any thing we see at home, that I can 
scarcely give you any idea of the striking difference every- 
where observable in their manners and habits. The im- 
mense sum which is collected for their support, under the 
form of poor rates, must lessen their exertion for them- 
selves, and the very dependence which is thus created 
makes them servile. Some great man owns the village 
and lands about it, his steward lets them to farmers, and 
of course it depends upon sundry contingencies whether 
they retain possession even during life ; and how can they 
feel as much interest as if it were their own freehold, and 
they knew their children would reap the benefit of their 
improvements upon it ? '^ 

" Burcombe Houae^ December 31, 1824, 
Half past Eleven. 

** My dear Friend : — 
^*' This hour has for so many years found me at my desk 
pouring forth to you, that, although in a new hemisphere 
and under new influences, I instinctively turn to the pen 
and ink, with a feeling that something remains to be done 
before the old year can be allowed to take its departure. I 
am not, as I was wont to be, seated quietly alone by my 
^ ain fireside,' cogitating upon the past, and, for the only 
time in the twelve months, daring to look forward and hope 
for the future. It is the custom here for all the family to 
sit out the old year, and I am in the parlor, surrounded by 
the whole tribe. On one side is my cousin's eldest daugh« 
ter, playing ' God save the King' as if all possibility of ever 
doing it again was going with the year ; on the other, an 
animated Miss C , acting the old-maid aunt, giving her 



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118 VISIT ABROAD. 

nephews and nieces sage advice upon the occasion, who 
are all laughing most heartily. In fact, the whole house is 
in a bustle ; so you need not expect a very connected epis* 
tie, as I am obliged to turn to one or the other, every other 
word, to join in the merriment. 

" The changes which the past year has made in my life 
are so amazing, when I view them in a body, that I cannot 
but be astonished that we should ever attempt to look for« 
ward with any thing like calculation or plan. You can 
easily conceive that the contrast between this night and its 
past anniversary is enough to excite the few nerves I have ; 
and you will not at all wonder, that, whatever attractions 
there may be around me, thought will wander back to home 
and its interests, and it requires some effort to restrain my 
impatience to be again restored to them, that I may make 
up, if possible, for my abuse of some of them. Yet do not 
imagine me discontented or homesick; I am not in the 
least, for every hour's experience makes me rejoice that I 
am here ; and, if kindness and attention could make up for 
old acquaintance, I could be as contented to pass my life 
here as anywhere. I would not return without seeing and 
doing all that may be in my power ; but that I do look for- 
ward with a feeling of desire, such as I never knew before, 
to the period when, all this being accomplished, I shall find 
myself again at home, it would be folly to deny. But this 
is just what I expected to feel, and of course was prepared 
for with some degree of firmness ; and when thus prepared, 
it is astonishing how indifferently we go through with what, 
under any other circumstances, would destroy one's self- 
possession entirely. The greatest evil I find in this state 
of constant preparation for enduring is, that I am getting 
into a quiescent state of inaction ; not being quite enough 
at ease to exert my own powers freely, I am losing that 
activity of mind which I rather hoped to increase. But I 



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VISIT ABROAD. 119 

have long since learned that youthful hahits are not easily 
displaced, and I am sure now that I never shall learn to be 
loquacious. You know how much I felt the inconvenience 
of my silent habits at home, and will readily believe that I 
must suffer still more among strangers, with whom agree- 
ability is a necessary passport. 

.^^ It is so long since I have written you, that I scarcely 
know where to take up the tkread of my discourse. 1 was 
then, I believe, at Dover, and you probably have learned 
from my letters to Boston how much I found to please me 
in my cousin^s family at Chatham. It was my good fortune 
to have it in my power to be of some service to them, and 
I assure you I was most thankful for any opportunity of re- 
deeming my time from entire uselessness. I am fated to 
find trouble wherever I go, and ought to be truly grateful 
when it is such as I can relieve. I staid ten weeks at Chat- 
ham, and went then to Waltham Abbey, about sixteen miles 
from London, and spent three weeks with George Lovell 
and his most lovely wife. He is the son of the only re- 
maining brother of my grandfather, with all the warmth 
and generosity which characterized the family in America* 
He unites good judgment and firm principles, an uncom- 
non versatility of talent, and consequent power of pleasing. 

^^ I came here upon the 4th of December ; and if I have 
ever told you enough of cousin Jane and her concerns to 
give you any idea of the strong interest I have always felt 
in her, you will fully understand how intense was the ex- 
citement of my mind when I found myself at last approach- 
ing her mansion. She had been the greatest attraction to 
me on this side of the water, iodeed the principal object of 
my visit ; the constant impediments which had prevented 
our meeting during the past summer of course increased 
our interest and impatience about it, and I can scarcely tell 
whether pain or pleasure predominated when I felt that the 



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120 VISIT ABROAD. 

crisis was near which would decide how far it was well 

that I had come She has had a life of trial, and 

heing without that only comforter under suffering which 
can teach us to submit patiently to it, the effect has been 
unhappy. And now that she is just awaking from her 
dream of darkness, you can easily conceive that the effect 
of the bright sunshine which is breaking upon her mind 
should be most powerful, and apt to carry such a mind to 
the extreme of enthusiasm. She has but few connections, 
and almost idolized my father as the guardian of her youth, 
and therefore inclined to extend to his child all the strong 
affection she felt for him, so that her delight at seeing me 
was little short of mine to be with her. Here, then, I am 
enjoying much with her and her family. 

^^ The house itself is one of thpse ancient stone edifices 
which abound in all parts of the kingdom, in connection 
with the houses of the great; probably built for some 
younger and less affluent branches of the family. The 
grounds are laid out with taste, and the lawn behind it has 
not probably been disturbed since the house was built, and 
is covered with a turf which might rival velvet in beauty. 
The fir-trees, elms, and walnuts which surround it, and the 
yew hedge which divides the garden from it, all speak its 
antiquity and add to its loveliness. We have no neighbors ; 
but the occasional visits of the different branches of the 
family give us some variety." 

'* Bureombe Houte, Jcmuary 1, 1825. 
" My dear Mart : — 
" A happy new year to you, and all the good pe<^le at 
Marlborough House, South Street, Newton, and Canton! 
Although I cannot have the pleasure, as I had at this time 
last year, of waking you out of a sound sleep upon the oc- 
casion, I have taken the liberty of thinking of you almoit 



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VISIT abroad; 121 

all the night, and wishing you in my heart all possible 
blessings during the year upon which we have entered. I 
do not dare to look forward, but I cannot help hoping that 
it may witness my return to you, to find you in the enjoy- 
ment of all that is worth possessing in life. It is the custom 
here to sit out the old year, and as we were expecting Mr. 
McAdam and William home last night, we determined to 
sit^p for them. They did not arrive until nearly five this 
morning, so that I had time enough to reflect upon the past 
and hope for the future ; and every thought and action of 
the last anniversary were lived over again in full reality. 
I only wanted liberty to pour forth to some one, to be a 
most eloquent egotist ; but as it was, I just thought on quiet- 
ly to * my ain sel,* and enjoyed what was going on around 
me as well as I could. 

*' Our only neighbor is the farmer's wife, a most excel- 
lent woman of sixty, one of the old primitive people of the 
country, of good sense and sound judgment, just such a 

body as cousin N would delight in. Her husband is 

the church- warden, overseer of the poor, and indeed the 
principal man in all parish concerns ; and their goodness 
to the cottagers makes them beloved by all. You may im- 
agine Mrs. L as about dear aunty's size, of pale com- 

plexion like her, white hair, just parted under a neat white 
cap, always surmounted with a neat black-satin bonnet, 
stuff gown, made as grandma used to wear hers, with a 
plain double muslin neckerchief within and a black or 
calico shawl outside, and a full linen apron, as white as 
the snow itself. Her face is all benevolence, and her 
voice, even with the broad provincial pronunciation of the 
country, sweet and musical. They have a large family of 
sons and daughters ; one of the former, a very interesting 
young man, is now going in a consumption. It is the best 
specimen of an English farmer^s family that I have yet seen. 
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122 VISIT ABROAD. 

*^ I went on Christmas day to the Cathedral at Salisbuiy. 
It is a very fine building, and the part appropriated to the 
services of the church is fitted up in a much better style 
than any thing I have seen, being of black oak, and in uni- 
son with the style of the building. The organ is a remark- 
ably fine one, and I think I never felt music more powerful 
than the first symphony, played as the bishop and clergy* 
men entered. It was at first so soft, that in that immense 
building it seemed rather as if it were the sound of the air 
itself than any earthly creation ; and as the tones swelled, 
the very building trembled, and one involuntarily held the 
breath with awe.'' 

** Bmvombe Eovmy FAmary 34, 1825. 
" Mt dear Cousin : — 
'* The winter months have passed very quickly, and, as 
spring approaches, I begin to look forward with much 
anxiety to the period when, having completed all for which 
I came, I may prepare to return to my beloved home, and 
join again the many dear friends I may find there. I thank 
God that he has been pleased to spare so many of them for 
such a length of time, for it is remarkable that among so 
large a circle there should have been so few changes in 
ten long mouths. You cannot conceive of the gratitude 
which I feel whenever I hear from you, for you know not 
the anxiety which the consciousness of being at such a dis- 
tance inevitably excites. I know not why it is, for were I 
ever so near, I could do nothing to save even one of the 
least of them all ; but so it is, and it is a greater exercise 
of reliance and trust than I could have ever known, had I 
not left you. I try to look forward without fear; and I 
never doubt that, whatever trials may be in store for me, 
it will be in mercy that they will come, and I will be patient 
and submissive. 



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VISIT ABBOAD. 128 

** With regard to the probable time of my return, it is 
impossible for me to speak with any certainty. The first 
four months that I was in England were lost, so far as the 
accomplishment of the immediate object for which I came 
was concerned ; and it retarded my progress more than 
that time, as it is impossible to do as much in winter as 
might be done in half the time in summer. I do not speak 
of this as regretting it, for I have no doubt that it was for 
some good object that I was so employed ; and I saw much 
which I should not have otherwise seen at all. But it 
makes it necessary that I should prolong my stay here, in 
order to do even what I calculated upon when I namid a 
year for thQ probable limit of my absence. In addition to 
this, many objects of interest have been presented to me 
of which I knew nothing, and peculiar circumstances have 
occurred since I have been here to make me desirous of 
remaining longer than I had anticipated. For I consider 
myself a sort of isolated, unconnected being, who, having 
no immediate duties in life, is bound to improve all oppor- 
tunities of usefulness which may offer themselves.'* 

In April Mary received the welcome intelligence 
that her very dear friend, E. P. F., from America, 
had arrived in Liverpool. Being at this time at 
Ash, Surrey, the residence of her father's uncle, she 

immediately arranged to meet E in London, 

inaking, as she says, " a desperate effort " to break 
away from her friends at Burcombe House, to whom 
she had become so strongly attached as to make it 
no easy matter, as we may believe there was some 
attachment on the other side also. Again and again 
was she constrained to alter her plans and defer 
her purpose of returning, by the entreaties of those 



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134 VISIT ABROAD. 

whom she wished to gratify, and who urged upon 
her, when other arguments failed, one that was un« 
answerable ; namely, that she had no duty to call her 
home. With sadness did she admit it, and nobly 
too. " I feel that I have many ties which have to 
me the force of duties, in drawing me back ; but I 
cannot forget that I am indeed without bond of any 
kind in life which can be called peculiar duty." 

The two friends met in London, and, after a few 
days of delightful interview, Mary was called to 
Sydenham, where are dated two letters, from which 
we take portions, referring to widely different sub- 
jects and scenes. 

** Sydenham, June, 1825. 
" Dear Emma : — 

^' It is so evident, from many circumstances of which 

you must be fully sensible, that this is an appointment by 

that Providence who guides even the sparrows in their 

course, that you have only to seek to fulfil its duties to the 

best of ,your powers, and humbly leave the event in His 

hands without whose blessing the best endeavors of the 

mightiest must be ineffectual. Do not be thinking how 

much more this or that one might have done ; we should 

do what we can for the sake of obeying God, not for our 

pleasure ; and acting from this motive, we may learn to be 

' willing even to be useless,' if it be His will. This may 

seem more than the Gospel requires, but"! believe, if we 

knew ourselves thoroughly, we should ever be suspicious 

of all feelings which led to personal comparisons. We 

should, as you say, be thankful for the one talent, not 

dissatisfied that we have not the many, knowing that we 

may please God, and accomplish the end of our being in 

the one case as well as in the other. And as it regards 



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VISIT ABROAD. 125 

the good we may do, do we not often see Him using feeble 
means to efiect great ends ? At all events, it is our duty 
to be satisfied with what He has thought sufficient for us. 
But you need no urging to induce you to do your utmost ; 
the only difficulty is, to know in what manner it is to be 
done." 

<" Sfdenham, Jans 9, 1825. 
" My dear Mary : — 

" I made a call with some friends one day upon the 
clergyman's lady, when our names were carried along 
by a row of livery servants, each one sounding it louder 
and louder, until it was announced by my lady's own 
servant at the door of the drawing-room, in a voice that 
made me start at the fellow's impudence in speaking so 
loud to his mistress ; but I found that the poor lady was 
very deaf, yet a good, easy, old-fashioned body, as sociable 
and kind as need be. My risibles unfortunately took alarm 
at the similarity of this train of servants to a line at a fire 
handing buckets, and I had much ado to look indifferent 
and dignified, as if I were used to it ; but I had my laugh 
out when I got into the room, for the good-natured body 
soon gave me a pretence for it by her whimsical stories. 

^* I went to St. Paul's last week to see the annual gath- 
ering of the parochial schools, and I could not have con- 
ceived any thing so striking as the sight was. That part 
of the church which is fitted up for service is not used, but 
temporary seats are erected for the children under the great 
dome, and the spectators sit in the body of the church, quite 
down to the western door. The children, about eight thou- 
sand, all clothed in the uniform of their several schools, are 
arranged one row above another to the number of sixteen, 
and to the height of at least fifty feet, within the pillars of 
the dome and on each side of the aisles. The appearance of 
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126 VldlT ABROAD. 

the children was most deeply affecting ; all between seven 
and fourteen, not half of what belonged to the schools, for 
want of room ; all clothed and educated by charity ; taken, 
for the most part, from the poorest classes, and perhaps 
saved from destruction ; it was a delightful sight for a 
Christian, a striking testimony to the power of religion. 
They were directed by the motions of one man, and it 
seemed as if one impulse moved the whole, so perfectly 
did they keep time together. And when at last all were 
assembled, and the solemn silence was suddenly broken by 
one. swell of their united voices in a hymn of thanksgiving, 
I think the most insensible there must have been melted ; 
the sound filled the whole of that vast building, and rever- 
berated again and again along its aisles. The morning 
service was performed by the clergyman, choristers, and 
children ; the minister's voice was almost powerless in 
that vast place, and the organ, and voices of the singers, 
sixteen in number, could scarcely be heard at the end of 
the aisle ; the children only could fill the space, and as they 
occasionally burst out in different parts, the effect was won- 
derfully fine." 

At this point, Mary received a cordial invitation 
from a party of American friends, to go with them 
to Scotland. It was an opportunity which she 
hardly expected, but most earnestly desired; not 
only for its own sake, but as facilitating a cherished 
purpose of visiting her father's only sister in the 
North of England, — a visit of which she thought 
more than any other, and which was to prove more 
important than any other, though in a way which 
she could little anticipate. The journey thither, 
which was almost her only pure recreation, and was 



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VISIT ABBOAD. 127 

shared with a friend of all others desirable, was a 
high enjoyment ; and her unstudied account of it, 
written from Chester and Gretna Green, we give at 
length, as we have allowed but little room to this 
kind of description. We claim for it no distinction, 
except that of naturalness and ease. 

« Chester, My 22, 1825. 

" My dear Cousin : — 
**Froin sundry letters from Emma and myself, which 
will, 1 trust, have reached you long before this does, you 
will be able to guess how 1 have found my way to this 
place; but I am very glad that I have time and oppor- 
tunity to tell you, not only how, but why, I am here. I 
wrote to Ann the last of June, mentioning Mr. Perkinses 
kind proposition, that I should join his party and go with 
them to Scotland. I received your delightful letter the day 
after, and, I assure you, the encouragement you gave me to 
see and do all I could, with the promise of the approbation 
of those kind friends whose wishes it is my greatest desire to 
fulfil, did not a little in deciding me to use the means placed 
within my power of acquiring the information, which I 
probably should never again have an opportunity of getting. 
I try to be satisfied in having done what appeared best, by 
the thought that it is my duty to improve all the means of 
doing good which may fall in my way. But I do not like 
to think that any thing is to keep me from you much 
longer. I had made up my mind when I came, to go on 
bravely to the end, let it take what time it might, but my 
hope was that a year would be sufficient, and 1 still hope 
that it will ; yet I know you would not think me right to 
leave my work half finished, for any childish weakness, or 
homesick feeling. Be assured that I am as industrious as 
I can be, for my stimulant to exertion is a most powerful 



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138 VISIT ABROAD. 

one, that of being again united to the beloved friends which 
that blessed spot, home, contains. We have had a most 
delightful tour so far, and I daily feel that I am a highly 
favored mortal, to have such an opportunity of witnessing 
the wonders of this goodly world ; and I cannot but be 
grieved that I can make so little use of such a privi- 
lege. 

^' We left Bath upon the 9th, and have since passed 
through South and North Wales, and to-day took leave of 
the interesting scenery and people we found there, with 
much regret. At Chepstow we passed a day, seeing the 
ruins of its old castle, upon some sublime rocks on the 
banks of the river Wye, and walking through the grounds 
of Piercefield, a gentleman's seat in the neighborhood, 
finely situated upon the rocky, yet thickly wooded heights, 
which border the river for a long distance from its mouth. 
On*our ride from Chepstow to Hereford, we stopped to see 
the ruins of Tintem Abbey and Bagland Castle, both very 
famous, and I should think as fine as it was possible any 
thing of the kind could be. Of the former, the walls and 
pillars of the church are nearly all that remain, but they 
are so perfect as to give one an exact idea of the beauty 
which it once possessed, built in the purest Gothic style, in 
the bottom of a quiet, beautiful valley, watered by the 
Wye, and protected on all sides by rocks and hills, which 
seem to defy any power that should dare to approach. But 
the hand of Time has worked silently and effectually, and 
what was once a most noble temple is now but a tumbling 
ruin, sublime, indeed, even in its decay, covered almost 
with ivy, and shaded from within by trees which have 
grown upon the very spots consecrated to the prayers and 
confessions of its former possessors. Its situation, and 
the peculiar lightness and beauty of its architecture, have 
made it very much talked of by travellers ; but all my ex- 



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YIBIT ABROAIX 129 

pectations were fully aoswered, although they were very 
great. 

^^ After riding all day over hill and dale, with only the 
sheep for our companions, we came at once upon one of 
the most romantic scenes imaginable ; the singular pass 
called the DeviPs Bridge, a stone structure thrown over a 
chasm in the rocks of one hundred and fifty feet depth, 
through the bottom of which runs a very rapid stream, 
dashing over rocks which at some seasons must make quite 
a grand cataract ; but at this time the water is low. The 
banks are thickly wooded, even to the edge of the water, 

and altogether it is very attractive. At A we passed 

a night, and came through much glorious scenery to Dal- 
gelly, where we performed the mighty feat of mounting 
Cader Idris, the highest mountain in Wales, except Snow- 
don, and two thousand eight hundred feet from the point 
we left in the plain below. Imagine me mounted on horse- 
back, for the first time in my life, for such a perilous un- 
dertaking, fortunately without any fear, and much amused 
by the novelty of the situation. The day happened to be 
very hot, but the atmosphere was clear; and we should 
have been amply repaid for tenfold the fatigue we endured, 
by the grand scene we beheld from the summit. Never 
havmg before been on a great elevation, I knew not what 
to expect ; and if the sensations were not just what I had 
supposed, they were sufficiently solemn to make me sensi- 
ble that it was *' good to be there.' A birdseye view of a 
circuit of five hundred miles could not fail to fill one with 
an idea of the power and majesty of Him who formed 
these wondrous glories, such as no common scenes could 
ever have inspired. I think I shall never look back upon 
that hour without recalling emotions which sliould make one 
better for ever. 

" Maey.'' 



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130 VISIT ABROAD. 

** Gnbia Green^ Jv^ 30, 1825. 
" Mt dear Makt : — 

" My last, I think, was from Lancaster, just as we were 
about commencing our journey among the beautiful lakes 
of Cumberland and Westmoreland. We crossed what are 
called the Ulverstone and Lancaster Sands to Ulverstone. 
The shore is very hard at this place, and when the tide is 
down the ride is perfectly safe and free from water, except 
in the centre, where a river passes through. At this place 
is always found a guide, who conducts the carriage through 
the ford. I confess I did not much like the sensation, for 
though there is no danger in a heavy carriage, the current 
of the river is so strong that it seems as if the carriage 
were swimming. It was an odd feeling, too, after having 
been so recently three thousand feet in the air, to find 
one's self walking on the very bed of the ocean. We had 
about twelve miles of this kind of travelling. The coast is 
very bold, and we were quite delighted with. the variety. 

^* The next day's ride, from Ambleside to Keswick, was a 
very interesting one ; the scenery of the grandest, and at 
times most beautiful, character. At Rydal we stopped to 
see what would have been a beautiful cascade if there had 
been any water, but we have had such a long period of 
dry weather that the stream had almost disappeared. The 
scenery about it was fine, and the thing itself could not but 
interest us under any circumstances, for it borders upon 
Wordsworth's grounds, and has no doubt been a favorite 
resort of his, and the suggestion of much of his fine poetry. 
His house is just below, and we could not help stopping at 
the gate, to look at the abode of one whose writings we so 
much admired. He was not at home, but his sister came 
out and invited us to see the place, and take a view from 
the Mount which gives the name to his place. This we 
could not do, but it was some consolation for our disap« 



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VISIT ABROAD* 131 

pointment to have spoken to her, although it was very tan- 
talizing not to be able to avail ourselves of her polite invita- 
tion. The lakes of Rydal, Grasmere, Windermere, came 
in succession on our way, all beautiful, but Grassmere with 
its little island in the centre the most so, by far ; the banks 
being much wooded and ornamented by gentlemen^s seats. 
And Emma and I fancied that, after searching the greater 
part of England, we had at length found a spot in which 
we should be willing to take up our abode for life. The 
mighty Helvellyn tempted us mountain-climbers to ascend 
its rough sides, but with Skiddaw before us we were satis- 
fied to pass it, in the hope of accomplishing the ascent of 
that. At Keswick we staid one night, riding to Bassen- 
thwaite in the afternoon, and sailing upon the lake in the 
evening. Nothing could exceed the beauty and sublimity 
of the latter excursion. When we first went upon it, the 
sun was just setting behind the immense mountains which 
bound this lake on the west, throwing their shadows upon 
its smooth surface, and lighting those beyond with that pur- 
ple, misty hue, which is not to be described but by the brush 
of an artist, this again giving way to the sober hue of even- 
ing, until all view of them would have l>een lost, had not 
the moon risen in full-orbed glory, to enlighten the scene 
with her paler, but not less beautiful light. We sailed about 
four hours upon the lake, landing upon one of the islands 
upon which is a gentleman^s seat, and going to the other 
extremity to see the falls of dark Lodore, and to hear the 
singular efiect produced by firing a cannon on the shore ; it 
seemed like the rumbling of thunder, and was distinctly 
echoed five times. I don't think I have enjoyed any one 
thing so much as this sail, since we commenced our 
journey. 

" We came on through Carlisle, and passed the boundary 
line between Scotland and England, and reached this place 



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I8d VlftIT ABltOAD. 

before dark, — the first town orer the border. It is a very 
small village, consisting of scarcely more than a dozen 
white cottages, but it has, perhaps, been the scene of as 
many critical events as many a larger one. We are at a 
very comfortable inn, got up for the accommodation of the 
fugitives who fly hither to seal their fate with the black- 
smith's unholy blessing. Do not be alarmed for me, al* 
though I am quietly seated in the very room which has 
witnessed the consummation ^ so devoutly wished * by most 
young dames. It is, indeed, mortifying to find one's self 
so near the goal, with so many requisites, obliged to miss 
the glorious opportunity for the want of one trifling arti-* 
cle, — a husband ; but so it is, and notwithstanding I am 
treading fairy land, I ia vain look for some kind godmother 
to conjure up the needful, and must even submit to single 
blessedness a little longer. But I must stop ; and have not 

time to look this over. 

" Maey." 



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VII. 

SCENES OF SUFFERING. 

Very different from its beginning was the ter- 
mination of the pleasant tour through Scotland. 
Mary felt it a duty to suppress all longings to go 
on with her good friend, who was soon to leave the 
country. Gladly would she have returned with her 
to America at once. But the great purpose, cer- 
tainly one of the chief objects, for which she had 
gone abroad, was not yet accomplished. Her fa- 
ther's only sister, who had been left a widow in a 
very destitute condition, was still living in a distant 
and obscure village of Yorkshire. Mr. Pickard had 
made an annual provision for her support while he 
lived, and his daughter determined to carry out his 
intentions, so' far as she could. Yet she. felt that no 
aid in her power to send would be as much to her 
poor aunt as a visit, and she had been anxiously 
looking for an escort to the place, which was so re- 
mote as to make it hardly prudent for a lady and a 
stranger to venture alone. She was therefore the 
more ready to accompany her friends to Scotland^ 
as on their return they would go within eighty 
miles of Osmotherly, her aunt's residence. Accord* 
12 



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134 SCENES OP SUFFERING. 

ingly she parted from them at Penrith, and went the 
rest of the way alone. 

The visit that followed forms the most remark- 
able, and in some respects the most interesting and 
important, chapter in the story of her life. Instead 
of three weeks, which she had set apart for this pur- 
pose, she remained three months at Osmotherly. 
And it is not the least noticeable fact in that ex- 
perience, that she wrote on the spot a very full ac- 
count of the whole, in the midst of cares and the 
sight and sound of sufferings which are ordinarily 
allowed to excuse, if they do not wholly prevent, 
any use of the pen or effort of mind. But we will 
not anticipate. Nor will we interrupt the narrative, 
which we have drawn from various letters, by any 
comments of our own. 

*^ Omotherlif^ Sqotmber 2, 1825. 
" My dear Emma : — 
" I wish I could relieve your mind about my undertaking 
and prospects as quickly as my own was set at rest. I will 
not recapitulate all or any thing that I felt at parting from 
you yesterday, but you know me well enough to believe 
that it was with no common degree of regret and anxiety, 
which the uncertainty of the path before me tended not a 
little to increase. But I did recollect that I had never yet 
been forsaken in any difficulty ; supposing the worst, there 
could be no fear of real evil, and anxiety and distrust only 
made all that real which might after all be merely imagi- 
nary. In order to obtain the quiet feeling which this view 
of things should create, I turned my attention to my fellow- 
passenger, who proved a very respectable, well-informed 
woman, and my only companion to North Allerton. Her 



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SCENES OF SUFFERING. 135 

experiences helped to make me more comfortable, for she 
had come from Liondon alone, travelled all night, and had 
a very long distance farther to go. She said she found no 
difficulty in travelling alone, and gave me some useful 
hints upon the subject. Our route lay over a different road 
from that by which we approached York, and as the day 
was so fine, we had a more tolerable ride than I expected. 
At North Allerton I found a quiet room at the inn, and a 
civil landlady, — went directly to the post-office, where a 
long and delightful letter from Jane McAdam awaited me. 
Not a word there of my aunt's letter, and I then went to a 
gentleman, through whom I had formerly transmitted letters 
to her, and found that he had sent the day before a letter 
from her to me, and that she was then well. This set me 
quite at ease, and I took a chaise and rode hither with a 
comparatively light heart. And then I wished it had so 
chanced that you could have taken this ride with me, for a 
more beautiful one I have seldom seen. This town lies 
upon, one of those hills which we saw at a distance towards 
the east the day we rode from Richmond ; and the ride 
from North Allerton is a gradual ascent, giving at every 
step a more extended view of the rich country which we 
passed through, with the additional beauty of numberless 
little streams which we could not see, and highly cultivated 
hills rising on one side to a great height. 

" I found my aunt much better than I expected, and, as 
you may suppose, almost overpowered with joy to see me. 
I did wish you could have seen her, — a small, thin old 
lady, with a pale complexion, like Aunt Whipple, and the 
very brightest black eyes, which sparkle when she speaks 
with a degree of animation almost amusing in such an old 
lady. She lives in a comfortable little two-story cottage 
of four rooms, which far exceeds any thing I ever saw for 
neatness. I find that I could not have come at a better 



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136 SCENES OF SUFFERING. 

time to do good, or a worse for gaining spirits. My aunt^s 
two daughters are married and live in this village ; one 
of them, with three children, has a hushand at the point 
of death with a fever ; his brother died yesterday of the 
small-pox, and two of her children have the whooping- 
cough ; added to this, their whole dependence is upon their 
own exertions, which are of course entirely stopped now. 
One of the children, a year and a half old, is with the 
grandmother, but so ill with the cough that she is almost 
sick with taking care of it. It has fortunately taken a fancy 
to me at once, and I can relieve her a little. But worse 
than all, one of her sons had come home in a very gloomy 
state of mind, and all her efforts had failed to rouse him to 
exertion. I hope to be more successful, for he seems will- 
ing to listen to me. You may suppose, under such a state 
of things, I shall find enough to do. My aunt^s mind is in 
a much better state than I expected, and if she does not 
get worn out with care to do more for me than ever was 
done for any body before, I shall be most thankful that I 
came. She tells me of many neighboring places which it 
would interest me to visit, as resorts of my dear father, and 
I think, next week, if possible to get a vehicle, I shall take 
her off upon a jaunt round the country for a few days, in 
home style, driving myself. 

^^ I have not seen half the multitude of cousins that I find 
are to be seen, but so far they are kind and affectionate, 
and disposed to make me comfortable and happy. I feel 
just like a child who has left home for the first time ; the 
change is so sudden and so great, that the last eight weeks 
seem to me very like a dream of some distant age, and a 
most interesting one too. I never was more thankful for 
the varieties of life through which I have passed, for with- 
out actual experience I never could have adapted myself to 
the new order of beings I now have to deal with. I shall 



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SCENES OF SUFFERING. 137 

find full employment for my fingers, in making my poor 
aunt as comfortable as I wish to leave her. 

" Yours, 

"M. L. P." 

** Ogmotheriy, September 8, 1825. 
" My dear Emma : — 

^^ Watching all night by a death-bed is but a poor prep« 
aration for writing ; and yet I am not willing to lose the 
first leisure moment that I have had sioce I wrote you, lest 
you should be alarmed at my long silence. But I think, 
from the account I gave you of the state of affairs here, 
you will naturally conclude that I should have had con* 
stant occupation, and will not be uneasy about me. I have 
indeed found quite as much employment for mind and 
body as either were able to perform, and have not had one 
moment to devote to you, although my heart has been with 
you, and my thoughts have often followed you. The poor 
sick man, of whom I told you, has been growing worse 
daily, and it was with feelings of almost joy that I last 
night closed his eyes, knowing that his sufierings were at 
an end ; and yet he is so great a loss to his family, that I 
seldom knew a case in which it was so difficult to feel that 
* it is right' His wife, who is but a slender woman, is 
left with three little boys, without a penny to support them, 
and almost without the power of gaining it, for the young« 
est, which is but three weeks old, is dreadfully ill with the 
whooping-cough. She is a calm and patient sufierer, how- 
ever, and it does one good to see how trouble can be borne 
by the most unlettered and uninformed, when the spirit is 
right. I have not been able to do much for him, but the 
little baby has been my constant care, and I have got to 
loving it dearly. Every thing around me is sad and sor* 
Towful, and nothing but the effort, which it is absolutely 
necessary for me to make, to cheer and assist others, gives 
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138 SCENES OF SUFFERING. 

me the least pleasure. My poor aunt, weakened in mind 
and body by continued and most severe afflictions, is almost 
a child ; her son is nearly insane, and keeps her in con- 
stant fear lest he may destroy himself; and the trials of 
this poor daughter are enough to break her heart. Another 
of my cousins is well married, and wishes me to be with 
her at her quiet and happy home ; but I cannot think of 
deserting this post, however painful, for any prospect of 
ease to myself. In fact, it seems to me that posts of dif- 
ficulty are my appointed lot and my element, for 1 do feel 
lighter and happier when I have difficulties to overcome. 
Could you look in upon me, you would think it was impos- 
sible that I could be even tolerably comfortable, and yet I 
am cheerful, and get on as easily as possible, and am in 
truth happy. 

" This village is the most primitive place I ever was in, 
and a very obscure, out-of-the way place ; the inhabitants 
almost entirely of one class, and that of the poorer kind of 
laboring people, ignorant as possible, but simple and social. 
You may conceive of their simple manners, when I tell 
you they ^ never saw such a lady as Miss Pickard ^ among 
them before ; and of course Miss Pickard is an object of as 
much curiosity and speculation as if she were Empress of 
all the Russias ; but they are kind-hearted and civil. The 
peculiar situation of things has taken me more among them 
than I should have been in twice the time, under common 
circumstances, and it has been a good exercise for my 
faculty of adaptation. I have succeeded, I believe, in 
pleasing them, for it seems as if they only vied with each 
other in trying to do the most for me, and I really think, if 
they had a parson to write the ' Annals of their Parish,^ the 
arrival of the ^ American lady ' would stand as the most 
remarkable event in the year 1825. This amuses me, and 
gives me an opportunity of doing much good with little 



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SCENES OF SUFFERING. 139 

trouble, for it gives me influence ; and, moreover, it shows 
me human nature under a new form. But I am entirely 
destitute of every thing like companionship, and having 
had so much in this way lately with you, of the most sat- 
isfactory and delightful kind, you will readily believe that 
I must feel a great deficiency. There is not even a cler- 
gyman's family for me to associate with, for the curate of 
the place is of the very worst class of that set whose ex- 
istence is a standing disgrace to the Church ; an ignorant, 
drinking man, as careless and negligent of the duties of 
his station as if he considered it of no consequence whatp 
ever. I hope to have a little leisure soon, and then reading 
and writing will make up to me in some measure for the 
loss of society ; but as yet I have literally had to work hard, 
and have not found time even to look at *■ the journal.* I 
have a nice, little, quiet room, however, and feel quite at 
home in it. 

" I have thought much, very, very much, of your voyage 
back without me. I will not say I regret the circumstances 
which have led to my disappointment, for it seemed to be 
my appointed path, and when one follows the dictates at 
conscience it must be right; and when it is right, why 
should we wish it otherwise ? But I am weak, and tbeie 
are times when the thought of another six, perhaps nine, 
months' absence from home, with all the uncertainties 
which attend the future, makes my heart sink, and the tear 
start, in spite of myself. Yet it could not be otherwise ; it 
would have been wrong to have neglected coming here. I 
am more convinced of this now than ever, for though it was 
said that I could do as much good by sending money as by 
coming myself, I do not think so; and though I may be 
thought foolishly scrupulous for subjecting myself to the 
evils I must meet with here, when I might have avoided 
them, I am suie I never could have felt satisfied that aU 



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140 SCENES OF SUFFERING. 

was done for my poor aunt as well as it could be, unless I 
had seen and managed it. But I am allowing myself in 
talking of self in a most unwarrantable manner ; you will 
|>ardon me, in consideration of the difficulty of giving up at 
once the habit of self-indulgence which your kindness has 
created and fixed/' 

*" OBmotheH^j September 10 1825. 

" Mt dear Escma : — 

^' I do not mean to act modest and beg a compliment for 
it, but in sober truth you do overrate me. Just because 
you happen to have seen more deeply into my ' inner man ' 
than you are wont to do with others, and have your feel- 
ings strongly interested, you let them carry you off, upon 
their liberal and expanded wings, to a region of romance 
peopled by ideal spirits with which you identify your poor 
friend Mary, who has in truth no business there. But I do 
indeed rejoice, if the experience which God in his goodness 
has given me has been in any measure useful. I do con- 
sider it a privilege to have learned so much of His ,charac- 
ter and will as in the wisdom of His providence He has 
enabled me to do, though it has been by fiery trial. I feel 
responsible for the right use of such a privilege, not only 
for my own, but others' good ; and if in the fulness of my 
heart I have been tempted to show you more of myself 
than a cooler judgment would have approved, I trust that it 
may not have been without its advantages to both ; to me, 
in teaching a lesson of humility ; to you, as a warning, per- 
haps. But I must not yield to this propensity to egotism ; 
I have too much beside to talk about. 

" Our poor man was buried yesterday, andj as clergymen 
rarely come here, my cousin thought she would have her 
infant christened on the same day. It was a most affecting 
sight. I stood as its godmother at her request, because I 
could not refuse her at such a time ; but it is too great a 



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SCENES OF SUFFERING. 141 

responsibility to be lightly taken. The child, however, 
cannot live, for it has begun already to have fits with its 
cough. 

^^ September 12. In three days you are to be gone from 
the country, and I shall not have this means of communi- 
cating. Dear Emma, you cannot tell how much I shall 
miss you. You seem to be a connecting link with home, 
which I have a fearful dread of losing. I donH know how 
it is, but these coming six months seem to me a worse sepa« 
ration Ihan all the past eighteen. Yet do not think, because 
I feel so sad about not going home, that I dread staying. 
You know enough of the interests I have here, to feel satis- 
fied that I shall have much to occupy me pleasantly. It is 
only the protracted separation from home that I feel sorrj 
for, and that is unavoidable, and will perhaps prove best oa 
many accounts. Farewell." 

" Osmoiherly, September 13, 1825. 
" Dear Emma : — 

'^ I had determined to write last night, as I found it quite 

out of the question to attempt it in the daytime. I had 

been up with the little boy a great part of the night before ; 

yet I knew I could keep awake writing, I wanted to do it so 

much. But in the true spirit of Polly Pickard, attempting 

more than any one would think reasonable, I was quite 

persuaded that, as I was to sit up, it was as well to do all 

I could ; and as poor cousin Bessy had not had a quiet 

night since her child was born, and was going to sleep 

alone in her house for the first time since her husband's 

death, I thought it would do her good, and me no harm, to 

sit up in her parlor, and take care of the baby in the cradle, 

that she might have a little sleep, and not feel alone. The 

dear little baby had been better than for some time, during 

the day, and I doubted not it would lie in the cradle or on 



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142 SCENES OF SUFFERING. 

my knee very quietly, except during its caughmg fits. 
Bessy went to bed, but the poor little creature grew worse, 
and coughed itself into a fit, in which it lay so long that I 
thought it dead, and awoke its mother ; but its little heart 
began to beat again, and it seemed to be reviving, though 
slowly, and I sent her off again. It appeared for some time 
to be recovering, but all at once it sunk away and died in 
my arms, so peacefully and sweetly that I could scarcely 
be persuaded that it had not fallen Into a still slumber, or 
had another fit. But it was indeed gone, and when I could 
bring myself to give it up, I arranged its little body for its 
last home. I don't know when I have had my feelings 
more excited. It was a lovely little creature, and I have 
nursed it so much since I have been here, that I found h 
had become an object of great interest to me ; not a day 
has passed that I have not given three or four hours to it, 
and it was always so quiet with me that it seemed almost 
to know when I took it. The circumstances of the family, 
too, made it singularly affecting that it should be taken 
away, and the suddenness of its death seemed almost to 
bewilder me. Its poor mother is ill, and between comfort- 
ing her and coming home to my aunt, who is very feeble, I 
scarcely know how to find time enough for either. I have 
been up three nights since Wednesday last, and, with two 
children to manage, I am almost mazed. 

" I have tried to write this morning, for the baby was not 
out of my arms a moment last night, but I cannot collect 
my thoughts, — I don't know what I mean to say. You 
must state the case for me. Could you look in upon me 
you might wonder I was not crazy, but I shall do very well 
when I get a little sleep. Do not feel uneasy about me ; I 
am not in danger of being sick, unless the prophecies of 
the old women here will kill me, for they think, I believe, 
that I am too kind to live, and they shake their heads most 



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SCENES OF SUFFERING. 143 

knowingly, — one proof among a thousand how much more 
frequently our characters are estimated by the ciicum« 
stances in which we happen to be placed, than by any other 
criterion. Do write, to the last minute. I cannot bear to 
part with you in this unsatisfactory manner, but indeed I 
am incapable of any thing more ; my eyes are dazzled as 
I write, and I must lie down. I shall write by the packet 
of the 24th from Liverpool, so that you will hear of me 
almost as soon as you get home ; and I pray God that in 
safety and health and increased happiness you may all 
reach ' th&t haven where you would be, with a grateful 
sense of His mercies.' May God for ever bless you, my 
dear, kind friend, and strengthen you by His grace to pur- 
sue with success that path of virtue and holiness which it is 
your wish to follow, and enable you to perform all the du- 
ties which lie before you, consistently with His divine will, 
and worthy of His acceptance. This can only be done by 
humble reliance upon Him who is the way, the truth, and the 
life, for guidance, support, and reward. He alone can en- 
able us to do that which we ought to do, and, feeling our own 
weakness, let us rely with faith upon His promises, neither 
doubting nor fearing the certainty of their accomplishment. 
But I cannot write or think ; I seem to feel that *' bonnie 
little bairnie ' in my arms still, and my nerves are some- 
thing shaken. The worst of the whole is that poor, unhap- 
py young man, whose low moans are continually sounding 
in my ears ; but I send him away to-morrow for his own 
sake, as well as ours, and all will go well. Again, dearest 
Emma, Heaven bless you ! Ever your 

" M. L. P." 

" Oamotherly, September 14, 1825. 

" Dear Ebcma : — 
^^ I have had a grand night^s sleep, and am better to-day, 
— should be well, but for this lazy feeling, and a dull head- 



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144 80BNB8 OF SUFFERING. 

ache. Don't fear for me. I do not think I am going to be 
sick, and it will he for some good purpose if I am. I could 
not regret what I have done ; I could almost say, as Mr. 
Thacher once said, *• I had better live a shorter life, and a 
useful one.' But I am not inclined to throw away life ei- 
ther ; I enjoy it much, and think it right for all to endea\ur 
to preserve it, for we may all do some good if we try, and 
that is reason enough for keeping it, were there no enjoy 
raent to be had ; as there is, even for the most distressed. 
But I must leave you, for I am not able to write more. 

" We buried the dear little baby to-day, wmch 

has been a wet, uncomfortable one, and I do not feel the 
better for the exposure, but on the whole am very well ; 
nothing but a trifling cold, scarcely worth minding. I feel 
with you that it is as well, if not better^ that I should stay. 
But you must not judge of its importance by cousin Jane's 
representation ; her warm heart runs away with her judg- 
ment where she feels so much. 

" A truce with your ' feelings of inferiority.' Who scolds 

me for the same feelings ? It is Pride, my dear, depend 

upon it. I know it of old. Do not let it triumph. 

" Ever sincerely yours, 

" M. L. P." 

** Osmotherly, October 3, 1825. 

" My dear Emma : — 
" I have just received your farewell blessing, and could 
you look in upon me, and know the peculiar circumstances 
and situation in which I am placed, you would not be sur- 
prised that it has made a very child of me, and that for the 
time I feel as if all my connection with my home and its 
interests was severed by your departure. I would not write 
under these impressions, for I know it is a diseased state of 
mind, did I not fear that, unless I improve this one leisure 
evening, I shall not have another opportunity of writing for 



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8CBNES OF SUFFERING. 145 

a long time ; and 1 know you will be anxious to hear from 
me, from the uncomfortable feeling which you express at 
not receiving late letters. I did at first regret that I had 
not written upon the chances of your being detained, but on 
the whole it was best that I did not, for I could not at any 
moment since my last date have relieved your anxiety, had 
I told you the truth, and I think your imagination could not 
picture any evil so bad as the reality has been. 

** But to proceed in order. I wrote you last, I think, the 
day after the dear little infant was buried, and I believe I 
mentioned to you that I had taken up my night quarters 
with my poor cousin Bessy. She had never been left 
alone since her husband died, and now that she had no 
longer her baby to occupy her attention, she felt her deso- 
lateness more forcibly. I therefore gave the day to my 
aunt, having Bessy and her two little boys as much with 
us as possible, and passed the night with her. She was the 
n^ost patient sufferer I ever saw ; not a word of repining 
ever escaped her, and she went about her occupations and 
duties with a steadiness which spoke a determination to 
sacrifice every selfish consideration to the good of her chil- 
dren. Scarcely a tear could be seen on her cheek, and a 
common observer would have accused her of want of feel- 
ing, if he had not understood that the settled calm which 
sat upon her face might hide more real agony than is ever 
shown by any *• sounds of woe.' Her resolution astonished 
her friends, for they knew her to have a very timid and 
self-distrusting character, and the situation in which she 
was thus suddenly placed would have appalled even a stout 
heart. But I saw the true state of the case. When the 
duties of the day were past, and the necessity for exerting 
herself over, and all at rest but ourselves, she felt at liberty 
to indulge herself in talking of that of which she would not 
speak to any one beside ; and I found that what seemed 
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146 SCENES OF SUFFERINe* 

insensibility was in reality a degree of fortitude and reso- 
lution which I never saw equalled. I thought it best, too, 
to encourage her thus to open her heart, for I believe that 
concealed grief is always the most destructive to the mind, 
and her situation really required the advice and assistance 
of any one who could aid her, as she was inexperienced 
and felt her own deficiencies to a most overpowering de- 
gree. She had had but little instruction upon religious 
subjects, and would listen to my reading of the Scriptures, 
and detail of my own experience of the power of religious 
consolations, as if a new light were opened to her soul. I 
did not then know how much she was affected, but the 
readiness with which she adopted advice upon the subject 
gave me much hope that it would in time become as valu- 
able to her as it had been to me. 

" I told you that her infant was only a fortnight old when 
her husband was taken ill, and only a month when it died. 
Its mother had never recovered her strength, and distress 
having destroyed her appetite, and watching deprived her 
of sleep, she was as thin and weak as possible, and but ill 
able to bear the consequences of the sudden death of the 
child. This, added to a cold which she took, made her 
very feverish, and the absence of the physician from town 
obliged her to confine herself to such simple remedies as 
we could prescribe, to avert further evil and restore her 
strength. But the benefit which she derived from them 
was but temporary. A week from the day upon which her 
baby died, while passing the afternoon with us, she was 
taken very ill, and it was with great difficulty that her 
brother and myself carried her to her own house, only a 
few rods distant. I lost no time in administering the pre- 
scriptions of the physician, and for a few days she seemed 
to mend ; but I soon felt convinced that her disease was 
the worst form of typhus fever, and was sure that she bad 



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SCENES OF SUFFERING. 147 

not strength to get through it. The doctor confirmed my 
suspicions, but told me that such was the dread of it among 
the country people, that, if it were known, I should be left to 
myself, for no one would come near the house. I had not 
then required any assistance, for I was very well, and, 
knowing her situation to be a critical one, did not like to 
trust her to any one beside. By some means, however, 
the story was sounded abroad and spread like wildfire, and 
the suspicion of (what was in fact the truth) the two broth- 
ers having died of the same disorder added to the evil. 

" The day after Bessy was taken. Jemmy, her youngest 
child, a boy of three, fell ill too, and though it was doubt- 
ful whether whooping-cough or typhus had the greater 
share in his malady, to the fearful minds of the villagers it 
was all one and the same, and the family were thought to 
be doomed to destruction. One by one fell off from com- 
ing near the house, till I at last scarcely saw a person ex- 
cept the doctor during the day. This I did not mind, for I 
preferred being constantly with my cousin, and the actual 
labor of attending her was not great ; she took but lAtle, 
and all the help which I wished for I had. She died, how- 
ever, on the 30th of September, eleven days after she was 
taken, and during that time I had never left her, night or 
day, except to change my clothes occasionally at my 
aunt's. I had watched with her seven nights, and been up 
part of every other ; for so accustomed was she to my care, 
that she did not like to be touched by any other person. I 
had sent the two little boys to their grandmother's, and the 
youngest was very ill during the whole of his mother's 
sickness, and still continues so. My cousin's little cottage 
was so small, that I felt unwilling that any one should sleep 
in it, lest they should suffer from infection ; and often did I 
sit up with her alone in the house. I had been so exposed 
to the disease that I felt no Years for myself, and I believe 



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148 SCENES OF SUFFERING. 

this helped to preserve me, and the good doctor watched 
me very narrowly. I could not in a month tell you half 
the interesting circumstances attending this trying scene. 
Her senses never forsook her for a moment, nor her deep 
sense of gratitude to God for the mercies which he had 
bestowed on her amid all her sufferings. It seemed to her 
His immediate providence which had sent me to them just 
at this time, and her expressions of affection and thankful- 
ness were indeed most delightful to me. It does appear 
most singular that I should have come just now, for the fact 
is, poor Bessy would have suffered for want of a nurse, 
beside many other necessaries, had I not been here. Her 
mother was fully occupied with the little boy, and her sister 
too distant, and of too much importance at home, to be with 
her, and the people of the place are too ignorant and fright- 
ened to have been all to her that she required. 

^^ It was necessary to bury her immediately ; and thus is 
this family entirely broken up, in the short space of three 
weeks, by the death of both its heads. She left her chil- 
dreti to my sole direction and care, and the settlement of 
all their affairs, so that I have still much to do, beside the 
care of the sick child. His grandmother is almost worn 
out with it, and left his mother^s death-bed only to nurse 
him. I have now stolen away from him for an hour to 
visit this deserted place, and am sitting by the fire in the 
lonely parlor, without any other being in the house but the 
eldest boy of seven, ^ho is amusing himself by my side, 
interrupting me now and then by saying, *' Cousin Mary, 
you will let me live with you, wont you ? ' Every thing is 
still without, and so strongly is my poor cousin^s voice asso- 
ciated with every thing I see around me, that it would not 
require any very strong effort of imagination to fsuacy I 
still heard her blessing me from what is now, I trust, her 
abode of peace and joy. But I must not indulge myself in 



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8CBNE8 OF SUFFERING. 149 

writing about feelings, for I have much else to say ; but I 
really think, since the last solemn evening that I spent alone 
in the old oak parlor in Pearl Street, I have never felt so 
forcibly the mutability of all earthly things ; and had I any 
one to listen, I could talk all night upon the subject 

^^ This is by far the most primitive, uncivilized place I 
was ever in ; I cannot liken it to any thing I know at home, 
for even Worthington has lawyers and a clergyman^s family 
to redeem it ; and, moreover, the general inhabitants of our 
little towns have more information and education than is 
to be found in these out-of-the-way villages, to which the 
modem improvement of national and free schools has not 
yet been extended. I am glad to see all the varieties of 
life, but under present circumstances this is a very solitary 
one. Were it not for the physician^s visits, which he kindly 
makes every day, I should live totally without conversation 
in its true sense. The people are good and honest-hearted, 
and treat me as if I belonged to a higher order of animals, — 
and this is a novel situation ! I am very free from com« 
plaints, and take care not to do more than I feel able to, 
and if I am superstitious in feeling that Providence directed 
me hither at this time, it is a useful superstition, inasmuch 
as it gives me a feeling of security that I shall be guided 
and strengthened to accomplish the work appointed for me. 
Do not fear, but hope and pray for me. 

" I cannot tell you how much your visit to Burcombe 
gratified me ; you could not have obliged me more, for I 
should have been so suspicious that my own description of 
it and its inhabitants might be a partial one, that I doubt if 
I should really have done them justice at home. Jane was 
as much pleased with the effort you made to see them, as 
any one could possibly be, and more pleased with the visit 
itself than I choose to tell you. I have most kind letters 
from the family at Penrith, ofiering to come for me when- 
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150 SCENES OF SUFFERINS*^ 

ever Tgive ihe word of command ; it is a delightful rest to 
look forward to, but it will, I fear, be long before I can avail 
myself of it. The thoughts of home are to me now some- 
thing like the dreams one has of heaven, in the twilight 
hours between sleeping and waking ; I dare not form any 
definite picture, and yet the idea will not be wholly dis- 
carded. But with so much around me to make me realize 
the uncertainty of life, and exposed to actual danger every 
moment, how can I presume even to hope ? May I be able 

to say from the heart, ^ Thy will be done.* 

" Mary." 

** Chmotherly, October 23, 1825. 

" Mt dear Cousin : — 

** I wrote Emma a hurried letter a few weeks since, 
giving an account of my poor cousin^s illness and death, 
and then hoped that I should soon be able to tell a happier 
tale, to relieve the anxiety which that might have produced. 
But it is not yet in my power, and I should not venture to 
write at all, did I not hope that all your uneasiness on my 
account will find an antidote in the confidence which daily 
experience increases in my heart, that He whose arm is 
mighty to save, and who has hitherto protected me from all 
danger, will still extend to me his fatherly care, and guide 
and guard me under all the events of his providence. You 
will readily believe that I have need of this confidence to 
strengthen me, when I tell you that I am writing this by 
the bedside of the eldest of those two dear little orphans 
whom my cousin left in my care. His little brother had 
scarcely recovered from his fever, when I was obliged to 
leave him to attend this poor child with the same fever, and 
have now been for more than a week his sole nurse, night 
and day. 

" But to give you an adequate idea of the peculiarly try- 
ing situation in which I have been placed for the last seven 



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4BCENES OF SUFFERING. 151 

weeks, I must recapitulate the story, which you niay per- 
haps have gathered in unconnected details from my letters 
to Emma. It is indeed a melancholy one, hut proves to 
me most painfully that our steps are oftentimes guided hy 
a wisdom from ahove, far beyond our own limited concep- 
tions. You know that one of my objects in coming to 
England was to try to do something more than I had hith- 
erto been enabled to, for the comfort of my poor old aunt, 
and you will not therefore be surprised that it was my fixed 
resolution not to return until I had an opportunity of ascer- 
taining how to do this most effectually. When at last I did 
get here, it was with the expectation of staying only just 
long enough to see that she was made comfortable. I knew 
nothing of her family even by name, and of herself only 
that she was old and feeble, and subject to fits of extreme 
melancholy. I had not any anticipations of pleasure, ex- 
cept from the feeling that I was doing what my dear father 
would have done, and fulfilling one of the duties of my life. 
My father had been her idol through life, and, as I have 
now found, almost her sole dependence ; her children could 
do little for her, and the relations she had in England knew 
nothing of her. She was of course most delighted .to see 
me, and prepared to devote herself with all her faculties to 
my comfort But, poor body, she stood in need of all that 
I could do to cqpafort to her. 

^^ I have written this in the intervals of attendance upon 
the little boy, and, as you may perceive, at different periods, 
for I seldom sit five minutes at once. It is now the 25th, and 
I am happy to say he is a little better ; but I scarcely dare 
hope, he is of so feeble a constitution. I left him yesterday 
under the influence of opium, so that I was sure he would 
not miss me, to go to North AUerton, seven miles distant, 
to meet old Mr. McAdam and my cousin S^-— , who had 



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152 SCENES OF SUFFERING. 

come from Penrith in their carriage for me. They did not 
come hither, fearing that strangers would be but intruders 
in such distress, but stopped at North Allerton, and sent an 
express to me on Sunday night, begging me to return with 
them if possible, for they had known of all the sickness 
which surrounded me, and feared I should suflfer from con- 
tagion* It was most kind in them, and I should have been 
most happy for the release could I have gone with an easy 
conscience. But it would have been worse than inhuman 
to have left this poor little sufferer, beside that much of 
the business which I have undertaken is unfinished, and I 
should not think I had done my duty until I had settled 
these orphans permanently. But I thought I ought to go 
to them to explain this, as I should have been afraid to 
have had them come here, and I took a chaise and passed 
the day with them. My patient did not wake up enough to 
know I was away, and it was quite a refreshment to me. 
Am I not most fortunate to have such kind friends in this 
strange land ? It is a comfort to feel that I have such a 
resting-place when my labors here are over, and cheers me 
even in this most solitary of all the situations in which I 
have ever been placed. Were it not for the good little doc- 
tor who attends my patients, I know not what I should do. 
My cousin cannot Jeave home for an instant, and my poor 
aunt is overwhelmed with all these distressing events, added 
to the continual trial which the melancholy young man is to 
all of us. I get on without much fatigue, however, and have 
not yet been obliged to sit up all night ; and with the sleep 
which I get whenever the little fellow is quiet, I do very 
well. He has been very much out of his head the greater 
part of the time, but very patient when he is sensible. It 
is now ten days since he became ill, and you may suppose 
he is somewhat attached to his cousin by this time, and I to 
him. O, if you could look in upon me, what would you 
say ! 



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SCENES OF SUFFERING. 153 

" October 30. You would pity me now if you could look 
upon me, for I have this night closed the eyes of the dear 
child whom I was watching when I wrote the above. He 
seemed better daily afler my last date, and on Friday, the 
28th, sat up and appeared in every respect on the recovery ; 
his appetite was good, his fever reduced, and his strength 
improving. He awoke on Saturday early, and begged for 
his breakfast, ate a light one, and fell sisleep. His nose had 
bled a little the evening before, but not much ; but about 
eleven, he suddenly threw off from his stomach such a 
quantity of blood, as proved to us that there was some in- 
ternal rupture in the head. This continued through the 
day and night, increasing in violence. No earthly power 
could save him ; all was done that could be, but certain 
spots which appeared upon him soon after the bleeding 
commenced decided the physician that he could not live. 
He lingered until this evening, and died from absolute ex- 
haustion at ten o'clock, of what is called spotted fever 
here ; — and I laid with him after the spots had come out, 
without knowing what they meant. It is a great shock, for 
I felt almost secure that he was getting better, and his poor 
grandmother is nearly distracted. This seems to affect 
her more than all ; being under her own roof, it is brought 
more home to her senses, and it is indeed shocking to lose 
five of one family in so short a time. I am sitting up, 
while a woman, who has been with me through this dread- 
ful day, gets a little rest by the side of my aunt ; but as I 
was up last night, I am in' such an agitated state that I am 
not fit to write. To have seen four human beings die in 
the short space of eight weeks is enough of itself to solem- 
nize one's mind ; but with all the additional circumstances 
which have attended these, no wonder that my heart is full 
to overflowing. This was a fine boy, and you know that 
the endearing ways of a sick child are most engaging under 



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154 SCENES OF SUFFERING. 

any circumstances, and when that child is an orphan, and 
dependent upon one^s self entirely, the interest is mdeed 
intense. I uever met with so violent a case of fever, and 
the poor sufferer was sensible to the last of all its horrors. 
One cannot indeed lament for him, for he would have prob- 
ably had but a hard life. Little James is now indeed alone 
in the world, happily too young to be conscious of his 
loss ; but it is very affecting to think of his being deprived 
of father, mother, and two brothers in eight weeks, and left 
so perfectly alone. 

^^ Nonemher 2. I add a line to say that I'am quite well, 

therefore do not feel anxious about me. There are very 

many cases of the fever in the village, and as I am almost 

the only person in it who is not afraid ef infection, I still 

have full employment in assisting the poor sufferers. My 

cousin^s little niece is still very ill. I have indeed been 

wonderfully preserved and strengthened. Heaven save 

me from presumption, but I cannot help feeling that I could 

not have lived through all that I have, unless God had pro* 

tected me. 

** Yours affectionately, 

"M. L. P." 

We need not attempt to add any thing to this 
simple and affecting narrative of events that seem 
to belong to a more remote place and period than 
England and our own day. With all their natural- 
ness and the stamp of reality, it would not be diffi- 
cult — as indeed has been done — to clothe them 
with the drapery of fiction, and weave them into a 
romantic, improbable tale. 

But the tale is not all told. The scene shifts at 
this point, only to be succeeded by another not 



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8CSNE8 OF SUFFERING*. 15b 

Bnlike, nor far apart Near the end of November, 
Mary was released from present duty at Osmotherly, 
took a reluctstiit leave — yes, with her generous and 
clinging affections, a reluctant leave — of the fam- 
ily in which she had closed the eyes of five mem- 
bers, and was carried by eager, anxious friends to 
Penrith. There, in the bosom of a charming house- 
hold already known and dear to her, every thing 
within and without presented as strong a contrast 
to the situation she had just left, as words could 
express. Her own words give us some idea of it, 
in the first letter she wrote after leaving a place 
associated '' with images of danger and death," and 
leaving it, as she supposed, for ever. But the very 
next letter after that surprises us with the old date 
of " Osmotherly " ; and we find that hardly a month 
had passed before she was recalled to the same spot, 
the same painful responsibilities, and far greater 
danger than before, as the result proved. But again 
we leave her to tell her own story. 

*" Penrith, Cumberland, November 29, 1825. 
*' My dear Cousin : — 
'' After all my melancholy letters from Osmotherly, you 
will be glad to receive one of another date, and under hap- 
pier circumstances. My last letter was just after the death 
of the dear little boy, and I then thought I should be able 
to leave there very shortly ; but it was not until the 26th, 
(after 1 had been there twelve weeks instead of the three 
which I intended when I went,) that I could arrange mat- 
ters so that I could give up my charge conscientiously ; and, 
after all my efforts, I could not succeed in settling the busi- 
ness for my poor, unfortunate cousin. I left it, however, m 



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156 SCENES OF SVrFERlNO. 

a fair way for completion, clothed the dear little orphan for 
the winter, and placed him with his aunt, making all the 
arrangements which my limited means allowed for his fu- 
ture support ; and notwithstanding the incessant trial which 
I had there, I assure you it was not without many painful 
feelings that I took leave of the place, for ever. I had 
been tor the last five weeks constantly with my aunt, and 
could not bear to leave her in the solitary situation to which 
she was reduced by the death of so many of her family. 
My dear little Jamie had become an object of affection to 
me, heightened to an extreme degree, since he was, like 
myself, left without parents or brother or sister. I longed 
to take him as my own, for he is a child of very uncom- 
mon capacity, and I'fear will not have the education which 
he deserves. But I could only commit him in faith to Him 
who is the Father of the fatherless, who will not suffer 
even the least of his creatures to want his care. I think I 
never shall forget his screams of agony when he saw me 
drive away ; I thought his little heart would burst. But 
childish sorrow is soon over, and he will forget me long 
before I shall cease to love him. 

'* According to an arrangement previously made, my 

cousin S met me at Greta Bridge, in her grandfather^s 

carriage. I came to that place on Thursday in a postchaise, 
passed the night, and came on hither the next day, so that 
I had only about thirty miles to ride alone, and as I got a 
postboy from the neighborhood to drive me all the way, I 
felt perfectly safe, and found no inconvenience whatever. 
Nothing can exceed the kindness of this family to me ; in- 
deed, 1 am made to feel that 1 am at home with them as if 
I had always belonged to them. After all I have had to 
suffer, it is almost like the rest of the Sabbath to the weary 
laborer, and if kindness and petting will cure one, I shall 
soon recover all I may have lost during my dreadful siege 



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BGBNES OF SUFFERINe. 157 

at OBmotherly. To be sure, I am almost bewildered at the 
change from constant anxiety and labor to a state of perfect 
idleness and indulgence, but I will tiy and make a good use 
of it ; and I feel so entirely convinced that this most amaz- 
ing preservation of my life must be for some useful end, 
that I think I never can fall into an insensible or cold state 
again. I was almost glad to stay from here, until I was 
quite sure I had not suffered from infection, for although I 
cannot feel much faith in the doctrine of contagion, I would 
not run any risk of communicating the disease to others. 
It is the opinion of many physicians here, (and my little 
doctor among the number,) that change of air may bring 
out the fever which would lie dormant in the system for a 
long time without it, and he warned me not to feel too 
secure until I had tried it. But I do not yet feel any symp« 
toms ; weak and weary I am, but not feverish, and having 
no fear am the more safe. 

^^ But do not think I am so much occupied by the dis- 
tresses I have experienced here, as to be unmindful of those 
which have visited my friends at home. Your letter of the 
20th of October, and Ann's of the 18th, reached me on the 
16th of November. The account of poor Maria's death 
shocked me very much, and made me long to fly home, 
that I might, if possible, do something for her dear little 
children. I wish I could assist them, and feel that there is 
no one of the family to whom the duty of doing it is so 
great. I beg you will use my name in any case in which 
you think I could act with usefulness, and if God spare me 
to return to you, I promise you I will fulfil all you may 

engage for me to the best of my powers It tires 

me so much, that I can scarcely write intelligibly. God 
bless you I 

" Mart." 
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158 SCENES OP SUFFERING. 

"• Otmoiher^i Deoember 81, 18S5. 
" Mt dearest Friend : — 

^' I have oflen welcomed this anniversary with delight; 
but under all the various circumstances in which it has 
found me, I think I never felt the value of the privilege 
which it gives me of writing to you more deeply than I do 
at this moment 

^^ But I will first account to you for my being again at 
this place, the very name of which is no doubt by this time 
associated in your mind, as it is in mine, with images of 
danger and death. Of the events which took place during 
my former visit here, you have no doubt been informed by 
my letters to Boston, and of my departure from it, as I 
thought for ever, for the hospitable abode of my kind 
friends at Penrith, where I was enjoying much when I last 
wrote home. I intended staying with them until the mid- 
dle of January, when Mr. McAdam^s appointed journey 
south would secure me an escort to Birmingham, and I was, 
among other things, anticipating writing this under the in- 
fluence of the same most •> delightful society which was 
operating upon my mind on this night last year. But I was 
doomed in this, as in many more important concerns, to 
feel the uncertainty of all calculations for the future ; for 
on the 23d of December I received a letter from the phy- 
sician of this place, written at the request of my aunt, who 
was apparently dying of typhus fever, begging me if possi- 
ble to let her see me once more. I knew there were many 
reasons which made it important that I should come, if that 
were indeed her situation ; and at the advanced age of sixty- 
eight, with a most feeble frame, I could not dare to expect 
a favorable termination. The risk of returning to such an 
infected region was, of course, much greater than my for- 
mer residence there, but thus summoned I could not hesi- 
tate, and my good friends, even more fearful and anxious 



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SCENES OF SUFFEBING. 159 

than I was, could not attempt to dissuade me. It was 
indeed an appalling undertaking, knowing so fully the 
evils to which I was coming which could not he avoided, 
and all that might ensue could not be kept out of sight. 

^' It was, I assure you, with many solemn thoughts, 
diough hid by cheerful looks, that I took my leave, proba- 
bly for ever, of that good family, and got into the mail 
alone on the morning of the 26th. My route lay across the 
dreary hill Stanmoor, and, as I had not even a single com- 
panion the whole eighty miles hither, you may be sure my 
cogitations were many and various. Among other things, 
I was struck by the singular coincidence which has always 
given to Christmas week a peculiar interest ; neither could 
I fail to consider, on recollecting the various circumstances 
that had occurred in it, how deep was my debt of gratitude 
to that Being who had guided me through them all in safety. 

Dear N , this is an overwhelming thought, and one 

which every day's experience forces upon my mind with 
increasing power, a power of which, it seems to me, it 
would have been impossible to conceive under any other 
than the very peculiar circumstances in which I have been, 
and, it would seem, am still doomed to live, while in this 
country. Imagine me, at this distance from all to whom I 
have been accustomed to look for dependence, a being alone 
in creation almost, literally alone in this strange land, mak- 
ing an excursion of eighty miles across the country, partly 
in coaches, partly in postchaises, without a being to protect 
me or appeal to, and upon such an errand, — and yet as safe 
as if a host were escorting me, calm, quiet, and perfectly 
easy as if I were taking a ride to Hingham ; and then tell 
me, if the confiding spirit which our sacred religion creates 
in our souls is not worth all that we could possess besides. 

" I arrived here in eight hours after I left Penrith, and 
fomid the poor old lady rather better, and not a little de- 



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160 SCENES OF 8TJFFERIN0. 

lighted that I had cared enough for her to come. She has 
had many and severe trials through life, to which those of 
the last summer were but a sequel. I was the only one of 
her own relations with whom she had come in contact for 
many years, and the poor soul's heart warmed towards me 
with the whole force of her long shut up afiections. I at 
once installed myself as sole nurse in the very room in 
which I had watched the progress of disease and death 
upon that poor child, whose case I mentioned in my letter 
to Emma ; and here am I now writing you by the light of 
a rush candle, with my little work-box for a desk, almost 
afraid to breathe lest I should disturb my aunt's slumbers. 
We two are the only beings in this little cottage, for I have 
sent her sons out to sleep, as a precaution against the fever, 
and put a bed into the comer of the room for myself. 
Could you see me acting in the fourfold capacity which I 
adopt in this humble cottage, you would hardly believe me 
to be the same being, who, a week ago, was installed in 
all the honors of a privileged visitor, amid the luxuries of 
Cockel House, acting ' lady * solely, to the utmost of my 
ability. It amuses me to find how easily it all sits upon me, 
and how readily we may adapt ourselves to varieties of 
situation and find something to enjoy in all. Aunty is much 
better, and I think there is a good chance for her recovery, 
at least to as good a state of health as she was in before this 
illness. I feel little evil in the contrast, great as it is to 
myself, except a slight cold, which the very sudden change 
in the weather, from warm and damp to excessive cold, 
has brought me. The fields to-day are covered with snow, 
the first time I have seen them so in this country, and it 
looked ^o homeish, and so much like your happy home 
the last time I saw it, that I have been enjoying the sight 
highly to-day, while every one beside was looking blank at 
it I am in one respect more comfortable than when I was 



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8CENB8 OF SUFFERING. . 161 

here before, for I have one companion. The * little doc- 
tor ^ has his only sister to keep his house, and she has 
already made herself most important and agreeable to me ; 
she has only been here a week, and being as much a 
stranger as myself, we have some feelings in common. 
She is a very lovely little creature, twenty-one only in 
years, but older in experience. Her manner is suited to 
tne style of her face, — gentle, winning, and at the same time 
indicating cultivation and elegance of mind. Without the 
slightest shade of affectation or consciousness of beauty, 
she not only gives me a new study of character, but is a 
most convenient and pleasant associate ; living in the next 
house but one, I can call upon her at any moment. Some- 
thing always comes to me in all situations to prove to me 
the care which is taken even of the most insignificant ; and 
surely the whole of my experience in this place has been 
but a continued lesson of it. Indeed, I certainly have great 
cause of thankfulness, for that only dark pass£tge in my 
progress since I lefl home, trying as it was, was full of ad- 
monition. It showed me a part of the great plan of crea- 
tion of which I knew little or nothing before, a class of 
beings whose characters, duties, motives, and views I had 
never before understood ; and above all, it showed me how 
perfectly the various links in th^ great chain of existences 
are adapted to aid, and strengthen, and apply to each other, 
adding another to the many proofs of the Supreme Wisdom 
which formed and governs all. 

" The only remnant of my poor cousin Bessy's family 
is a boy of just William's age ; he was ill at the time his 
mother died, and became my immediate charge until his 
brother was taken sick, and grew so fond of me that it was 
long before even his aunt, whom he had been used to see- 
ing, could make him content to be separated from me. He 
is a very engaging child, bright, and of a noble disposition 
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16!t SCENES OT StTPPERING. 

and temper. The similarity of our situations was enough 
to make me feel more than common tenderness for him, 
his dependence upon me increased it, and his strong at- 
tachment to me completed it. I think I never felt so much 
for a little creature before, and were it not for the great 
distance I should have to take him, I never would leave 
him behind. I thought he would have broken his little 
heart when I drove away, and when I came back his 
ecstasy was really affecting ; he ran round me, jumped up 
in my lap, stroked and, kissed my face, as if he could not 
trust to the evidence of one sense, and at last burst out a 
crying, * Uncle Mady wont go away again ; Uncle Mady 
live with Jamie every day, wont you. Uncle Mady ? * He 
had always a trick of calling me * Uncle.* Do not think 
I am made melancholy by all this. I have no recollection 
of ever having the same degree of good spirits as I have 
been blessed with for the last six months, — I may say nine ; 
and save my longing for home, I have had no cause to wish 
any one thing relating to me different from what it has 
been. God grant that I may not be tempted to great pre- 
sumption ! I hope my wishes are humble, though my con- 
fidence may be great. 

*' May God be with you, my dear friend, and guide and 
guard, and bless you, through the year on which we have 
now entered, and for ever, — is the earnest prayer of your 

sincere 

" Mary." 

But with all her cheerfulness, and self-forgetting, 
heroic courage, Mary was not proof against danger 
and disease. It is well for us to learn that the laws 
of nature are not suspended nor diverted from their 
course, even by the strongest faith, or for the sake of 
the most noble and useful laborer. Such a laborer 



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«c»Nfis OF iiUFnftm#. 163 

there was here ; but it was hardly to be expected that 
she would pass unharmed, the second time, through 
such exposure, fatigue, and painful anxiety. If the 
transition was great, at first, from that barren and 
comfortless place to the luxuries of Penrith, the 
change back again must have been peculiarly trying. 
She speaks of the difference between the two places 
as equal to that between the most sumptuous dwell- 
ing in Boston and the farm-house at Brush Hill. 
Nay, the contrast there was yet greater; for the 
common cottages in Yorkshire had no floors for the 
first story, except of clay and sand. Such was the 
bouse in which all that previous sickness and death 
bad occurred, and in which the nurse and servant of 
all now found herself again. Sending away to an- 
other house the melancholy and moaning young 
man, and fixing up a bed for herself in a corner of 
her aunt's small room, she endeavored to keep her^ 
self from the night air, particularly as the weather, 
after a long course of warm rains, became intensely 
cold. But in vain did she shun exposure. There 
was work to be done out of doors as well as in, and 
no one but herself to do it. A sudden and severe 
cramp seized her, and she at last fell upon the floor, 
when alone in the night, and there lay a long time, 
utterly helpless, striving to make her groans heard 
by some one in or out of the house. This left her 
in a state of extreme debility, from which nothing 
could for a long time raise her. She would make it 
appear a light matter when it was over, but it is 
evident^ from her own expressions and other factS) 
that she was in great danger. 



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164 8CBNBS OF 8UFFBRIN0> 

^ «*PMnjrt, F^brmry 10, 18M. 
^^ Mt dear Emma : — 

^^ Your last letter was a cordial to me, and came at a 
time when I greatly needed it ; for I was actually sufiering 
under all the evil which you were fearing for me when you 
wrote it, — confined to the chamber of that little cottage 
which I have described to you, weak and languid, the mere 
shadow of what I was when I parted from you. But for the 
cause and effect of my last visit to Osmotherly I must refer 

you to my letters to N. C. P. and Mrs. B ; you know I 

cannot bear to tell the same tale twice, more especially if 
it be a melancholy tale. 

*^ But do not imagine me to have been in a very forlorn 
and disconsolate predicament, for I had many blessings to 
rejoice in all the while. The sun shone brightly all the 
day full upon the windows of our comfortable, neat apart- 
ment, furnished with what, in her former prosperous days, 
had been the furniture of the ^ spare chamber ' (the mu* 
seum of precious articles, you know) of Aunty's ^ bien 
house'; Aunty sitting by the fire in her easy chair, her 
bright eyes glistening with the exhilaration of returning 
health ; and my ladyship lying on the bed, thin and pale 
enough I grant, but in as high glee as strength would per- 
mit, and not for one minute depressed ; if any change came, 
it was for the better, and my nurses remarked that my 
worst days were my gayest ones. Then I had two visits 
each day from the ' little doctor,' the very essence of good- 
humor and cheerfulness, and as I had in reality but little 
pain, I could manage to enjoy a good deal. Besides, I had 
the comfort of a female companion, with whom I could as- 
sociate with something like equality of feeling. This 
was the sister of the ^ little doctor,' who had just come to 
Osmotherly to keep house for him. My dear little Jemmy, 
too, was a source of great amusement and delight to me ; 



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SCENES OP SUFFERING^ 165 

he had improved even in the short time I had heen from 
him, and showed some new and interesting trait every time 
I saw him. I left all behind me, however, on the 30th of 
January, not without many regrets as you may believe, for 
I felt it was now certainly for ever ; and na one can part 
from those who have been kind to the utmost of their 
power, however small that power may be, without sad feel- 
ings. This is certainly a great drawback upon the pleasuro 
one takes in travelling, and I sometimes think, when the 
time comes that I must do the same to all I have known 
here, I shall wish I had never come. But I do not like to 
think of it. 

*^ I am indeed much better than I could have dared to 
hope, but I always gain fast if at all, and this week of eat* 
ing has made a great change in me. I cannot tell you how 
I rejoice at this, for I began to be heartily tired of my 
fictitious character ; I did not realize my identity when 
toddling about, catching hold of chairs and tables like a 
child just going alone, as I did last week ; I longed to shake 
myself of the encumbrance, or that the scene would drop, 
and let me scamper away, Mary Pickard again. 

'^ I am glad you have seen this house, for it will aid your 
imagination a little ; but you can scarcely conceive of the 
appearance of comfort which pervades this room as it is 
now arranged. The gentlemen have all deserted us, and 
just now Aunty George, Selina,and I are seated in true spin- 
ster style round a large fire in the drawing-room up stairs, 
(which by the way was any thing but comfortable when 
you saw it,) Aunty at full length upon the sofa reading on 
one side, Selina on the other writing, and I in the front 
doing the same, at the Same table with her. Around us 
are arranged, in the most convenient places, piano, flowers, 
tables covered with books, writing-desks, &c., ottomans 
ditto, all sorts of comfortable chaun, — easy, rocking, dz^c. ; 



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166 SCENES OF SUFFERING. 

in the corners, shelves with collections of shells, minerals, 
and other odd things, to say nothing of the living orna- 
ments. It is the very picture of comfort, and I could tell 
you of certain sensual luxuries which make their appear- 
ance upon the centre- table, some three, four, five, or perhaps 
six times a day, now that I am prohibited from descending 
to the dining-room ; but that would destroy the intellectual 
charm which must hang round the image of Aunty George. 
Mrs. McAdara writes me that she received your letter, and 
really begins to imagine herself a ^ monstrously agreeable 
woman.^ You must have given her a good dose, I think. 
She has been in a fine taking about this illness of mine, but 
is cooling a little, now she finds I am not satisfied with less 
than four meals per day. How shamefully I have treated 
Emma^s kind letter ; but there is no end to my wickedness 
of this sort. I must not begin with confessions, but end 
them by confessing myself very tired, and ever your sin- 
cere friend, 

« M. L. P.'* 

** Erdington, near Birmingham^ MoarcH 3, 1826. 
" My dear Cousin : — 

^^I have continued to gain strength daily since I last 
wrote. Miss McAdam passed a week in Liverpool, during 
which time Selina and I kept house at Ck)ckel ; and afler 
passing my last few days there in the most delightful man- 
ner, with all the good inmates, I led them on the 26th. 
Mr. McAdam kindly insisted on coming by the way of 
Erdington, that I might not be obliged to travel all the 
way alone. We found a great change on this side the 
hills of Westmoreland ; the grass is green, and every thing 
putting forth, the lambs bleating and the birds singing as 
if it were May. 

" I had given Mr. B— notice of my intea- 



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SCENBS OF SXrFFBRINO. 167 

tion to come to him at this time, and found him looking out 
for me even at the gate, with characteristic impatience, on 
Tuesday about noon, and not a little delighted to see me 
at last You know how strongly attached he was to my 
&ther and mother, and indeed to the whole family; his 
enthusiastic feelings have fully retained the remembrance 
of what he enjoyed with them, and any one who be- 
longed to them would have been most welcome to him. 
Besides this, he used to pet me, and took a great deal of 
pains to teach me, and I thought the little body would have 
lost his wits when he saw me ; he is a kind-hearted manf 
and with all his peculiarities one cannot but respect and 
love him. You may remember what a little oddity he was 
in appearance when he was in Boston, and I assure you 
increasing years have not at all lessened his peculiarity. 
His face is not, I think, altered in the least ; his hair is still 
a bright brown, cut as short as scissors can do it, upon which 
he usually mounts a small sailor's wove hat, from beneath 
the narrow rim of which his little bright, gray eyes twinkle 
in a most animated manner. His common dress is a pep- 
per-and-salt frock-coat, which has been apparently in the 
service many long years, the waist of which just divides 
his height, coming down to the chair when he sits; a 
straight, long waistcoat of the same materials, and a col* 
ored neckerchief tied as tightly as possible round his little 
neck ; breeches of purple-corded velvet, fastened at the 
knee with a little steel buckle, white worsted stockings, and 
a pair of what have been long leather gaiters, pushed down 
over the ankles d la negligie. Fancy this little odd figure 
moving about as briskly as if he were a boy just loose from 
school, the vivacity of his manner and looks corresponding 
exactly with the quickness of his motions, and you have 

my little friend Mr. B . You would think all this must 

be ludicrous, but it is not. There is so much good sense 



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168 .8CBNB8 OP «UFFERIN«. 

and kind feeling about him, and so much real benevolause 
in his manner towards every one, that all his peculiarity is 
forgotten in a very short time. He is one of the most in- 
telligent, entertaining men I ever met with, and certainly 
one of the most warm-hearted. He has passed a very un- 
settled life since he led America, and is now living in a 
poor cottage, quite out of the viray of all society, with no 
amusement but his little garden, which he cultivates entire- 
ly himself, and a fine library of most valuable books. This 
is quite enough for him, and he seems as happy and con- 
tented as possible, because he is independent His sanC" 
turn is more like grandpa^s than any I ever saw; he 
reminds me of him in many things, and we have talked 
over old times until I have fancied myself young again. 

^' You may form some idea of my strength, when I tell 
you I was yesterday tempted by the pleasure of my own 
company to a walk of eight miles, and did not suspect I 
had done half of it I have indeed recovered my strength 
rapidly, and do not care about the flesh. I believe I am as 
well as I ever was, and should forget that I had been ill, 
were it not for certain feelings of inefficiency and reluc- 
tance to move, — the consequence of the indulgences I 
have had, I presume. I have indeed had enough to make 
a spoiled child of me, had I not been one before. It is no 
light burden upon my mind, that I can do nothing to show 
my gratitude^ for all the kindness I have received here. I 
do begin to dread parting for ever from all these good 
friends ; but do not think that any thing can efiace the re- 
membrance of what I owe my dearest friends at home. 

" Mabt." 

** London, May 26, 1826. 
" My dear Mas. Barnabd : — 
*^ Mr. Bond had a letter yesterday from Mrs. B. of AprU 



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0CBNB8 OF SUFFERINO^ 169 

21st, in which she says you had heard of my Olness at 
Osmotherly. I am glad to remember that you would at 
the same time hear of my entire recovery, and I hope be- 
fore this you have received other letters to tell you how 
complete was that recovery. It is indeed overpowering to 
me, when I look back upon the events which have taken 
place since I came to England. How many and great have ' 
been the blessings which have attended me ! 

«' I staid here with Mrs. Bates from the 4th to the 3(hh 
of April, seeing and doing very diligently, and, with Mr. 
Paine^s assistance, examining many of the wonders and 
curiosities of this great place, which I had not before seen. 
I then went to Chatham to make my farewell visit to my 
cousin, Mrs. Stokes, intending to stay only a fortnight ; for 
I did not then know at what time precisely Mr. Palfrey in- 
tended to embark for home, and was making my arrange- 
ments to be ready the latter part of June at the farthest. I 
was not, however, able to return at the time I intended, for 
I was attacked very violently with spasms from being very 
bilious, and the heavy doses administered by the physician 
kept me housed for more than a week. I returned to town 
on Monday last, the 22d, and came again to Mrs. Bates, 
as she begged me to make her house my home in London, 
as long as I staid. I was very much wearied with the 
journey, and Mr. Palfrey and Mr. Bond, who came in soon 
after, thought I must be ill, and may say so, but I assure 
you I am not. I gain strength very fast, and, as a proof of 
it, I was nearly seven hours on my feet yesterday, without 
food, and not fatigued by it. I shall stay here only just 
long enough to see the friends I have about London, and 
pack up my duds for the voyage, and then go to Ash and 
Uncle Ben for a few days, and thence to Burcombb to stay 
as long as I can. 

" I feel now that my work here is finished, (that is, all 
15 



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170 SCENES OF SUFFERING. 

the most important part, — I could find enough to do were I 
to stay ever so long,) and I assure you I should feel most 
impatient of delay beyond the time appointed. Mr. Bond 
brought me Mr. Channing^s Review ^row himself; you may 
believe I was not a little pleased that he should think of me. 
I beg you will thank him for me. How I shall enjoy hear- 
ing him, if such a blessing is in store for me ! Love to 
you and the household. 

"M. L. P." 

During the progress of events recorded in these 
different letters, covering the space of a whole winter, 
we can imagine that some anxiety was felt by friends 
on both sides of the water. Communication with re- 
mote towns and obscure hamlets, even in England, 
was not frequent or easy ; and across the ocean we 
all know how different was the correspondence then 
and now. Accordingly, we find the deepest solici- 
tude expressed, and painful suspense, in both lands. 
The manner in which the English friends write 
shows the extent of Mary's danger, as well as the 
amount of her services and their exalted and tender 
estimate of her worth. We are not in possession of 
as many letters from England, relating to any pe- 
riod, as we have wished to obtain ; and the few we 
have we hesitate to use freely, because of their allu- 
sions to domestic incidents and persons who may be 
still living. But abundant is the testimony, if we 
need it, to their appreciation of Mary's character, 
warm and enthusiastic their love and admiration. 
A few sentences we take from the letters of Mrs, 
Mc Adam, the ' Aunt Jane ' so often named, to a 
friend here. 



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SCENES OF SUFFERING. 171 

Octoher^ 1825. " I have a letter this morning from our 
blessed Mary, dated the 3d of October. She has laid her 
poor cousin in the grave, after a fortnight's illness, during 
which time she appears to have been her sole nurse. I dread 
she is doing far more than she can bear. The younger of the 
two boys left is taken ill, and she talks of taking him home 
to nurse him ; but I shall by this post write Miss McAdam 
to send for her and insist on her removal. Her life is of 
so much more consequence than any which are now left, 
that I can no longer hesitate. You, who love her as well 
as I do, can imagine my uneasiness. Best assured, how- 
ever, that I will keep you informed of every thing. When 
she wrote, she said she had so much to do she could not 
write home, and begged me to write. Now, my dear 
friend, all we have to do is to rely on that God who orders 
all things for the best, and to whom I constantly and ar- 
dently pray that He would spare and reward our and His 
own Mary, to guide more of us to Him ; and I feel com- 
forted when I rely with confidence on His love and wisdom. 
She is such a blessing, that I would fain hope the rest of 
jny days may be influenced by her." 

From the same : — 

November^ 1825. " Since I last wrote you, my dear 
Emma, I have had various accounts from our incomparable 
Mary. I feel much anxiety on her account, for which I 
have been frequently reproved by her, whose higher feel- 
ings and better regulated judgment give her such wonder- 
ful advantage over me, and so constantly produce in her 
the tranquil security of inward peace. She is so excellent, 
and so truly set in the midst of difficulties, that it sometimes 
appears to me as if she had been graciously lent to us for 
our guide to that heaven which we all pretend to seek. 
When she wrote, she was perfectly well ; but though our 



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172 SCENES OF SUFFERING. 

friends went for her, she would not leave for several days, 
lest she should take the disease with her to Penrith. I dare 
not say I wish she were removed, for all is assuredly for 
the best, however it may appear to our imperfect minds. 
I feel confident she is the peculiar care of the God she 
loves and serves ; but when she gets to Penrith, I know I 
shall be almost too happy. Her mind has taken such com- 
plete possession of my affections, that I appear to myself a 
new creature ; I have totally changed since I became actu- 
ally acquainted with her Our correspondence 

will not drop here, I hope ; and I may at some future pe- 
riod give you a faint idea of the interest she has excited 
for every thing that lives and breathes her atmosphere.^' 

From the letters written in America at this time, 
to Mary or her friends in England, many touching 
passages might be borrowed. How much is con- 
veyed in a single fact communicated to her, at the 
moment of the greatest anxiety! "With all their 
desire for your return, nobody murmurs ; every body 
says it is much better for you to stay. And Mrs. Bar- 
nard says, when she expressed her sorrow about it to 
Dr. Channing, he gave her for the only time in his 
life almost an angry look ! " The writer of this pas- 
sage, when at last assured of Mary's perfect safety 
after all her labors and perils, sent her such a full, 
hearty outpouring of joy and love, that we must be 
pardoned for citing a part of it, as showing the 
depth of the interest she awakened and the affection 
she secured. 

" My dearest lite Mary : — 
*' The pleasure and gratitude I feel in the confidence I 
now have that 1 am writing to an inhabitant of this world, 



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8GRNE8 OP SUFFERING. 173 

you can scarcely imagine. The dread I felt about your 
fate weighed upon me so heavily, in spite of all the reason- 
ing and hope about which I sedulously employed myself, 
that it was a great effort to write ; and I fear our letters of 
late have not served to animate you. I shall not enter 
upon the long history of my anxiety, which was inwardly 
greater than any body^s, I believe, because I knew more 
about it. I will only tell you, that a question about you was 
sure to damp the best spirits I could be in ; and if people I 
visited undertook to talk about you, it was a signal for my 
call to terminate. At one time, I determined not to go to 
town till I heard from you, but was induced to alter my 
plans, and did go and pass a month, doing all I could to be 
at ease, and acting just as if I knew you were safe ; — how 
you want to scold me for using that word ! as if you could 
be any thing but safe in the hands of your God, and when 

you were serving him to the utmost of your power. 

On Monday night, the 13th of this month, M , E 

B , and I found our way to Milton Hill in the * even- 
ing coach.' The next day, that most valued of couriers, 
the milkman, brought us a bundle from Pearl Street ; two 
letters fell out on opening it, — one from Exeter, the other 

from the Sandwich Isles, — a long one from B , which 

I employed all the daylight in reading. Would you believe 
me so insatiable, when one such blessing as hearing from 
that distant spot of earth had been allowed ? I was not 
yet satisfied, although we had left town but the day be* 
fore ; presentiment drove me to the pile of clean clothes 
on the floor, when my hand made its way through the chaos 
to a letter ! Mother says it was the sense 6f feeling that 
discovered it to be yours, for the room was quite dark. I 
needed but half *a glimmer of fire-light to show me the char- 
• acters I had so longed and prayed to see once more. I 
screeched, ' Mary Pickard ! ' and flew to the kitchen fire to 
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174 8CENE8 OP SUFFERING. 

assure myself still farther ; and never, dearest Mary, did I 
feel a warmer flood of joy and gratitude than when ^ Pen- 
rith, 8th December,' convinced me you were alive and 
well, and in just the hands you ought to be ! And when I 
came to know, too, that my fears had not been unfounded, 
that you had so narrowly escaped, had passed through such 
trying scenes, and done more, much more, than almost any 
body ever did before, I was too happy ! Though you don't 
tell me so, I know under such circumstances what efforts 
you made. But you have earned the privilege of being an 
instrument, in the hands of the All-powerful, of good to 
every human being you come in contact with. And when 
I knew this, why did I feel ao forlornly whenever I thought 
of you in that remote place, alone,''and exposed to fatigue 
and illness ? If it had been you, how much higher views 
would you have taken ! 

" Emma." 

So ended the visit to England. How unlike most 
visits there ! It is not often that two years are spent 
abroad chiefly in confinement with the sick and 
devotion to the dying. We wonder not that Mary 
Pickard thought that such employment was her 
" destiny." More appropriate does the word seem 
than the common term, " mission " ; for that ex- 
presses too much of design and consciousness to be 
associated with her. She projected no large plans, 
or distant enterprises. She simply held herself ready 
for the work to which she might be summoned, 
abroad as well as at home, and with an ambition 
as easily satisfied at home as abroad. All her min- 
istrations might seem to have been accidental, if 
any thing were accidental; — the occasions sought 
her, more than they were sought by her. Yet in 



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SCENES OF SUFFERING. 175 

some way or other the occasions were sure to ap- 
pear, and eqaally sure to be used. Nor were her 
charities merely those of the hand, or of time and 
toil alone. There was benevolence, as well as dili« 
gence. No one knew, no one will ever know, the 
amount of her direct gifts at Osmotherly. But we 
know, from various sources, that they were free and 
large. And by no means were they restricted to her 
kindred. There is reason to believe that the whole 
village shared her bounty ; in moderate measure, 
of necessity, but in decided liberality. From the 
nature and power of the disorder, a general panic 
prevailed, aggravated by ignorance and superstition, 
and followed by improvidence and want. We have, 
seen the statement, that a large proportion of the 
inhabitants either perished or became helpless and a 
burden. And when the suiferings of her own con* 
nections ceased, by death or recovery, Mary went 
out to do what she could among the diseased and 
destitute generally. She toiled till the alarm abated, 
and aimed particularly to remove from the minds 
and dwellings of the people those fruitful feeders, if 
not sources, of the calamity, — superstition and un- 
cleanness. Is it too much to believe, that Osmoth- 
erly wDl always feel the blessing of that Providence 
which sent there the " good lady " ? 

It was a beautiful termination of her whole experi- 
ence among that people, — whose very dialect differed 
so much from hers, that they could scarcely under- 
stand her words, but easily read her actions, — that, 
when she recovered her own strength sufficiently to 
take a final leave of them, the whole village came out 
in a body, young and old, and escorted her on her way. 



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VIII. 

NEW RELATIONS. 

Mary Pickard returned from England in the 
summer of 1826, and was warmly welcomed by her 
many friends in Boston. Her last home before go- 
ing abroad had been at Miss Bent's in Washington 
Street, where she now went, and stayed through the 
fall and winter with the exception of short visits to 
friends in the vicinity. Thronged with visitors, and 
occupied with business of her own which she never 
left to others if she could do it herself, she had no 
time for large correspondence, and we find few let- 
ters for some months. But there are brief notes 
which show the fulness of her enjoyment and grati- 
tude, enhanced by the recollection of the trying 
scenes through which she had passed, but which 
she rarely named and never magnified, as we are 
assured by some "who were constantly with her. 
The mercies of the past, more than the trials, filled 
her thoughts. " My whole absence has been but a 
succession of mercies, for which I could not in a 
long life show the gratitude I feel ; and this the 
greatest of all, the safe restoration to my beloved 
home and blessed friends, — it is indeed overwhelm- 
ing. I have been borne through afflictive trials by 
that Power which alone can enable us to bear them ; 



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NEW RELATIONS. 177 

may I also find the same strength sufficient to keep 
me firm and uninjured, amid the greater trial of pros- 
perity and joy.'^ This was said to one of her former 
instructors in Hingham, with whom she spent a week 
in November, reviving the memory of the "first 
awaking of the mind to high and holy thoughts and 
resolves." 

To the trial of prosperity of which she speaks, she 
may have been exposed at this time, if at any. She 
had returned after a long absence, in which she had 
accomplished all that she proposed, and more than 
to most minds would have seemed possible. She 
was again in the midst of endeared and delighted 
fiiends, more firee from care and solicitude for others 
than she had ever been before ; her society sought by 
a larger circle of devoted and admiring acquaintance, 
paying her marked attention. There was every 
thing to gratify, and much to flatter. And she was 
happy, very happy, — "more lively and joyous, I 
think, than at any time of her life," writes an inti- 
mate friend. But she did not remain long unem- 
ployed, or live for herself. She sought other objects 
of interest, places and ways of laboring for those in 
need. She took classes of poor children in more than 
one Sunday school, and visited the houses of the poor 
during the week ; of several families in Sea Street 
she is said to have taken particular care through 
that first season, though a season crowded with en- 
gagements of friendship and society, and occupied 
before its close with an unexpected and absorbing 
interest. 

The last night of the year, Mary made one of that 



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178 NEW RELATIONS. 

great congregation who listened to that discourse 
of Henry Ware on the " Duty of Improvement," 
which few who heard have forgotten, and of which 
one hearer has said, "No words from mortal lips 
ever affected me like those," We may conceive 
the emotions with which they were heard by her, in 
whose mind religious concerns were always para- 
momit, and who already, as we have reason to be- 
lieve, was compelled to feel a personal interest in 
the preacher. For we now approach that event 
which is considered the crisis of a woman's life, and 
which was certainly to change the whole aspect of 
a life that was felt to be peculiarly insulated. But 
we may be anticipating. No engagement yet exist** 
ed, and in the letter written after the services of the 
" last night " to one who was never forgotten on that 
occasion, there is no allusion to new events, unless 
in the close. 

*" Boston, December 31, 1826. 

" Were I by your side, dearest N , I might be able 

to satisfy myself by talking ; but when I think of commit- 
ting to * paper what I wish to say to you, I am almost dis- 
couraged, and have a great mind to give up the attempt. 
I do verily believe I should for once play truant, and shut 
up my desk, did I not fear, should I do so, that the ghost of 
the departing year would start up in visible form before 
me and pronounce a fearful malediction upon me for my 
apostasy. Indeed, so wedded am I to old customs, and 
really superstitious about the fulfilment of certain vows, 
that I should not dare to hope for peace or prosperity for 
the year to come, if I allowed myself to yield to the 
ti^mpter. 



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NEW RELATIONS. 179 

** When I look back only upon the past month, I feel as 
if it were the work of an age to give you any idea of its 
interest ; and when the year, nay, years, of which I wish 
to speak come in array before my mind's eye, it is not 
strange that I know not how to begin, or how to confine 
myself to the limits of a sheet of paper. You know, how* 
ever, enough of the circumstances of the past year to 
understand something of the feelings which this period has 
brought with it. Perhaps I am inclined to exaggerate the 
peculiarity of the events of my life, which, after all, may 
have been no more exciting than every body meets with ; 
but be that as it may, there can be no harm in magnifying 
the blessings. And as there is more hope of attaining a 
high degree of excellence, if our standard of comparison 
be high (even if it be beyond our reach), so I will hope 
that the more enlarged is our estimate of our subjects for 
gratitude, the more deep and heartfelt will our gratitude be. 
It does se^m to me, that no being can have more for which 
to give thanks, than I have in past and present blessings ; 
and that no one can fall as far short as I do of the effect 
that should follow such a belief. 

^^ I have been reading the letter I was writing you at this 
time last year, and it does make me tremble to the very 
soul, when I contrast my situation now with what it then 
was, to think how much is required of one, who has been 
saved from such peril, and brought back to so much good. 
But it is in vain to attempt to tell you what I think or feel 
at this hour. One idea above all the rest will rise, and this 
you will join me in, — that the proofs which the experience 
of the past year gives of the never-ceasing, all-sufficient 
care of God should make us look forward with perfect 
trust to whatever the future may bring, without a doubt 
that all will be well that He directs, — that ou? weakness 
will be strengthened, our fear removed, and our spirits sus- 



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180 NE^y BBLATION8. 

tained and soothed under all trials, if we will but rest in 
faith upon his almighty arm. I have felt this so much, that 
I had begun to be presumptuous, and almost thought that 
no possible temptation could make me doubt its sufficiency. 
But I dare not hope so much. I find there are temptations 
of which I have hitherto known nothing, and under the in- 
fluence of which I may have to learn a new lesson. It is 
said of Bishop Sewell, who once most strangely departed 
from his faith, that his fall was necessary to teach him hu- 
mility, and improve his character. Perhaps it may be so 
with me. If I do fall, I hope it may have the same good 
effect. 

** I have wished to-day, as I often do, that you could have 
an ear where mine was. Mr. Channing gave us a most 
useful sermon this morning upon the office of Christ, from 
the words, 'I am the way, the truth, and the life.' Mr. 
Gannett this afternoon upon the retrospect of the past, — 
good and solemn. And this eve, notwithstanding the vio- 
lence of the snow-storm, Mr. Ware's house has been filled 
to overflowing, to hear his usual address. It was one of 
the most eloquent and impressive I ever heard from him ; 
a powerful exhortation on the necessity of Progress, deliv- 
ered with an energy which gave it great effect. I have 
heard but one of those discourses before this, but I should 
think it a most profitable service. The occasion is certain- 
ly one by which all who are capable of feeling seriously 
must be solemnly impressed ; and the great interest which 
is generally felt in Mr. Ware gives him the power of mak- 
ing a good use of such a predisposition. And now that it 
is possible that he may accept the call to New t'ork, his 
influence is greater than ever. 

'^ I have passed a quiet, delightful week at Hingham, 

made my long talked of visit to Mrs. P , and returned 

on Christmas day to be quiet at home (if possible) until I 



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NEW RELATIONS. 181 

go to yoQ ; and yet I ought to be stationary for a time for 
business^ sake. I need not tell you how much you have 
been in my thoughts during the past week, so strongly are 
all the singular events which have taken place in it asso- 
ciated with you. It has not been suffered to pass without 
its own special interest ; to me it has indeed been full. 

'* Most heartily yours, with best wishes for the coming 
year. 

«M. L. P." 

The year 1827 opened upon Mary differently from 
any previous year of her life. Its first month was to 
witness the consummation of a purpose, which could 
not be lightly regarded by a mind like hers. Strange 
that it can be by any! Yet we have such reason to 
fear it, that we deem it a sufficient apology, if any 
be needed, for disclosing her own thoughts at this 
time more fully than might otherwise seem right. 
Sure we are of her permission, whose conversations 
on the forming of a connection so often made the 
subject of trivial jesting were as free as they were 
serious. By nothing earthly is the social or moral 
community more deeply affected than by the preva- 
lent views of Marriage, and the feelings with which 
its momentous obligations are assumed. And when 
there are revealed to us by death, under that seal of 
sacredness which deepens our conviction of their 
sincerity, such sentiments as those which Mary Pick- 
ard brought to this relation, our view of duty, and 
even of delicacy, moves us to impart rather than 
withhold them. Not that we suppose them pecu- 
Uar to her, or that she has given them any remark- 
aWe expression. They may be common to every 
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182 NEW RELATIONS. 

right and earnest mind. Bat various considerations 
prevent tjjeir being publicly presented with that per- 
sonal reality which adds so much to their power. 
Thankful would all be, and none more than those 
perfected spirits of which we now speak, if the young 
and the mature would take exalted and sober views 
of the holiest and happiest relation in life. 

Mary's views were expressed to her two most in- 
timate female friends, th.e same night; to one in a 
abort note, to the other more at length. 

^^ January 30, 1827. Dearest Emma, I am not willing 
that any other than my own pen should communicate to 
you the events of this day. I would not that you should 
think it possible for me, under any circumstances, so far to 
lose my identity as to be unmindful of the feelings of one 
whom I so love ; and though it requires some effort, I will 
do the thing with my own hand. Know, then, dear E., 
that a change has passed over the spirit of my earthly 
dreams, and, instead of the self-dependent, self-govemed 
being you have known me, I have learned to look to an- 
other for guidance and happiness; and, more than that, 
have bound myself, by an irrevocable vow, to live for the 
future in the exercise of the great and responsible duties 

which such a connection inevitably brings with it 

You need no explanation, nor have I time to give any ; it 
would require one of our long nights to trace the rise and 
progress of the influences that have thus terminated. At 
present, the idea of the change I am making is so solemn, 
so appalling, that my faculties are almost paralyzed. 

" Bo8to% January 30, 1827. 
" My dear N : 

*^ I have been sitting with this sheet before me for the 



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NEW RELATIONS. 183 

iast half-hour, trying to find out in what way to begin the 
long and eventful story which I wish to convey to your 
mind as clearly as I see it in my own. I am in truth 
hardly able to write at all, from absolute exhaustion of body 
and mind, and therefore am driven to the necessity of 
beginning at the end of the chapter, lest I should not have 
time to tell the whole. Will it be an entire surprise to you • 
to hear that this day has been to me the most important of 
my whole life, the turning-point of existence, the witness 
of my solemn and irrevocable promise to unite for the fu- 
ture my fate with that being, who, when we last met, I 
thought was doomed to be a stranger to me for ever ? It 
seems, indeed, like a dream, and yet it is true, dreadfully 
true, that I have taken upon myself great and unknown 
duties for which I feel incompetent, — true that I have 
gained the best blessing life can give. 

*' You need no explanation to teach you the progress of 
this in my own mind, for you know me well enough to. 
read it without book, and you may easily imagine how I 
feel at such a crisis. O, it is solemn, it is awful, thus to 
bind one's self for life ! and yet I am conscious my whole 
heart is with the act, and my happiness intimately depend- 
ent upon it. This feeling of distrust and fearfulness will 
soon pass away.- I have not been used to its interference 
in any case where I have known it was my dviy to act'; it 
is only when we seem to have the direction of events in 
our own hands, that the feeling of doubt as to what is duty 
weakens our confidence in our success. You will say, 
feeling must be the guide ; and so it must so far as this, 
that we may be sure that that path is not the right one to 
which it does not impel ; but there is danger of its tempting 
to the wrong one notwithstanding, and it cannot be safe 
unhesitatingly to follow its impulses. 

" Mr. Ware goes to New York on Thursday, for four 



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184 NEW RELATIONS. 

weeks, to preach ; he will, I suppose, return by the way of 
Northampton, and I hope you will not object to a visit from 
him on the way. But I must put an end to this. I am in 
truth unable to write more. 

" Yours most truly, 

" M. L. P." 

The relation thus viewed by a Christian woman 
has often one aspect, as in the present instance, 
which is thought more delicate and unapproachable 
than any other. Mary was to take the place, not 
only of a wife, but of a " step-mother," — a name 
that should be redeemed from the inconsiderate and 
unjust odium to which it is commonly subjected* 
Why should that odium attach to this, more than to 
all unfaithful use of the conjugal relation ? Does not 
this, the more difficult office, exhibit proportionably as 
many noble wives and true mothers as the other? 
According to the difficulty and the delicacy, is the 
greatness of the trust and the merit of fidelity. Let 
honor be rendered where honor is due ; and let no 
vulgar prejudice or unkind prediction hide a beauty 
and excellence of woman that are less rare than may 
be supposed. 

In aid of these thoughts, as well as in illustration 
of the character we are delineating, we are glad to 
be allowed to quote from two letters of Henry Ware 
himself; the first bearing the same date as Mary's 
just given, the other written after a more intimate 
acquaintance. They are both addressed to bis sistar 
at Northampton, to whom he had confided the care 
of his children while they were without a mother. 
The mother whom they had lost three years before 



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NEW RELATIONS. 185 

had left a void not easily filled. A woman of more 
than common qualities and powers, doomed for 
several years to more than ordinary suffering from 
an insidious and fatal disease, she had still given 
much time to the parish, and discharged to the last 
the duties of a wife and mother, with a fidelity and 
affection whose loss was very grievous, and was felt 
more and more by Mr. Ware from the necessity of 
separation from his children, and their own growing 
years and needs. We can understand, therefore, the 
feelings with which he formed another connection, 
and made it known to one who was now to resign 
her chsurge to other hands. 

^ Boston f January 30, 1827. 
" Dear Sister : — 

" There is no one who will have more sincere and hearty 
pleasure in the tidings I am going to communicate than 
you, or from whom I shall receive more sincere and affec- 
tionate congratulations. I therefore lose not a moment in 
telling you that I am to build up again my family hearth, 
and bring my children to their father's side, and have a 
home once more. With whom, I need not tell you. Provi- 
dence has thrown in my way one woman, whose character 
is all that man can ask, of a singular and exalted excel- 
lence. You know how admirable she is, and how well 
suited to fill the vacant place by my side. She consents to 
do it; and that I feel grateful and happy, a privileged 
man, you will not doubt Write me at New York. 

Love to you all. Affectionately, 

" Henry Warb, Jr." 

" Saturday Evening, MartA 3, 1827. 

" My dear Harriet : — 
" You will not be troubled, I hope, if I pour out from my 
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186 NEW RELATIONS; 

mind a little of the satisfaction which I f^el, and in which I 
am rejoicing more and more every day. Since my return, 
the congratulations of my friends have been absolutely 
overpowering; and from seeing more and more of Miss 
Pickard, I am made to feel more and more grateful for the 
kind providence which has led me to this result. You 
know all my feelings and views, and the process of my 
mind, and I shall therefore be understood by you as by 
nobody else. It is not a common feeling which fills me ; 
it is something peculiar, sacred, as if I had been under a 
supernatural guidance, and been made to act from pure 
and elevated and disinterested motives, for the purpose of 
accomplishing some great good. Every thing is connected 
with the memory of the past and with my former happiness, 
in such a way as not to sadden the present, but to give to it 
a singular spirituality, if I may so say ; and I feel that, if the 
departed know what is transacting here, my own Elizabeth 
would congratulate me as sincerely as any of my friends. 
I have sought for the best mother to her children, and the 
best I have found. I have desired a pattern and blessing for 
my parish, and I have found one. I have wished some one to 
bear my load with me, and to help, confirm, and strengthen 
my principle by her own high and experienced piety, and 
such I have found. All these things, meeting in one per- 
son, ■= — I might have looked for each alone, but where else 
are they to be all found in such excellent proportions united ? 
I surveyed them with cool judgment, and I shall by and by 
love them ardently. 

Dear Harriet, I must have somebody to pour out myself 
to; so bear the infliction charitably. Good by. Yours 
ever lovingly. 

" Henry." 

The character of Mary Pickard would not be 
drawn, bat one of her noblest traits be left oat of 



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NEW RELATIONS. 187 

view, if we failed to speak frankly of the fonner 
affection to which Mr. Ware refers, and the memory 
" of which she herself cherished, at first and always. 
She had no sympathy, and little respect, for that 
narrow view which insists that one affection must 
crowd out another; that the departed and the living 
cannot share the same pure love of the same true 
heart The happiness of husband and wife and 
household has sometimes been impaired by a mis- 
taken apprehension on this subject, and a suspicion 
of feelings in each other which had no real existence, 
or existed only from the want of mutual and free 
expression. We have even known cruel attempts 
made by others to prejudice the minds of those most 
concerned, and especially the children of a former 
mother. For such attempts, and all thoughts of the 
kind, we cannot repress our indignant reproof. No 
false delicacy should prevent the utterance of truth, 
where the best affections and dearest interests are 
involved. Instead of avoiding the subject, we are 
grateful for the opportunity which such characters as 
Henry and Mary Ware give us, of presenting the 
just, generous, and Christian view. One of her own 
children has said of her : " Perhaps no one thing in 
her character and conduct has oftener struck common 
minds with surprise, and superior ones with admira- 
tion, than this entire freedom and frankness in regard 
to the first wife ? < She was the nearest and dearest 
to hinty she would say, * how, then, can I do other- 
wise than love her and cherish her memory ? ' And 
her children she received as a precious legacy ; they 
were to her from the first moment like her own; 
neither she nor they knew any distinction." 



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188 NEW RELATIONS. 

We are pennitted to add one other letter of Henry 
Ware, beautifully illustrating the character of Mary, 
and showing his own large and holy view of this 
particular relation. It was addressed to Mrs. Wil- 
liam Ware, sister of that first wife the memory of 
whose excellence and love he so blended with the 
new affection. 

■'JfaylS, 1827. 
" My deae Makt : — 
^^ 1 believe that I have said to you, two or three times, 
how much 1 had calculated on your long visit, as a means 

of making you and Miss Pickard well acquainted 

And I am not sure that I should have said even as much as 
this, were it not for one circumstance, which has given me 
a satisfaction that 1 never had hoped to enjoy, and which 
will be increased by imparting it to you. I have known so 
much of the, selfishness of human love, and heard so much 
of the sensitiveness with which women are apt to regard a 
former affection, that 1 had not dared to hope that I ever 
should be able to speak as I feel of former days, and the 
memory of my earliest love. Yet, as I louged to cherish 
it, and as all my present plans and feelings are interwoven 
with the thoughts and images of the past, it would have 
been an exceeding pain to me to feel that there was any 
reserve, or any of that — I don't know what to call it — 
which would compel me to hide such feelings, and seem 
not to have them. I cannot tell you, then, how happy I 
have been in finding Miss Pickard entirely above all mean 
and selfish feelings, which I have supposed to be so com- 
mon. She enters into my views, and we have talked freely 
of other days ; and she helps to keep me right by speaking 
of the pleasant impressions she used to receive from Eliza- 
beth's character, and what she has heard of her. I wish I 



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NEW RELATIONS. - 189 

could go into particulars. So unexpected a communication 
between us has been a source of gratification to me un- 
speakably great ; and I do not know when I have felt more 
truly exalted and spiritualized, than when, after such a con- 
versation which has freed us from every selfish and earthly 
feeling, we have knelt down together and prayed for bless- 
ing from that world, where, I feel sure, if the departed re- 
gard those whom they left behind, there is no sorrow or 
displeasure at the course I am pursuing. I take pleasure 
in telling you this, because nothing can or shall divide me 
from you, or lessen that feeling in which I have so long 
regarded you as one of the nearest, the very nearest,, to me ; 
and I loDg that all who are near to me should be so to you. 
Best love to you, and all happiness with you and yours. 
Till I see you, adieu. 

" Yours, 

" Hewby." 

Immediately after her engagement., Mary visited 
her friend in Worcester; and from that place we 
find a very long letter, relating more to others than 
to herself, written in a cheerful mood, but showing 
how deep and sober had been her meditations on 
the change that was before her, of which she writes 
more fully in the first letter after her return to Boston. 

« Worcester, February 18, 1827. 
" Dear Emma : — 
" I have been hunting round the room to find a small 
sheet of paper upon which to do the pretty thing, and pay 
a troublesome debt. But my search has been in vain, so I 
have e'en changed the object of my pen, and determined 
to let it follow the dictates of my inclination, in covering a 
sheet of Grandpa McAdam's * Bristol-best ' with such lines 



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190 NEW RELATIONS^ 

and scratches as it may be impelled to make ; nothing 
doubting but its impulses will give you some satisfaction, if 
they go no further than the expression of the sincere sym- 
pathy felt with you by your friends here, in your present 
state of joyful excitement. I do indeed rejoice with you in 
your happiness at the return of your brother; and you 
may be assured I am joined in this by the whole household. 
Although I have never known from experience what are 
the precise feelings you may have, I think I can enter into 
them at all times. And now, whether it is that my mind is 
more than usually attuned to joy, or whether it is more in- 
terested for you than it ever has been in similar cases with 
respect to others, I know not ; but sure I am, that I never 
felt so much before, or seemed to myself so wholly awake 
to the feelings and interests of my friends, as at this mo- 
ment. You must enjoy a great deal in the next few months, 
and I know you will not let so much cause for gratitude 
pass without its full effect. It has always seemed to me a 
most humiliating fact, that so much suffering should be ne- 
cessary to teach us our dependence. Why should we not 
be equally taught by the blessings which are bestowed upon 
us, that we are and have nothing but as He wills it to be ; 
and does it not seem a natural effect of such testimonies 
of love, to draw our hearts towards a Being who is so good 
to us } Let us at least, dear Emma, prove that it may hav|9 
this influence. 

" Nancy is very well, and bright and happy ; and could 
I drive away from her a foolish feeling of a parting visit 
which hangs upon her mind, and fills her eyes whenever 
she speaks to me, we should be in a very merry key. As 
it is, however, we enjoy much, for I have much to tell her 
of the adventures of the last three years, which takes her 
away from the present ; and she is at heart so truly satis- 
fied and happy, that we cannot get up any thing like real 
melancholy. 



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NEW RELATIONS. 191 

■ " I wish indeed, with you, that I could attain something 
of your animation, and for a longer period than that you 
prescribe ; for I do not hold it in such contempt as you do. 
It might not, perhaps, add to my individual happiness, for 
it seems to me I am as happy as mortal can be ; but I do 
feel sure it would give me the means of communicating 
more pleasare to others, and this could not fail to increase 
my own. I have always considered that buoyancy of spirit 
of which you speak as a great and valuable gift ; perhaps 
I have exaggerated its power, as we are apt to do every 
thing in which we are deficient. But its effects in chasing 
away the vapors which will sometimes gather, almost with- 
out cause, around the feelings of even the best and happiest, 
are not to be questioned, and are in my view of great 
worth. My happiest moments have always been my quiet- 
est, and this does little for others' comfort. I have in a 
great measure overcome the solemnity which oppressed me 
when r saw you ; and were you only here, I think I could 
join with you in one of your merry laughs, as* gayly as you 
could desire. I do indeed wish you were here. 

*' You were right in thinking that one of my letters was 
from cousin Jane ; the other was from Aunty, quite a happy 
one, not one complaint, and directed by the ' little Doctor,* 
— so I conclude he is in the land of the living. Jane writes 
in good spirits ; all things there in a better state than usual. 
" Yours truly, 

" M. L. P." 

*" Boston, March 20, 1827. 

" My dear N : 

*' Were I near you, it would be an unspeakable relief to 
pour forth to you, for every moment is so filled with con- 
stantly increasing interest, that at times I am oppressed and 
overpowered as I do not like to be ; and there are moments 
when doubt and distrust of myself so ei\}irely possess me. 



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192 NEW RELATIONS* 

that I feel almost tempted to doubt my right to undertake 
what I have. My mind is slow in all its processes, you 
know, and in this matter it seems to me more slow than is 
common, it may be from the magnitude of the change ; but 
certain it is, I have suffered more, and labored more to 
bring myself into the right state, than I ever did in my life 
in the same time. My cause for happiness is increasing 
every day, and this tempts me to dwell too exclusively 
upon concerns connected with self. I am seeing daily 
more and more of the immense responsibility under which 
I am placing myself, and feeling more and more my own 
incapacity, and this tempts me to be anxious and doubtful. 
I am understanding more of what might be done in the 
station I am to fill, and this makes me ambitious to satisfy 
all who will look to me with hope. O, if I could feel as I 
should, that if I do my utmost with my whole heart, from 
the right motive, I shall gain that approbation which should 
be the first object of my desire, be my efforts successful or 
not I But I am getting to depend too much upon the appro- 
bation of those I love. 

^^ In one respect, this new and strong and satisfying in- 
terest is not having the influence I feared ; instead of en- 
grossing, absorbing, and making me selfish, excluding all 
other interests, it seems to enlarge the capacity of affection. 
I feel warmed more than ever towards every living being 
whom I ever loved. And it has done much towards exalt- 
ing and enlightening my mind upon the point which has 
been a greater trial to me than any thing I ever met with. 
I mean, it has made me more willing to leave the world, 
and enjoy the happiness of heaven, than I ever thought I 
should be. Strange that the thing from which, of all 
others, I should have expected the very opposite effect, 
should have done this ! 

" I have been through all the forms and ceremonies of 



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NBW RELATIONS* 193 

* introduction,* very quietly. I have been to Cambridge, 
and the family have been here ; and, better than that, I 
have laid siege to the venerable Doctor in his study, and 
had a most delightful conversation of nearly two hours in 
length ; which made me feel that I was not a little privi- 
leged, to have any claim, however small, upon his interest 

I wish you could have heard Mr. Channing this 

morning on the ' Glory of Jesus Christ ' ; it was one of his 
highest flights. We have great preaching now-a-days from 
many quarters. 

" Yours ever the same, 

" Mary." 

The marriage of the Rev. Henry Ware, Jr. and 
Mary L. Pickard took place at the house of Miss 
Bent in Boston, on the 11th of June, 1827, Dr. 
Gannett uniting and blessing them. They were 
absent a fortnight, journeying to New York and 
Northampton ; and then returned to Boston with the 
two children, and entered upon their new home in 
Sheafe Street, at the North End. And there began 
a new life, — to Mary wholly new, and intensely 
busy. She gave herself up to all its duties, at once 
and unreservedly. Of her standard of duty we 
know something already ; and they who also know 
the demands of a large parish upon a minister's 
wife, who resolves not only to make her house free 
and pleasant to all who will enter it, but also to 
share all of her husband's labors for which she is com- 
petent, can form an idea of what Mary found to do. 
" Mrs. Ware, at home and abroad, was the busiest 
woman of my acquaintance," is the reason given by 
one of her female friends for not seeking her society 
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194 NEW BELATX0N8. 

as mnch as she desired. It will be remembered that 
she began with a family, as well as parish, and that 
the duty of a " mother " was one which she held very 
sacred, and would never slight for any other. Bat we 
will let her tell the story of her first labors, as she does 
in a letter to Mrs. Hall, at Northampton, who had had 
the care of the children, and another to Mrs. Paine. 
We ought to say of these, and all the letters to be 
offered, that they are not given as recording great 
events or rare qualities, but simply for what they 
are, — expressions of the daily thought and domestic 
life of a conscientious woman, in dommon relations 
and quiet duty. 

** Boston, My 20, 1627. 
" Dear Harbiet : — 

*' You will be glad, I know, to hear from my own pen 
how we all prosper, and I sincerely wish I had time enough 
to tell you all 1 wish you to know of my various arrange- 
ments and avocations, hopes and fears, wishes and success- 
es. Of the latter I cannot boast much ; I am, however, 
much delighted to find that many things which I expected 
would perplex me, and take more time and thought than I 
should be willing to give them, do not trouble me in the least 
degree, — such as household affairs, eating, drinking, and 
keeping matters moving methodically. I did not, to be sure, 
indulge anxiety about it, as from my utter ignorance I had 
some reason to do ; but I did not suppose it possible that such 
a young novice could be inducted into the important station 
of housekeeper without suffering for a time a degree of 
martyrdom. But thus far I get on easily, and hope to 
learn by experience sufficient to meet future wants. My 
parish matters have gone on so far just as I wished. I 
gave up all last week to receiving visitors, and they came 



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NEW RELATIONS. 195 

in just the manner I wished, morning, noon, or evening, 
as might be most convenient to themselves. It was the 
best way for me, for it gave me a better opportunity of 
getting acquainted with their looks, and they seemed to like 
it very much themselves. I am at liberty now, but prefer 
staying at home, and still have enough to do to say ^ Wel- 
come ' to my friends. 

'^ But this is all play-work in comparison with the other 
duties that belong to my lot. They are just what I knew 
they would be, — most delicate, most difficult, for one so 
utterly ignorant ; but I see the difficulties, and do not find 
them greater than I have always known they would be ; am 
neither discouraged nor faint-hearted, but hope and trust 
that power will yet be granted for all exigencies. I do not 
find myself as much discomposed by the task as I expected, 
considering I have had so little to do with children. But 
I do feel the importance of the relation in which I stand 
to them more deeply, more oppressively, than I could 
have conceived, and I am more than ever certain that I 
have a great deal to learn, and a long work before me. 
Do let me hear from you sometimes; we may not have 
much communication at present, but, as the Quaker said, 
^ we can meditate on each other.' I beg you to understand 
that I consider myself one whose lot has more than a com- 
mon share of blessing, and daily and hourly do I thank 
God for guiding me to this pleasant path. I find I shall 
xealize all you promised me of comfort, and much more too. 
" Yours in sincerity. 

•*M. L. W.'» 

** Boston, Jtdy 22, 1827. 

" Dear Nancy : — 
" Your letter was given me this morning in meeting, and 
has just been read in one of the few quiet moments which 



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196 NEW ^RELATIONS. 

fall to my lot, and one of the most peaceful and refreshing ; 
and I am rejoiced to add to its pleasure, by turning to my 
little table and writing to you. I have indeed longed to 
give you a peep into my almost too delightful home; but it 
has been entirely beyond possibility to find an opportunity 
to write. How much I wish you could look in upon us, and 
see the whole detail of affairs from Monday morning to 
Saturday night, and that still more delightful season, the 
holy Sabbath, I need not tell you. But I fear you will 
never fully understand it, unless you can make yourself in- 
visible and come among us 

" We came on in the same stage, next day, and found all 
in readiness, perfect readiness, for us ; and made so, too, by 
the efforts of our friends, which added not a little to the 
comfort. The ladies of the parish would not let Miss B 
hire workwomen, but came and did things with their own 
hands. All looked more comfortable and neat and appro- 
priate than I expected, as I had picked matters up with no 

small degree of carelessness. Miss B and Mrs. B 

were on the spot to receive us ; and oh ! Nancy, to enter 
one*s ovm home, in which was to be known all of experience 
which might be hid in the future, — to come to it, too, as I 
did, afler so long floating on a changeful sea, — and to come 
to it under all the interesting circumstances of grateful joy 
and fearful responsibilities, — it was a moment not to be 
described or forgotten. 

" H told you of our Sunday. The transfer to a new 

place of worship was trying and affecting ; but I forgot the 
people, and did not suffer because every eye in the house 
might be directed towards me. I need not add, that the 
excitement in church is much more than it ever was to me, 
though not what it will be when I am more at home there. 
Sunday gave me truly the rest of the soul. I arranged that 
it should be a quiet day. We prepared dinner on Saturday, 



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N£W RELATIONS. 197 

and locked up the house ; Mr. Ware in his study after break- 
. fast, and the children with me, reading and studying. They 
were easily interested, and, the excitement of common days 
being removed, they were more as I wished, and gave me 
much pleasure. So it was at noon ; and at night th^y go to 
their father, and I have my own hour of peaceful thought. 
And then in the evening we are all together, talking or 
reading or singing. It is realizing so exactly what I have 
always wished to have the day, and what I never before 
knew, that I enjoy it douJ)ly. A friend, perhaps, drops in 
and joins our singing. 

*' All classes have come to see me, even the poor- 
est, and seem quite disposed to be pleased. I have said 
distinctly that I wish ours to be entirely a social intercourse, 
and they take me at my word. I have not told you of my 
own private joys, nor can I in this little space. That they are 
great, immensely great, you can believe ; and even with 

the , August 16. Here I was interrupted more than 

a fortnight ago, and do not now remember what was to 
have been the close of the sentence. I might add, that I 
feel it happy for me, that, with all these blessings and pleas- 
ant circumstances, I have so much of responsibility and 
anxiety as will effectually prevent my head being turned by 
it. But I have not room for further detail. Yours ever. 

" Mary." 

The sense of "responsibility" just referred to 
might be called one of Mary's characteristics. And 
it had this peculiarity, if no other, that she felt it to 
be a blessing rather than a burden. Indeed, in cases 
where others would speak, as almost all do speak, of 
" the burden of responsibility," she used the other 
and brighter word. As, at this time, she said, in a 
note to a friend, — " My fate is a singular one in this 
17* 



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198 NSW RfiLATtOm, 

respect, — fhat, whatever may be liie variety of the 
scene, it is always filled with the extremes of bless- 
ing and responsibility ; and I know not that I ever 
felt more fnlly the bkssinff of responsibility than 
now. ^ Had I not great and almost overpowering 
duties and cares, my head would almost of necessity 
be dizzy with the bright prospect before me. As it 
is, I rejoice with a serious, but most grateful spirit, 
— a sober bliss certainly, but not the less valuable." 
There was one utterance of her "sober bliss" of 
which we have not spoken as we might, for it was 
habitual with her through life. We refer to her love 
of singing, and her use of sacred hymns in the fami- 
ly, which began, as we have seen, with the first Sab- 
bath in her new home, and, as we are to see, ended 
only with life. One who lived with her just before 
her marriage tells us how much she indulged and 
enjoyed in this devotional, but cheerful melody, for 
♦'it seemed in her to be truly singing hymns of 
praiseP She would sing after withdrawing for the 
night, at the close of the busiest and most distracting 
days ; and sometimes, " after having actually retired, 
she would think of a charming tune, always selecting 
the most beautiful words, and joined by Miss K— — , 
they would enjoy an hour in this way." Distinct 
are the echoes which linger in many hearts still, from 
her soft and expressive voice, — the voice of the soul ! 
The biographer of Henry Ware says that the year 
of which we are speaking, that which followed this sec- 
ond marriage, " was one of the most active, and also, 
to all human appearance, one of the most successful, 
of bis ministry.'* It was marked by the efficiency oi 



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NEW RELATION*. 1^ 

bis labors, increased attention to his {Nreaching, a 
growing congregation, and many proofs of favor 
with the community in general. He repeated, that 
winter, and enlarged, his Lectures on the Geography 
of Palestine ; and, beside his Bible class and vestry 
service, his bouse was open to his parish every Tues- 
day evening for social intercourse and religious con- 
versation. In this last, as in other parochial ways, 
Mrs. Ware was an eiSicient helper. Nothing could 
be more to her taste, or in unison with her best 
powers, nothing certainly could contribute more to 
her deepest joys, than this whole manner of life. If 
we may not believe that she was reserved for this 
very position, we may confidentiy say that she could 
have filled no other with more ease, more energy, or 
happier results. We attempt no enumeration of the 
relations and offices in which she endeavored to serve 
her husband's society, or the larger community. 
Boston is not more remarkable for its noble chari- 
ties, than for the noble women who find sphere and 
activity enough in devising or directing so many 
of those charities. Mrs. Ware sought no publicity 
or distinction in these movements, and was less 
prominent, perhaps less efficient, than many others. 
Comparisons she seldom attempted, and never made 
them a rule of conduct. Her rule seems to have 
been, to refuse no service asked of her for which she 
was competent, if it interfered not with any duty to 
her family or parish. From the opportunities she 
bad enjoyed and improved, when abroad, of visiting 
various charitable institutions, she was frequentiy 
consulted in regard to them, and she sent to Eng- 



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200 NEW RELATIONS. 

land for plans and bints. She was a directress of a 
Charity Sewing School; and always regretted that 
sewing was not taught in the public schools, and 
made essential to a complete education with every 
class. In all her views and efforts there was that 
practical good sense, which is better than the best 
theories or brightest abstractions. Yet she did not 
despise theory and abstraction, nor suppose that ei- 
ther she or her own generation had learned all there 
was to be learned. Indeed, we use no great bold- 
ness in saying, that, without the slightest tendency 
to reckless innovation or foolish experiment, there 
never was man or woman more interested in reform, 
or anxious for progress, or fearless for truth, than 
Henry and Mary Ware. 

Of Mary's ideas of the reward which the benev- 
olent and the good should desire, an amusing illus- 
tration has been given us by one who heard the 
remark at the time. A .motion being made in a 
charitable Society for a " vote of thanks for the min- 
ister's prayer," Mrs. Ware said to a lady near her, 
" While I was secretary of the Society for the Em- 
ployment of Female Poor, I never recorded votes of 
thanks. I thought members should do all they could, 
and when that was done, they might make their 
courtesy to each other ! " 

In March, 1828, Mrs. Ware, after the labors and 
anxieties of the first winter, made a visit to Mrs. 
Hall in Northampton, where she wrote her first letter 
to her husband, containing expressions whose full 
import we cannot know, but whose intimations of 
self-distrust and increasing sense of responsibility 
many will understand. 



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NEW RBLATI0N8. 201 

« NortJiampton, March 19, 1828. 

" Dear Henry : — 

** No letter from you yesterday ; but I did not expect 
one, knowing that Saturday and Sunday are busy days. I 
feel sure of one to-day, however, and while waiting its 
arrival with all the patience I can summon, I cannot please 
myself better than by talking a little to you ; and if I am 
willing to believe that in this, as in many other matters, our 
tastes may correspond, pity my delusion, but do not destroy 
it, — it is the brightest dream of life to me. 

" I find it is a very different thing to be lone Polly Pick- 
ard, beating about the world, conscious that it could not 
interfere with any one^s comfort or convenience if she 
were out of it, and to call myself Mary Ware, with all the 
appendages which belong to her, — the cares and comforts, 
the duties and privileges, from which she cannot disconnect 
herself. It is almost incredible to me that a short year 
fihould have made one who was before utterly reckless 
of danger so careful and cautious, — I had almost said, 
anxious. And, oh! what a lesson it has taught me I I 
thought I was deeply sensible of my danger ; I thought I 
realized fully the strength of the temptation which assailed 
me to rest satisfied with my earthly blessings, and to de* 
pend upon them entirely for my happiness. But this little 
separation has shown me the state of my mind in a truer 
light than I ever saw it before, and compelled me to confess, 
with deep sorrow, that my trial was greater than I could 
bear. I had borne sorrow and deprivation, loneliness and 
calumny, unmoved, erect, fearless, — but had sunk before 
the greater trial of satisfied afiection. May this knowledge 
do me real good I And if it should please our kind Father 
to restore us to each other, let us strive with greater zeal to 
conquer this enemy. While we rejoice, as we must, in the 
blessings of His providence in calling us together, may we 



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203 NEW RELATIONS. 

use our comforts without so abusing them as shall make 
them instruments of evil instead of good to our souls. 

^* Do not think I am nervous or inclined to croak. I am 
perfectly well, and while I look at these things seriously, I 
feel a cheerful courage to contend manfully, nothing doubts 
ing' that strength will be given in aid of all right effort, and 
that all these trials, if rightly used, will be so many addi- 
tional aids in attaining that heavenly-mindedness which 
alone can satisfy. 

^^ All blessings attend you, dearest Henry. All send 

love. Your own 

^ " Makt.'' 

Expressions of self-distrust and extreme discoor* 
agement seem strangely unintelligible to many minds, 
when they come from those who are thought better 
than others, and are always striving and advancing. 
Yet these are the very persons to feel discouraged, 
because of the high mark they set for themselves. 
And the fact that they are thought better than 
others, with their keen insight of their own failings, 
is more apt to mortify and depress than to exalt the 
humble and earnest spirit. Never, perhaps, was 
Henry Ware doing more for others or himself than 
in the winter and spring of the year we are review- 
ing. Yet in a letter to his wife;, written a few weeks 
after that which we just gave from her, we find the 
expression of a dissatisfaction with himself, even 
greater than hers. It was written on his birthday, 
and shows also his sense of the great blessing which 
the last year had brought him. " I never yet was 
satisfied with my mode of life for one year, — per- 
haps I may except one. But since that I have beea 



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NEW RELATIONS. 203 

growing worse and worse. I did think soberly, that, 
when I was settled down with you, I should turn 
over a new leaf; and I began ; but, by foolish de- 
grees, I have got back to all my accustomed care- 
lessness and waste of powers, and am doing noth- 
ing in proportion to what I ought to do. Yef other 
people tell me I do a great deal, and I am stupid 
enough to take their judgment instead of my own. 
These, dear Mary, are the morning reflec- 
tions with which I open my thirty-fifth year. Will 
the year be any better for them ? I hope so, but I 
fear not ; for I do not feel the weight and solemnity 
of these considerations as they ought to be felt." 

Different, indeed, from the anticipations of either 
did the opening year prove. The season which had 
been the first of Mary's cooperation with Mr. Ware, 
was the last of his active service as a pastor. He 
had overtasked his energies, and that change was 
impending which affected the whole of their remain- 
ing work in life. On his return from Northampton, 
where he had been preaching, in the month of May, 
1828, he was arrested at Ware by a violent fever, 
which was followed by extreme prostration, and 
confined him there several weeks. His wife was in 
Boston, and in a state of health that made travelling 
neither easy nor wholly safe. But she wrote so per- 
suasively to the physician for leave to join her hus- 
band, that it could not be refused, and she was soon 
at his side. Under date of June 16th, she writes 
from Ware : " How grateful and happy I am, to be 
here I All the few feelings of doubt about the ex- 
pediency of the jaunt, which others' fears forced 



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S04 IfBW BBLATIONS. 

upon my notice, have vanished, and my own strong 
convictions that it was best have become perfect 
certainty. With the unspeakable satisfaction of 
being with my husband, so unexpected to him, and 
scarcely hoped for by me, what can there be to dread 
which can be a balance for such blessings ? " 

As soon as Mr. Ware was well enough, they went 
on to Worcester, where they remained six weeks. 
And there, on the 13th of July, Mrs. Ware's first 
child was bom ; a son, who lived but few years, yet 
long enough to leave a deep impression of beauty 
and promise. Toward the last of August, Mr. Ware 
set out alone on a horseback journey for his health, 
riding through New Hampshire and Vermont to 
Montreal and Quebec, and returning in October. 
During the first part of this interval, his wife and 
infant child were at lodgings in Newton, where 
her next letter is dated, referring in the opening to 
a poetical epistle which she had received from her 
husband. That epistle, as published at length in 
the Memoir of Mr. Ware,* many will remember; 
but its tenderness, and its allusions to their common 
experience at this period, will furnish an excuse, if 
we insert a part of it, as a preface to the letter 
which follows. 

''Dear Mary, 't is the fbnrteenth day 
Since I was parted from your side; 

And still npon my lengUiening way 
In solitade I ride ; 

Bat not a word has come to tell 

If those I left at home are well. 

* Memoir of Henry Ware, p. 380. 



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NEW RELATIONS. 205 

*< I am not of an anxioas mind, 
Nor prone to cherish useless fear ; 

Yet oft methinks the very wind 
Is whispering in my ear, 

That many an evil may take place 

Within a fortnight's narrow space. 

" But no, — a happier thoaght is mine ; 

The absent, like the present scene, 
Is guided by a Friend Divine, 

Who bids us wait, serene, 
The issues of that gracious will. 
Which mingles good with every ill. 

** And who should feel this tranquil trust 

In that Benignant One above — 
Who ne'er forgets that we are dust, 

And rules with pitying love — 
Like us, who both have just been led 
Back from the confines of the dead ? 

**Then, dearest, present or apart^ 

An equal calmness let us wear ; 
Let steadfast Faith control the heart, 

And still its throbs of care. 
We may not lean on things of dust, — 
But Heaven is worthy all our trust." 

« Aetoton, September 1?, 1828. 
" Thank you, dearest, for the pleasure your good long 
letters have given roe ; and if I am the more pleased that 
you called your Muse to aid you in my behalf, I hope it ia 
one of the pardonable weaknesses of womankind, and trust 
your vanity will not take the alarm lest I should undervalue 
your own unassisted powers of pleasing. It is indeed a 
great and unceasing source of delight to me, that, although 
separated externally in our way, our thoughts, our spirits, 
are pursuing the same course, and we may meet in medi- 
18 



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206 NEW RELATIONS. 

tation and prayer, sure that the same feelings of gratitude 
and trust are ever present to us both. I thought much of 
this, last Sunday, when I made my first attempt to attend 
public worship. I had felt a great desire to go to meeting 
upon that day, being the eighth week from the birth of my 
child ; and, moreover, because the first Sunday in Septem- 
ber has been a memorable day to me every year since 
1813. I did not attempt it in the morning, but in the after- 
noon rode over to hear Mr. Wallcut at the Upper Falls. I 
had felt well and strong at home, but it was quite too much 
for me ; my mind was too weak to bear it quietly. The 
reflection upon all that had passed since I last entered the 
house of God, which was forced upon me at one view, was 
indeed overwhelming. I could scarcely control myself 
sufficiently to join in the services. I longed to put every 
one out of the house, that I might prostrate myself bodily, 
and I did mentally, before that Being whose goodness had 
brought me to that hour. I did indeed think much of you ; 
and there was a high and holy satisfaction in the idea that 
you were at the same time employed in the same way ; 
and although all was uncertainty with regard to you, I 
doubted not, that, whether on earth or in heaven, I might 
safely rely upon this. How did I rejoice in that faith 
which could remove from me all anxiety and fear concern- 
ing you, which could enable me so calmly to suffer you to 
go from me for such a length of time, notwithstanding the 
very many uncertainties which must belong to your situa- 
tion. I sometimes wonder at the peace which pervades 
my mind, but I know I have a right to feel it ; it has its 
basis upon an immovable foundation. Mr. Wallcut gave 
us a very useful, solemn discourse, and I was strengthened 
by the service, and not injured by the excitement. 
" Heaven bless you ! Your own 

" Maby." 



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NEW RELATIONS. 307 

In September, Mrs. Ware returned to their own 
bouse in Boston, — that house in which she had 
been so happy, and to which she hoped soon to wel- 
come her husband back again, in restored health. 
She writes at once. 

« Sheafe &reet, September 26, 1828. 
" Here we are, dear Henry, as isomfortable as you could 
wish, in our own dear house, more grateful and happy 
than I could easily describe, every thing looking just as if 
we had not been away. Never did the place look more 
comfortable, — I had almost said, beautiful; — I will say 
so, for there were so many delightful associations with it 
that it possessed a moral beauty, if I may say so, exceeding 
any other it could have had. I feel finely, and am sure 
I am as able to do all that is necessary as I ever was. It is 
not necessary just now that I should make any violent 
efforts ; there is no call for it. Elizabeth is with me, as 
h^ppy as a child can be ; and the ^ young rogue ^ likes his 
home so well that he has turned over a new leaf at once, 
and I believe means to behave well. All we want now is 
your presence, and that I trust we shall have in the right 
time. O, how willing does all this experience make one to 
leave all things in His hands, who has brought us through 
such troubled waters so safely, so joyfully I I have gained 
since Sunday ; at least, I have none of the confused feeling 
I then had, which made me fear my head was too light for 
Boston. It is getting home^ I believe ; home and its peace- 
fulness are the best restoratives. I trust you will find it so. 
I shall walk a little every day, and call first on those in 
affliction and the sick ; there are but few, astonishingly few, 
for the time ; none that you have not heard of, I believe. 
Peace be with you, dearest ! Your 

" Mary." 



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208 NEW RELATIONS. 

Mr. Ware did return to Sheafe Street in October, 
but not to remain. His health was not restored ; he 
could not resume his pastoral duties, and he was not 
wUling to remain in Boston and among his people 
unemployed. A friend's house in Brookline was kind- 
ly offered them, and early in November they took 
leave — as it proved, a final leave — of their parish, 
and of that house where they had passed but a single 
year, yet one of the happiest of their lives. In the 
mind and memory of both of them, that abode seems 
to have been invested with peculiar interest They 
have been beard to speak of the " Eden of Sheafe 
Street" Their children always revert to it with a 
tender fondness ; and, beside theirs, there are many 
eyes that fill with tears even now, as they look back 
upon the happy hours and blessed influences enjoyed 
there, in their pastor's home. And she who helped 
to make that home what it was to pastor and peo- 
ple, loved to the last to live over again that precious 
season, though to her crowded with peculiar cares 
and trembling responsibilities. 

They remained in Brookline that winter. In the 
spring of 1829, Mr. Ware virtually resigned his pas- 
toral charge, and a colleague pastor was chosen, 
while a new professorship was planned for him in 
the Divinity School at Cambridge. At the same 
time, he was urged by generous friends, who offered 
the means, to go first with his wife to Europe, for 
entire rest and the recovery of his health. This 
unexpected opportunity he felt it right to use. And 
his wife, who was herself not well, thus speaks of it 
to Mrs. Paine, in a letter of several dates : — 



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NEW RELATIONS. 209 

*« BroohUne, Deemnber 31, 1828. 
" My dear, kind Friend : — 
** I have been for a long time prohibited from using my 
eyes, or should ere this have despatched to you the epistle 
which for many a weary week has been prepared in my 
brain for you ; and now being still under the same interdict, 
I can only venture to remind you that there is still in exist- 
ence the same old friend, whohas been wont upon this eve 
to pour forth to you a copious stream of egotism, who never 
longed for the time to come when she might do so, more 
than at this present ; but who, for the trial of her patience, 
must lay aside her pen, and, wishing you every blessing, 
wait until she is at liberty to use her eyes to say more. 

" January 23. Although still unable to use my eyes with- 
out suffering, I am strongly tempted, by an empty house 
and an unoccupied hour, to renew, in some small measure, 
the intercourse which has so long ceased between us, and 
cannot help seating myself, pen in hand, to give you a few 
moments. I have 

" March 30. I was interrupted by*company at the above 

pauses ; and since then, dear N , what a revolution in 

the state of things around me ! It seems like a dream that 
I am again on the eve of departure for Europe. It is in- 
deed a dream from which I should like to awake ; and yet 
I am so sure that it is right to do just what we are doing, 
that the spirit faints not, nor even falters. I do not, indeed, 
dare to think, but have busied myself in visiting my parish, 
and do not fear but that power will be given. Yet, dear 

N , what a lot is mine I Surely I ought to be better for 

all this various blessing. 

" Ever yours. 

"M. L. W." 
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210 NEW RBLATION8. 

In closing the first and only year of Mary Ware's 
^ parish life," we remember that it was also the first 
year of her married life, and an immediate entrance 
mpon the office of a mother. To her views of this 
office we have ahready referred, but have feared to 
say all we know to be true of her discharge of its 
duties. There is a veil which we may not raise, a 
sanctuary which none can enter. Yet it is due to 
her and to her children, — it is due to the greatness of 
a trust whose difficulties all see, but few estimate 
kindly, — to speak of the glowing filial love, the rever- 
ent and grateful obligation, expressed by those who 
were permitted to call her "mother," and whose 
sense of indebtedness grows with their days. By 
the exercise of a sound discretion in exigencies un- 
avoidable and seldom aUowed for, — by freedom of 
intercourse through the day, and prayer and blessing 
at night, — by a tenderness that made counsel always 
kind and discipline never disheartening, — in a word, 
by a yearning affection which has -caused a start 
and regret at any allusion to her not being "their 
own mother," she took possession of their hearts for 
life ; and her death called forth, in the simple words 
of one, the unutterable sentiment of both, — " Surely 
God never gave a boy such a mother, or a man 
such a friend." 



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IX. 

EUROPEAN TOUR. 

On the 1st of April, 1829, Mrs. Ware sailed from 
Boston, with her husband, in the ship Dover, for 
Liverpool. One of the older children was left at 
board and in school, the other in Mr. William Ware's 
family, in New York ; while the infant was confided 
to Mrs^ Ware's sister, Mrs. Lincoln, — an arrange- 
ment that relieved the mother of anxiety, as far as 
was possible with any separation. But no parent 
will need to be told what she must have suffered, at 
best, in leaving behind her her first babe, not a year 
old, to cross the ocean and go into distant lands for 
an indefinite time,, with a sick husband on whose 
restoration or return no calculation could be made. 
Yet we see in her not a moment's hesitation, we 
hear from her no expression of doubt or the least 
despondence. Physicians and judicious friends ad- 
vised the step, her husband's health and power of 
usefulness, if not his life, might depend upon it ; and 
this was enough, even if her own judgment had dif- 
fered, as we have no reason to think it did. It 
was a feature of her mind very prominent, as it 
must be of every well-balanced mind, that she nev- 
er suffered herself to be tortured with doubts or 
fears for the future when the present duty was clear. 



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312 EUROPEAN TOUR. 

and never lamented that she had done that which 
seemed right and best, whatever the issae. As she 
writes, on one occasion, of her own habits of mind 
and long experience : — " There is no one thing that 
has been more important to my comfort, under any 
result of my plans, than the consciousness that they 
were decided upon after a full and careful delibera- 
tion of all other possible plans, and a calm judgment 
concerning them all. ' Then I felt I had done all that 
poor human nature could do ; the rest was in God's 
hands, — it was all in God's hands. I was satisfied 
that this decision was in the order of his providence, 
and, come what might, I could never regret it, or 
spend one vain, impious wish that I had ts^en an- 
other course. But, in order to make this decision 
satisfactory, I have always desired to know the whole 
truth, and be convinced that I had a perfect view of 
the whole case in hand ; and have sought suggestions 
from others, not for my guidance, but that I might 
be sure I had deliberated upon all the varieties of 
plan which could be thought of." 

This principle was now to be put to a severe test, 
the severest, perhaps, of her whole life. We have 
seen what she did, and what she suffered, in her for- 
mer visit abroad. Totally different were the circum- 
stances now, but none of them such as to make the 
trial less. Then she had been alone as a traveller, 
and also alone as to all exposure and peril. Now 
she was to feel and fear for the one most dear to her 
in life, one who was ill able to bear the fatigues and 
discomforts to which he must be subjected, and 
whom neither his own faith nor her serenity could 



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EUROPEAN TOUIU 213 

keep from depression and discouragement. Through 
the whole period of their absence, which proved to 
be a year and a half, Mr. Ware could not be said to 
be well for a single day. Much of the time, he yield- 
ed to dejection and apprehension, as she had never 
known him before. He enjoyed much, but suffered 
more. Not bodily suffering wholly, or chiefly ; but 
that which is much harder to bear, — the hardest of all, 

— a sense of helplessness and the increasing fear of 
uselessness ; the conviction, in the very prime of life, 
that life's work must be left undone, a calling which 
he dearly loved be relinquished, and he either remain 
abroad a wanderer in search of health, or return 
home with only the capacity of projecting numerous 
plans and labors, not one of which would be ever 
accomplished. All this his wife shared, at least in 
its effect; against all this she bad constantly to con- 
tend, bearing most of the responsibility of measures 
and results, her own health not strong, and soon sub- 
jected to peculiar and most anxious trials. 

We have no desire to magnify these trials. We 
only wish to set them in their true light, as making 
an unusual — not an unprecedented, but an unusual 

— demand upon the trust, endurance, and energy 
of a wife and mother. She herself has been heard to' 
say, that this was the most trying period of her life ; 
that no other experience equalled it. Yet this would 
hardly he inferred from her letters at the time. They 
were necessarily few, but written with her usual 
cheerfulness and unfailing hopefulness. Not all of 
them, however. One or two we have seen, such aa 
cannot be used, that intimate, rather than express^ 



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214 EUROPEAN TOUR. 

peculiar suffering and solicitude. But this was in 
confidence, and for counsel ; it being one of the pe- 
culiarities of the case that it presented many points 
where it was very difficult to decide whether wis- 
dom and duty should carry them farther on, or turn 
them instantly back, — and the decision was with 
her. 

We wUl not attempt to follow them closely in 
their foreign tour. Those who wish to trace its 
progress, and note the dates and incidents, will find 
them in the Memoir of Henry Ware by his brother. 
They visited England, Scotland, Ireland, Holland, 
Switzerland, Italy, and France, spending the winter 
in Italy. The first summer they passed over much 
of the ground and sought the spots, in England, so 
familiar and memorable to Mary from her former ex- 
perience. They visited Wordsworth, Southey, Mrs, 
Hemans, Miss Edgeworth; and passed much time 
with Unitarian ministers, whom Mr. Ware wished 
particularly to see, that he might learn all he could 
of their position, cultivate a fraternal feeling, and 
open the way for a more frequent and friendly corre- 
spondence between those of the same household of 
faith in England and America. About the last of 
August they went to the Continent, taking Holland 
first, and thence through Switzerland into Italy, 
reaching Rome in December, and remaining there 
until April. 

The few letters that Mrs. Ware wrote home will 
be given in the order of their dates, with little ex- 
planation or comment Some are in the form of a 
journal ; and here and there we see the hand of Mr. 



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EUROPEAN TOUR, 215 

Ware, taking up the thread which his wife had 
dropped, and then leaving her to resume. 

" Greta Bridge, My 8, 1829. 
'* My dear Emma : — 

" I slept last night in the very same room, at Barnard 
Castle, which you and I occupied four years ago. And 
having been in many places lately where we had been to- 
gether, such as Studley, Ripon, and the Greorge Inn at 
York, where we parted, and moreover, as you have visited 
me in my dreams, night after night, for a long time past, I 
feel that I must yield to the desire of writing to you, al- 
though it may be but a few lines of uninteresting matter. 
This place will, however, insure to the letter some value, 
for I remember well how you wished that the rain would 
abate, that you might see something of its beauties. I 
wished it also then, but I wish it much more now, that I 
have had an opportunity of 

" Here the arrival of the coach which was to take us 
from this paradise cut short Mary's opportunity, and I dare 
S4y*she will not remember what she was going to write ; so 
diat I, her substitute and lieutenant, go on to tell you how 
much we have mentioned your name while on these ro- 
mantic grounds, and how glad we should have been to trace 
with you the paths of Rokeby and Greta in memory 

" My lieutenant seems to have been cut off in his march 
rather abruptly also ; so I must beg you to imagine what 
beautiful associations of persons or things he was about to 
recall, and proceed with my own plain story, — just to tell 
you that we were more than satisfied with our walk ; it quite 
meets Scott's description. We trod the same path by 
which Bertram and Wycliffe wound their way from Bar- 
nard Castle to Mortham, and a wilder or more witching 
scene could scarcely be imagined. We had walked from 



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216 EUROPEAN TOUB. 

Stockton to the Castle by the side of the T^ee, sixteen 
miles, stopping for refreshment and rest at the little, humble 
inns whigh alone are to be found on this unfrequented 
route ; and truly, after the parade and luxury of large no- 
tels, it was a delightful change to see something of simple 
country life. You would have enjoyed it, too, notwithstand- 
ing the novelty of carrying the equipments of one's toilet in 
our pockets. 

" At Penrith we found our letters by the May packet, end 
yours, dear Emma, was most welcome, not only for the 
news you gave me of my darling children, but for the kind 
feelings which dictated it, and the great entertainment it 
gave us. It was just such a letter as we wanted just at that 
time ; it was the latest account, too, that we had had, for 
though one from Mrs. Barnard, and another from Dr. John 
and William, reached us at the same time, they were of 
earlier date. You brought my little Robert more vividly 
before my eyes than any thing I have heard of him. I 
could see his little hand resting on Clarissa's shoulder, look- 
ing half coaxingly at you ; and if the picture made me long 
to try if he would notice me any better, I was amply com- 
pensated for my inability to do so by the knowledge that he 
was doing so well, and under such kind care. At Penrith 
I had an attack similar to that which I had when you were 
at Brookline with me, which detained us a day ; but, as it 
rained, it was not of much consequence. We had pro- 
jected a drive round the lakes in a gig, and this plan we 
entered upon the next day (Saturday, 11th), — just such a 
day as we should have asked for. We went to Ambleside, 
via Ullswater and Patterdale, where we spent Sunday; 
beard Wordsworth's son preach, and looked at Winder- 
mere. Monday we breakfasted with Wordsworth at that 
lovely place, which I doubt not is still visible to your mind's 
eye, as we saw it that beautiful morning. It looked just as 



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EUROPEAN TOUB. 217 

beautiful without, and as perfectly in keeping within, as we 
had imagined it. I confessed our theft, to the no small 
amusement of Mrs. Wordsworth, who did not, however, 
seem surprised at our feelings. Wordsworth, his wife, son, 
and daughter, composed the party. I wished I could have 
seen him again. 

^^ JvHy 16. Dear me, what a careless child ! I have just 
discovered that I began my letter on a sheet which Mr. 
Ware had one quarter filled to another person ; and, having 
no time to rewrite, I must send it piecemeal. I was going to 
say, that I wished I could have seen Wordsworth again, be- 
cause he did not meet my expectation ; and therefore I felt 
disappointed, in spite of all my reasoning with myself that 
my imagination should not be the standard in such a case. 
Besides, such a man could not be seen at one view ; that 
which is most delightful in him would not be delightful if 
it were external. 

*^ The ride to Keswick you will remember well. It lost 
nothing by being seen a second time. We were at the 
same inn at which we formerly stopped ; and I could hear, 
perhaps, the same horses tramping along the same pave- 
ment over which our nags paced their way for us that 
memorable morning. 

" We drank tea at Southey's, whose residence is much 
more like a poet^s than it appeared at a distance, having a 
fine view of the lake between the trees with which it is 
almost enveloped. I heard him talk but little, as there was 
a party at the house ; but was more pleased with that little 
than I expected to be. His study is just the most enviable 
one that I ever have seen. The next day we went upon an 
expedition to Crummock and Buttermere, which, though 
fatiguing, we enjoyed highly, having a fine row upon the 
lake. We returned to Keswick by a road which gigs 
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218 EUROPEAN TOUR. 

seldom pass over, the Crag through Borrowdale. It was 
just such an expedition as you would have enjoyed on 
horseback, perhaps on foot, as we took it for three of the 
worst miles I ever passed over for roughness and wildness. 
The last part amply repaid us for our toil. We rode by 
the side of the Keswick lake for the whole length, just as 
the sun was setting, yesterday. 

" July 17. O, what would you not give for the sight 
which is before me now ! — ' fair Melrose,' not by the 
^ pale moonlight,' but by the light of as beautiful a sunset 
as you could ask for upon such a scene. I have not been 
out of the house yet, having contented myself with looking 
at it from my window, and am now, with all diligence, 
scribbling for the next Boston packet, while Mr. Ware has 
gone to see Mrs. He mans, who wrote us that we should 
find her in this neighborhood. This is no small addition to 
the attractions of Melrose. I feel very much as if I were 
going to see an old friend, so near does sympathy with a 
person's writings bring one to the writer himself, in soul at 
least, if not in the outward expression. On our way hither 
from Selkirk, we passed Abbotsford. A motley group of 
towers and chimneys did it appear ; and it verily made me 
hold up my head, and feel stronger, at the thought of 
breathing the same atmosphere with its mighty inhabitant. 
We passed Branksome also to-day, and came through Tev- 
iotdale, — classic ground every inch of it. But it will not 
answer for me to run on at this rate ; I shall scarcely com- 
plete one letter beside, when I wish to write fifty. 

" Just at this point Henry returned from his call, with the 
original * Dominie Sampson,' and the intelligence that Mrs. 
Hemans would join us in our intended visit to the Abbey, 
The moon is just now in full-orbed splendor. Thither, 
therefore, we repaired; and I met Mrs. Hemans for the 



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EUROPEAN TOUR. 219 

first time on the top of one of the towers, in such a scene 
as beggars all powers of description. Never were mortals 
more favored by the heavens and the earth for such an 
expedition. The air was very mild ; not a sound disturbed 
the midnight stillness but the chirping of the (I can- 
not remember its Scotch name ; its sound is somewhat like 
a cricket's). There were just clouds enough to give us all 
the varieties of light and shade. We did enjoy it highly. 
And yet we almost wished we had been alone. One did 
not want to have the interest divided ; and the Dombie's 
dry sayings and droll manner had such an effect upon our 
risibles, that we had, in spite of ourselves, a little too much 
of the ridiculous with the sublime. This Dominie, whose 
real name is Thomson, junior minister of the kirk of Mel- 
rose, is unique, not exactly such as Sir Walter has de- 
scribed, but quite as original. 

But I have come to the end of my letter, that is, my time. 
Love to all, at Canton, Milton, Brookline, Nahant, Kox- 
bury, Boston, — a goodly company truly. We have just 
had a ride to Dry burgh Abbey, on the Tweed, a fine ruin 
beautifully situated. The river here answers Scott's de- 
scription better than at Berwick. There are very many 
lovely situations upon its banks. But I must close. With 
Mr. Ware's united love, and sincere wishes that you were 

with us, yours most affectionately, 

" Mary L. Ware." 

^*t0 mrs. lucy allen and mrs. harriet hall. 

« Geneva, Octcber 11, 1829. 
" My DEAR GOOD SiSTERS : — 

" Wishing to say very much the same things to you both, 
and finding that the expense and trouble of transporting 
letters from this place across the Atlantic are pretty consid- 
erable^ I am induced to address you both at once ; hoping 



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230 EVBOPEAN TOUR. 

that the question of title to the possession of this Taloahle 
document will not give rise to a more severe litigation than 
the lawyers of Massachusetts will he ahle to settle. Your 
letters reached us in the course of time; yours, Lucy, 
while we were in London, and Harrietts just three months 
aAer its last date; both most welcome. It is a pleasure 
which none but a pilgrim can understand, to see the veri* 
table handwriting of a friend when separated by such a 
space. You say much of the pleasure we shall receive 
in these foreign parts from the novelty, &c. of what we 
may encounter. So it is ; and I trust that 1 shall enjoy all 
that we should do from the privilege allowed us. But I 
can tell you, under the rose, that there is no pleasure in all 
this wide creation like that of sitting down in a quiet comer, 
no matter what may be around us, holding communion 
with home ; and I fully believe that all travellers would tell 
you the same, if their pride would let them. 

*^We have, as you may have learned, fulfilled in part 
your first wish, Harriet, — we have seen Miss Edge worth, 
but not Sir Walter. She is a short, rather fat, extremely - 
homely, perhaps I might say ugly woman, without a spark 
of intellectual expression in her still face, and not over- 
much in her most animated moments ; but as full of anima- 
ti(»i, kind feeling, good sense, and intelligence, in her con- 
versation, as one could desire ; a great talker, and a very 
good listener ; not an item of pedantry or self-sufficiency, 
or indeed any thing of what one would fear to find in her 
father's daughter, or in any woman who had been so cele- 
brated ; easy, playful, natural. We forgot it was the re- 
nowned Miss Edgeworth, and felt only that it was some- 
body who must be loved and admired. We found her in 
the old family mansion at Edgeworthstown, whither we 
went.fifly miles only out of our way to see her ; but all the 
awkwaidness of such a lion-seeking visit was entirely taken 



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EUROPEAN TOUR. 221 

off by the reception we met with from the whole family, 
and we should have felt quite at our ease to have passed a 
week there. We could stay only a part of three days; 
that is, part of two, and the whole of the intermediate one. 
The only impediment to our comfort was, that, being con- 
stantly in the family circle, which is a large one, we could 
not talk with the lady herself upon many points which 
would have been most interesting. Perhaps we saw her 
to peculiar advantage, but we certainly do feel that she 
has been greatly scandalized in having the reputation of 
acting the pedantic authoress, and partaking of her father^s 
scepticism. So much for Miss Edgeworth. 

" I wish I could tell you half as much of Sir Walter from 
personal observation, but he was out when Henry called 
with his friend, Mr. Hamilton ; and he is so overpowered 
with visitors, that we were not willing to add ourselves to 
the list of the curious who persecute him. We were de- 
lighted with all that we heard of him ; indeed, the nearer 
we viewed his character, through the medium of those who 
knew him, the more our admiration and desire to see him 
increased. It would really seem that his vast intellect is 
his least remarkable feature. We saw many of his famil- 
iar letters to Miss Edgeworth, and that was next best to 
hearing him talk, for they are just like conversation. Mrs. 
Hemans, too, we have seen, and Bo wring a great deal, 
and some others of the noted of the present day ; and we 
shall treasure the remembrance of the few, for they have 
been but few. 

'*' It has been truly tantalizing to pass through Switzer- 
land in. clouds and darkness, now and then catching a 
glimpse of its beauties to show us what we were losing, but 
the far greater part of the time passing through the very 
finest portions of the Alpine scenery without any visible in- 
dications that we were not in a level country. But we have 
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222 SUROPBAN TOUB. 

proceeded thus far free from sickness, danger, or even diffi- 
culty, and have therefore too much reason to be grateful to 
find it possible to complain. 

'* We find a great deal to amuse us in the various habits 
and customs of the countries through which we pass, par- 
ticularly since we lef\ England ; and the eating and drink- 
ing part of the business is not the least entertaining. We, 
however, manage to please ourselves, and our entertainers^ 
too, pretty well. Henry eats his bread and milk as com- 
fortably as he would at home, and I do what justice I can 
to the various dishes which are set before me, though, 
when they amount, as they have done, to twenty in number, 
in spite of all the ^ J^ai f^ni^s ' I could utter, I have excited 
a smile of contempt from the waiter, who wondered at the 
barbarism of dining from one dish. We have not seen a 
carpet since we left Holland, except upon the sitting-room 
of an English lady here, and we have ^en in some hand- 
somely furnished houses O this pen, ink, and 

paper ! I will have no more to do with them, but leave them 
to Henry. Your sister Maby. 

^^ Dear girls, women, or wives : My loquacious helpmate 
has merely left me a place to send my love, and to say I 
wish I had room to write to you and your husbands. By 
way of supplement, I will just say of myself, that I am now 
able to talk while riding, without pain, which I never could 
do before we left England ; and can also read loud a little 
while. This is something worth telling of. My visit to 
Greneva, owing to circumstances, is the least satisfactory that 
I have made. You will perhaps hear again from the land 
of the CsBsars, whence I will dictate a letter full of ^ ettas,' 
and *• inas,' and ' issimas,' and ' ulinas,* and other satin eu- 
phonisms. Meanwhile, peace be with you ! Your brother 

" Henry." 



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EUROPEAN TOUR. 233 

We have added Mr, Ware's pleasant little post- 
script to the last letter, chiefly to show, by his own 
confession, how very feeble he must have been, and 
how great her anxiety and care. Indeed, she says 
of him at this time, " His system requires rest ; it 
will be long before it is fit for use again." She her- 
self was far from well, and had the depressing pros- 
pect of a more serious sickness, in a foreign land, 
with added cares. And yet neither of them was 
idle, during any period of that trial. They accom- 
plished a great deal in various ways, and prepared 
one distinct work for publication. We say, they did 
it ; for Mrs. Ware seems to have joined in that labor 
which afterward gave us one of the most useful of 
Henry Ware's works. We refer to his treatise on 
the "Formation of the Christian Character.", It is 
probably known that this book was written almost 
entirely in travelling; first in this country, during 
the horseback jaunt which Mr. Ware took alone 
through New England to Canada, in 1828, and then 
abroad, at various stages of this European tour. 
And here it was in Mrs. Ware's power to be of 
essential service to her husband, in a way which she 
explains in a letter written late in life, half jestingly 
taking to herself a part of the credit for the work to 
which we refer. To Dr. John Ware she writes, in 
1844, in reference to her husband's labors in this 
and other ways, at the time of which we are speak- 
ing:— 

"You will gather from the letters of European 
friends in what estimate he was held by them* 
That is of little import ; but it shows how faithfully 



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224 BUROPBAN TOUB. 

he preserved his identity as a minister of the Gospel. 
In looking back upon the jaunt, as a whole, nothing 
is so prominent to my mind as the perpetual indica- 
tions of his ruling passion, if I may call it so, — his 
love of his profession, — the eagerness with which 
he sought out his ministerial brethren wherever he 
heard of them, stopping by the way-side to introduce 
himself and extend to them the hand of fellowship, 
often going out of the way many miles for that pur- 
pose, and making all other objects subservient to that 
of increasing his knowledge of men and thin^ per- 
taining to the ministerial life. I know his visit was 
a useful one to his brethren in many respects 

" You know, I believe, that the greater part of his 
work upon the ^ Christian Character ' was written 
on that tour. Its pages are to my memory a sort 
of diary of our progress, associated as they are with 
the pleasant evenings, when, after our autumnal day's 
journey, having despatched our supper, we settled 
ourselves at a little table before a cheerful wood-fire 
in our inn, and he with his writing materials, and I 
with my work, or writing or reading, could almost 
imagine ourselves at home. Thus were my even- 
ings spent in alternate writing, reading, and criti- 
cism, until I almost felt as if I had written the book 
myself!" 

The end of the year 1829 found Mr. and Mrs. 
Ware travelling from Rome to Naples ; and on the 
" last night," faithful to her friendships everywhere, 
she began the regular " annual " to Mrs. Paine, 
which she did not finish till after their return to 
Borne, thus giving some account of their condition 
in both places. 



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EVROPIBAN TOVK. 225 

■* St. Affoiha,* December 31, 1829. 
" My dear Nawct : — 
^^ This is not the first annual which you have received 
with a foreign date ; neither can you be surprised at any 
aberration in my orbit. And yet methinks you will have 
to consider twice before you can quite realize that it is 
* Pearl Street Mary Pickard,' who is writing you from this 
region of ancient glory and far-famed beauty. But so it is ; 
and could you look in upon me, you would wonder, as I do, 
that the very peculiar changes of the eighteen years you 
have known me should leave me so precisely the same. 
I begin to think that I am made of most invulnerable ma- 
terials ; for here I sit — surrounded by as singular and try- 
ing circumstances as any which I have ever known — as 
easy and happy, I had almost said as indifferent, as if the 
world were jogging on with me in the tamest way imagina* 
ble. At no period of my life have I had more for which 
to be thankful in reviewing the year which has passed,—* 
that we should have travelled so far without the slightest 
accident, leaving our dearest interests so well provided for, 
finding so much kindness wherever we have been, and so 
many facilities for our enjoyment ; and above all, that my 
husband, though not much better, should not have been 
made much worse by all the disadvantages under which he 
has labored of climate and weather. If I were at your 
elbow, how I should love to give you a detail of some of 
our experiences during the year. You know enough of the 
outlines to guess at the minutiae in many instances, and 
enough of us both to imagine the internal effects produced 
by them. 

^^ RofMj March 2d. Back in Eome again, after a five 

* *' A little Tillage, or rather almost solitary inn, between Rome and 
Kaples.** 



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226 EUROPEAN TOUR. 

weeks^ sojourn in Naples, from which place 1 should have 
despatched this, hut that I did not think it quite worth while 
to send such a piece of egotism so far by mail. We had 
almost incessant rain while at Naples, which prevented our 
doing and seeing as much as we wished ; but the few fine 
days we had, we enjoyed and employed to the utmost. 
Although in January, they were like our June days. A 
shawl was too warm a garment to be borne in the sun, and 
upon our out-of-town expeditions we took our lunch in the 
open air. These were rare days, to be sure, but they gave 
us some idea of what the climate would have been had the 
season been a common one, for so much rain at that time, 
they told us, was almost unprecedented. We went of 
course to Pompeii, where I had many and pleasant recol- 
lections of your husband, tell him ; for the explanations 
which he gave me, when we saw the panorama of that place 
together in London, had made it all so familiar to my mind 
that I could not easily overcome the impression that I had 
been there before. Vesuvius we were content to admire at 
a distance, fearing the ascent would be injurious to my 
husband. But the classical regions of Avemus and the 
£lysian fields, the abode of the Cumeean Sibyl, and the 
beautiful temples of Baise, we explored at our leisure. 

" I can scarcely fancy any locality more beautiful for a 
city than that of Naples, and, viewed at a distance, it has a 
very imposing appearance ; but in itself it is noisy, dirty, 
and disagreeable, with the exception of the modem part of 
the street which borders upon the bay. We had rooms in 
that street, within forty feet of the water, and in rain or 
sunshine enjoyed the beauty of the bay with equal delight. 
We returned hither in company with Mr. and Mi«. Grinnell, 
and Mr. and Mrs. Rollins, with whom we have been the 
greater part of the time since we arrived in Florence in 
November. We are at lodgings with them here, and, as you 



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EUROPEAN TOUR. 227 

may suppose, very much enjoy our quiet family party. 
We have also Dr. and Mrs. Kirkland, and Mr. and Mrs. 
Gould, from our part of the country, and many from New 
York. 

'^ There is so much to be done here, and my husband is 
obliged to do things so leisurely, that I know not that we 
shall ever see half that is to be seen. There is a great 
difierence between travelling for health and mere pleasure. 
Almost all our friends will be on the wing before us, but I 
trust we shall find our way home in good time, and be the 
better for having come. Mr. Ware's is just such an uncer- 
tain case, that it is impossible to have any very decided 
opinion about it, — he sometimes seeming almost as well 
as ever, then again prostrated by some very trifle. On the 
whole, there is still much to hope from time and care, but 
nothing to flatter one into the hope of speedy restoration. 
May we have patience to wait with cheerfulness the full 
development of the designs of Heaven with regard to us, 
hoping for good, and willing to submit to trial ! 

^^ This is the season of Lent, which makes no apparent 
change in the state of things, and before we leave Rome 
we shall have the famous solemnities of Holy Week, when, 
if the Pope does not die (which it is reported he is about 
doing), I hope to witness the illumination of St. Peter's, and 
to listen to the Miserere, So far, I have not heard any 
music in Italy which satisfied me, except once the vespers 
of the nuns in one of the churches here ; it is all too loud, 
rapid, and^ theatrical. But it is time to despatch my letter, 
so good by. 

" Yours, most aflectionately, 

" M. L. Ware." 

The last date of the above letter is the 2d of 
Maxch; and before the close of that month Mrs. 



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228 EUBOPEAN TOUB. 

Ware's second child was born, — a daughter, who 
still lives. Mr. Ware's letter, announcing the event 
to his brother in Boston, expresses his gratitude {ex 
the many mercies that surrounded them, among ex- 
cellent friends, making '< as pretty a little, quiet do- 
mestic circle as ever Rome has seen since the days 
of the twin founders." At the same time, he con- 
fesses his entire discouragement in regard to his owu 
health, and their great embarrassment at what course 
to pursue. " I am weary of this miserably idle life, 
and yet I am fit for no other. I am afraid to go 
home, because I know I shall only be able to do half 
the requisite work, and to do that not more than 
half ; yet to stay away is altogether out of the ques- 
tion." As usual, Mary was ready to do any thing 
that seemed best, even to go home alone with her 
new charge, if her husband would be benefited by 
remaining longer and acting fireely. Some prompt 
and decided course she advised, at whatever sacri- 
fice. " We have talked over this matter together, 
and the only relief which Mary is able to suggest 
is, that I should state my case exactly, resign the 
professorship, so as not to be a burden or hindrance 
to those for whom I care more than for myself, send 
her home firom Havre, and spend a year in travelling 
Europe on foot and on horseback. This might be 
done at a very small expense, an expense which we 
could meet without taxing College or friends." 

We can easily conceive of the anxiety of a high- 
minded woman, a devoted wife and mother, at such 
a crisis. We have said that Mrs. Ware has been 
known to refer to this experience as the great trial 



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EUROPEAN TOUR. 229 

Of bet life, and we suppose the period of which we 
are speaking was the most trying of all; especially 
if we comprise in it the few months that preceded the 
birth of her child, — a season of which she has writ- 
ten more freely than of any other of her trials. Nor 
can we show the full power of her endurance at that 
time, and her wonderful energy, — such as is common 
only to woman, — unless by giving part of a letter 
written to her physician, describing this experience. 

" Not for a single day free from positive pain, 
I felt determined to keep out of sight all physi- 
cal as well as mental distress. In this I believe I 
succeeded, excepting when occasionally nature was 
overpowered, and I lost for a time my conscious- 
ness. But the effort to keep a cheerful outeide, 
when the body was undergoing so great suffering, 
and the mind fully awake to all the uncertainties 
and possibilities which lay before us, can only be 
appreciated or known by one similarly situated. 
My faith never failed me, nor my confidence that 
the course I had adopted was the right one. But 
the degree of tension to which every faculty was 
sffetched, all the time, was just as much as my rea- 
son could bear unshaken; and more than it could 
have borne, l believe, -had not my nerves found relief 
in hours of tearful prostration, when Henry was 
asleep, or so far out of the way as not to detect it." 

We have no further particulars to give of the 
sojourn in Rome. The travellers gladly turned their 
faces toward home the moment the season and their 
strength would permit. Early in May we hear of 
them in Geneva, and at the end of that month in 
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EUROPEAN TOUR. 

Paris. From both those places Mr. Ware writes 
home, in a disheartened, yet decided tone, as to his 
return, showing what a burden of anxiety they were 
still bearing. '< I have only spoken out more plainly 
what has for some time been my conviction, that I 
am gaining nothing ; and I simply wish to have you 
prepared for a proper reception of my miserabilUp 
when I shall return." '' I am sure I need not stay 
away ; I am sure I am not fit to do any hard work ; 
I do not think I could edit the Examiner. But I 
will come home by the packet of July 20th, and you 
shall judge. It will be the hardest of all I have yet 
done, to abstain firom Cambridge, especially as Mr. 
Norton vacates his place, and there is the more need 
of other laborers." 

In June, Mr. and Mrs. Ware were separated for a 
time, she taking lodgings with her infant at Wal- 
thara Abbey, and he making an excursion alone for 
his health. Soon after he left her, Mary wrote to 
him thus : — "I am quite sure it was best for you 
to go, though there was some risk in it. If you 
only keep a sharp watch upon your ' excitables,' 
not mistaking the effect of them for strength, aftd 
so do not overdo, you will, I doubt not, be better for 
the jaunt ; you wilt be gaining much mental satis- 
faction, and I am sure that will help the body 

Yours to * Miss Pickard ' is just received. The 
dear little Miss is as good as possible; she knows 
how much I wish I were with you, and coos and 
smiles all the time to make me contented. I am 
thankful you are so well, and though I should have 
richly enjoyed being with you, I am sure it is 



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SUROPBAN TOUH. 231 

better for you to be alone. I want to go to Chat- 
ham next week, if I feel better, but it is such a 
luxury to be at rest! O, dearest, how we shall 
enjoy it! I have had time to think a little, and 
collect my scattered wits, and I could pour out vol- 
umes of the result of my cogitations— but voila! 
the end of my paper ! Do all you can, see all you 
can without injury, gain all that is possible to gain, 
and above sXl^feel that you have time enough ; that 
is, don't feel ' hurried ' ; it is destructive to comfort 
and profit." 

In this letter we find also a hint, which tells 
something of Mary's continued thoughtfulness and 
generous provision for that poor old aunt whom she 
left at Osmotherly five years before. On first arriv- 
ing in England, she had again visited, with her hus- 
band, that scene of singular interest and mingled 
recollections. And now that Mr. Ware is journey- 
ing alone in that direction, she writes to him: 
" Should you go to C)smotherly (which is not quite 
worth while, as it would take you two days), give 
Aunty her yearly allowance, if you can, — ten 
pounds. But no, I remember you did not take 
enough with you. Write her a word, — it will 
please her ; and pay the postage." This was said 
at the very time that Mrs. Ware had denied herself 
the pleasure of going with her husband, on account 
of the added expense of travelling with an infant. 
She continued that annuity to her aunt as long as 
she lived, and a friend thinks it was doubled part 
of the time. We bring the fact to notice, because, 
from a delicacy which ought not, perhaps, to sup- 



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282 BUHOPBAN TOUB. 

press facts so illustrative of character, we have for- 
borne to give half the proof we found, in letters and 
in conversation with friends, of her noble generosity 
in connection with the strictest domestic economy, 
and withal a personal self-denial and simplicity that 
caused remark, if not censure. Could all the facts 
be given of her early surrender of property to a 
considerable amount, when she might have held it, 
and the rigid restriction of her personal expenditure, 
through life, within the limits of bare comfort and 
respectability, while there were times when she could 
have done much more for herself, and no time when 
her hospitalities were not without stint, — were it 
right, or were it desirable, to refer to facts and in- 
stances confirming this general statement, — we are 
sure it would be seen to be at the least worthy of 
honor and imitation. But the very thought of her 
disinterestedness, and secret charities, checks and re« 
bukes us. 

Before leaving England, she wrote the following 
letter to the two children in America. 

•* Wahham Ahbof, June 19, 1830. 
" My deae Childben : — 
^ It is a long time since I wrote to either of you, for I 
was ill for some weeks, and since I got well, I have been 
travelling almost every day, and have not had time to sit 
down quietly. But all this while I have thought much of 
you, particularly when I was lying on the bed sick. When 
I remembered how great was the distance which se[>arated 
us from you, and how uncertain it was if we ever saw you 
again, I wished that I could be sure that you would always 
be good, doing that which would please God, that I might 



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EUROPEAN TOUB. 233 

hope to be united to you again in heaven. You do not 
know how often your father and I have talked about you 
since we left you, or how anxious we have felt that you 
should improve; we hope to find that you have made a 
good use of the time of our absence, if we are ever per- 
mitted to see our home again ; and how happy we shall be 
to have you with us, not to be separated again, I trust, for 
a long time ! 

" You will be glad to know that your dear father is better 
than when he left home. He has gone now to Manchester 
for a few days, and I have come with little Baby from Lon- 
don to stay with a cousin while he is absent. Baby will 
have been a great traveller by the time she gets home, but 
she will not be any the wiser for it ; when she knows how 
many wonderful things she has passed by, she will wish 
she had been old enough to observe them. I have seen a 
great many grown-up people in our travels, who, I think, 
will not know much more than she does of what they have 
passed by, because they have not the habit of observing 
and thinking about what they see ; they remind me of the 
story in * Evenings at Home,' entitled ^ Eyes and no 
Eyes.' I dare say you recollect it. Others are not wiser 
for their travels, because they have not prepared themselves 
to understand what they see, by reading ; they care nothing 
about the antiquities of a country, because they know noth- 
ing about its history ; or the works of art which they meet 
with, because they do not know how they are made, or 
their uses. You will be surprised to find, as you grow older 
and know more, how much every thing which you have 
learned will add to your pleasure. I dare say you have 
many lessons given you, of which you do not see the use 
at present, but you will by and by, and if you fix them 
well in your memory you will be very glad then. 

'^ It is now the 26th of June, and we have just heard that 
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S34 SUROPBAN Toxm. 

the king of England died this morning, and his brother, the 
Duke of Clarence, was proclaimed king, at twelve oVlock, 
at Westminster. On Monday he will be proclaimed at 
three places in London, by heralds dressed in very gay cos- 
tume, such as has always been worn on like occasions for 
many centuries, of course very different from modem 
dresses. They will use trumpets in order to be heard by ' 
as many people as possible, who will no doubt collect in 
great crowds to hear them. The new king is called William 
the Fourth. There will be a great parade at the king^s 
funeral, and the new king's coronation, but we shall not 
see either. I hope we shall be on the water before they 
take place, for the preparations are to be sq giieat, that it 
is said three weeks at least will be necessary for the fu- 
neral, and perhaps months for the coronation. The next 
heir to the crown is a little girl, only a year older than you, 
Elizabeth. 

" Good by, my dear children. 

" Your loving Mother.'* 

On the passage home, in August, Mrs. Ware had 
another severe trial of her physical and mental ener- 
gies, — a trial that is supposed to have essentially 
impaired the vigor of a remarkably strong and en- 
during frame. Mr. Ware, who had gained little if 
any strength during their whole absence, became 
severely ill from a painful and alarming attack of 
acute disease. His wife was his only nurse, and, if 
we recollect right, the only physician. And there, 
amid all the deprivations and discomforts of the seoj 
confined to the narrow range of a small state-room, 
carrying in her arms a restless infant, of which those 
most willing could but seldom relieve her, and with 



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BUaOPBAN TOUR. 235 

the whole weight of the reaponsibility upon her sad* 
dened heart, that wife and mother performed offices 
and made exertions, which, by some acqaainted 
with all the circumstances, have been called " almost 
superhuman." One fearful night especially, the night 
which was to determine the result, she watched 
over the flickering and apparently expiring light 
of the life most dear to her, in anxious and most 
arduous services, until the crisis had passed. Her 
husband recovered from this attack almost entirely, 
before the end of the voyage ; but the effect upon 
herself, of all she had done and endured in the last 
seventeen months, was a prostrating and protracted 
sickness soon after her return. Up to this time, we 
suppose Mrs. Ware to have possessed a power of 
action and endurance seldom equalled in her own 
sex or in the same walk of life. Yet she used to 
say that her natural temperament was sluggish 
rather than active, and that her activity was an ex- 
ertion. Recurring, some years later, to this same 
season, she writes : " You do not know me as well 
as you might, or you would not talk of my (ictivUy. 
Naturally I am essentially indolent; and to this 
day no one knows the effort it often costs me to 
rouse myself from my lethargy. Still I have had a 
pride in my physical ability, which has sometimes 
impelled me when better motives ought to have op- 
erated. But that pride had a fall, when I went to 
Europe with Mr. Ware, from which, it seems to me, 
it can never rise again. Yet it may influence me 
when I do not suspect it, and I shall look out sharp 
for it." 



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236 EUROPEAN TOUR. 

It was in this connection also that Mrs. Ware 
repelled the idea of "sacrifice" in such relations. 
" The phrase * sacrifice for those we love,' I do not 
qnite understand. I should think the thing intended 
was more nearly allied to the germ of selfish gratifi- 
cation, and therefore as little entitled to the appel- 
lation of a virtue as any other selfish propensity.'* 
Just before leaving America for this European tour, 
when not strong herself, she had written to her hus- 
band, " I am very much afraid of becoming too 
thoughtful of this poor body of mine." And now, 
on her return, she was compelled to think of it more 
than ever before. 



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X. 

LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

Mr. Ware's connection with his parish in Boston 
had been continued, at the earnest request of the 
people, in the hope, that, if he removed to Cam- 
bridge, he might still retain the pastoral of&ce, and 
perform such of the duties as should be perfectly 
easy. A connection which had existed thirteen 
years, in perfect harmony and mutual attachment, 
could not be sundered without mutual pain. To no 
man living did permanence in the pastoral office 
seem more desirable or more important than to 
Henry Ware ; and the time had not then quite come 
when pastor and people could separate in a day, 
with or without cause. Nor could Mrs. Ware be 
indifferent to such a change. It was the extin« 
guishment of many hopes which she had fondly 
cherished, in becoming the wife of one whose ear- 
liest choice and highest ambition had been for the 
ministry and a parish life, — a life which had attrac- 
tions hardly less strong for herself. But now they 
had no choice. Whatever the sacrifice required, 
neither of them was willing to remain in an office, 
whose duties they could not perform with vigor and 
entire devotion. A dissolution of the connection 
was therefore asked, immediately after their, return 



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238 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

from Europe. And the society, in yielding to the 
obvious duty of granting the request, expressed ear- 
nestly their sense of obligation and gratitude, not 
only to their pastor, but also to her who had been 
his co-laborer in their service. In their final letter, 
they say : " We should do injustice to our feelings 
if we failed, on this occasion, to make mention of her 
also, who has laid us under such obligations by her 
devotedness to you when we looked upon you as 
belonging to ourselves, and who, though not long 
with us, had already taught us how highly to value 
and how deeply to regret her." 

In October, 1830, Mr. and Mrs. Ware took up 
their abode in Cambridge ; where he entered at once, 
in improved, but still feeble health, upon the duties 
of the new Professorship of " Pulpit Eloquence and 
Pastoral Care." And except the place which they 
had been compelled to resign, for which they both 
retained, we think, as long as they lived, a strong 
preference and lingering desire, no situation could 
have been found more acceptable than this at Cam- 
bridge. A post of great responsibility, calling for all 
the strength and labor that any could bestow, it was 
yet a position of peculiar privilege and opportunity, 
in the midst of family connections, near to all their 
friends, and having close relations to the ministry 
which they so loved. In many ways, too, would 
these relations afford to Mrs. Ware herself facilities 
for action, and the exercise of her peculiar powers 
and affections. 

Yet there were two great anxieties which Mrs. 
Ware brought to this new situation ; one, relating 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 239 

to the health of her husband; the other, to their 
straitened pecuniary means. The first of these was 
known, and could be understood by all. The last 
will never be understood, except by those similarly 
situated, and as high-minded, generous, and desirous 
of usefulness. We speak of this as a general truth. 
There is more mental suffering, more physical feeble- 
ness, and greater loss to the community in regard to 
the energy and activity of those who would serve it, 
resulting from this one cause, than perhaps from any 
other. We say it in no temper of complaint, much 
less of censure ; for we know not where the fault lies, 
if there be any. But we do know the fact, and there 
can be few who have not seen it in some of every 
calling, — that the necessity of incessant thought- 
fulness and extreme carefulness for the things of this 
world, with the dread of debt or dependence of 
any kind, in the midst, too, of sickness and the ut- 
most uncertainty, is a weight upon the heart, and an 
obstacle to the energies, such as no faith, or forti- 
tude, or philosophy can wholly overcome; no, nor 
even the experience, as in this instance, of ceaseless 
kindness, and a liberality ready to do all that delica- 
cy would permit. The fact remains, — better known 
than explained, and inseparable, it may be, from the 
constitution of society, possibly from the nature of 
man, — aggravated, as the trial often is, by the in- 
firmity and helplessness which God himself appoints. 
The beginning of their life in Cambridge was 
made memorable by one of the longest and most se- 
rious sicknesses that Mrs. Ware had ever known. We 
have already referred to it, as probably caused by the 



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240 LIFE I!f OAMBRIDOB. 

uncommon demands of their journey abroad and the 
voyage home. We did not refer, in its place, to a 
severe illness which she had in Geneva, of which she 
gives an account in a note some years later, and 
speaks of it as very serious. Many causes thus 
conspired to predispose her to this attack, which, fot 
the first time in her life, so far as we know, was of a 
pulmonary character, and shut her up for the whole 
winter, — a severe trial, where so much was waiting 
to be done, and after so long a period of absence 
from home and active duty. There was greater pros- 
tration, and more imminent peril, than all were aware 
of, and more, we suppose, than ever before. Her 
sickness must have begun almost immediately after 
they went to Cambridge; for in the same month 
Mr. Ware writes to Rev. Mr. Allen of Northborough, 
as if he had for some time been very anxious, and ¥ras 
then only beginning to hope. '< I am happy to be 
able to say, that Mary does seem to be doing better, 
— the first day that I have thought so. Her disor- 
der has had transient intermissions, but never be- 
fore seemed to yield. I think now she has fairly 
begun to mend. But she is wretchedly weak, and a 
little talking makes her hoarse. We have kept her 
as quiet as possible, and forbidden all visitors ; yet 
she has not been as quiet as most persons, because 
she does not know how to take thought for herself, 
and continues her interest for all about her. STie 
has suffered a great deal of severe pain, and her 
cough has been kept from distressing her only by 
opiates. You rightly guess how gfeat a disappoint- 
ment of our hopes this has been. I have not been 



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LIFB m CAMBRIDGE. 241 

without very serious apprehensions as to the result; 
and you may judge what must be felt, when we are 
apprehensive for one so perfectly invaluable as she. 
You know her in part, but one must know her inti- 
mately as I do, to understand half her worth.'' And, 
again, as lajte as November, Mr. Ware writes to Miss 

F that Mary is not yet able to bear any visitor, 

not even one as intimate as she, whose society and 
sympathy they so much desired. And he adds, in 
concluding his letter to that excellent friend, " Em- 
ma," whom they had not seen since their return from 
Europe: '^ Since we met, we have all seen changes 
and trials, and are at least more experienced in the 
discipline of Providence. I esteem myself quite 
well ; and if my cup were not dashed with the bit* 
terness of Mary's ill health, I should have more 
sources of happiness than I coufd perhaps bear 
rightly." 

In a few weeks, 'Miss F went to Mrs. 

Ware, and devoted herself entirely to the care of 
her for two months or more. The communion of 
these congenial minds was very beautiful, and will 
help at various points to illustrate the character of 
Mary. Their intimacy began early, and was never 
interrupted. How true they were to each other, 
how socially and spiritually confiding, how much 
they mutually imparted and received, through life 
and in death, can be known only to those who know 
all ; for both their natores, even in their present ex- 
altation, might shrink from the disclosure of some 
of the evidences of their tender and generous love. 
Their intercourse at this time, softened by the sick* 
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242 LIPS IN CAMBBIDOE. 

ness from which Mary was very slowly rising, and 
which, we have seen, awakened many apprehensions, 
must have been peculiarly grateful. It was a season 
of precious experience to Mrs. Ware, as will be seen 
in the first letter she wrote, — her faithful annual 
to the friend in Worcester. 

■* Cambri^, December 31, 1830. 
" Another year has passed away, dearest Nancy, since I 
last spread before me a fair white page, on which to tell 
you that 1 was still in existence ; and instead of ^ St Aga- 
tha' and the disagreeables belonging to it, behold me in 
my own blessed home, scribbling at the same old desk. A 
change, indeed, and what a change, for one short year 1 
You know it all, and I need not, if I could, recount the 
various causes for deep, fervent gratitude which rise to my 
memory in the retrospect. You can understand, without 
explanation, why it is that the thought of them so entirely 
overwhelms me that I cannot touch upon them with suffi« 
cient calmness even to write about them. I shall be less 
tired to-morrow morning, and will resume ; but I could not 
let this eve, so long sacred to yau^ pass without marking it 
Farewell, then, for this time. 

" January 16. I have suffered a longer period to pass 
away without continuing this than I intended. 1 know not 
how it is, but I find that year af\er year passes" off, and 
still the same errors are to be mourned over ; and for one 
I begin to fear that the habit of procrastination will adhere 
to me through life. I was weak, and my nerves so excit- 
able, when 1 began this, that 1 could not even recur in 
thought to the events of the past year, and retain decent 
composure. But the impression of their review has not 
passed away, and 1 trust never will ; and I feel that it would 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 243 

do my heart good to go over the ground with you (were you 
only by my side), not of their external character, that you 
know already, but of the effect of such discipline upon the 
mind. Constant exposure to the weather hardens the skin, 
and the habit of living under circumstances of trial deadens 
one^s sensibilities ; and I could not now, if I would, be as 
strongly affected by them as I used to be during my no- 
vitiate. Still, I have not quite ceased to feel, and conse- 
quently to suffer and to enjoy ; and I trust that the joys and 
sorrows of the past year have not been experienced without 
some beneficial result 

" I have long thought one of the greatest blessings of my 
life to be that singular preparation which each event has 
given me for that which was to succeed it ; and I never re- 
alized this so fully as during my late wanderings. Habit 
had given me the power of sustaining easily and cheerfully 
circumstances which, to one less experienced, would have 
brought labor and sorrow ; thus enabling me to pursue the 
one great object for which we were striving, unclogged (if I 
may so say) by any considerations for self, and thus lessen- 
ing my trials, not only to myself, but to those around me. 
Now that all is over, I am conscious that the mental as well 
as the physical effort has been great ; and I consider this 
* lying by ' as advantageous to my mind as to my body. 
I was beginning wrong, had for some time felt that trifles 
were a burden to me ; and although by the application of 
strong stimulants, such as the joy of getting home, I could 
keep alive my courage to act, I am persuaded that it was 
something of the excitement which frequently precedes 
entire failure, rather than any substantial good. In the de- 
lightful quiet of my own snug chamber, I have had time to 
look a little more into myself than I have been able to do 
for a long, long time. The outward exigencies of the mo- 
ment had so long occupied every faculty, that it was not 



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244 LIPB IN CAMBRIDOB. 

singular that I had become almost a stranger to that void 
within, which is to be known only in the ' secret silence * 
of tranquil thought. I have felt grateful for this repose ; 
and, so far from pitying me for having been arrested in the 
pursuit of my domestic duties, just as I was so happily re- 
stored to them, my friends would rejoice for me, if they 
knew how much I needed, and how much I have enjoyed, 
this rest DonH think me quite insensible to the trouble 
it has caused my friends, or the loss it has been to my 
husband's comfort I am not ; but neither am I sure that 
in the end both will not be gainers by it I have not been 
very sick, r— not so sick as to require a suspension of any 
of the daily operations of the household in my behalf. I 
could always have my children about me, and except now 
and then could do very well without any aid out of my 
family. I needed rest and quiet more than any thing ; 
and that did not interfere with others' pursuits. Emma 
has been with me six weeks; and enacted Mrs. Gerry, 
Queen's jester, Cerberus, and a *• thorn in the flesh,' as she 
styles herself, with the perfection that belongs to such an 
actress. She has been a real comfort and delight to us 
both ; for she has the faculty of fitting in so exactly to the 
circumstances of the case, that she does more good than 
she intends to do, good as her intentions are. 

But Emma says, ' Hold ! enough ! ' I forget which of 
her characters she appears under now ; but I '11 punish her 
by making her fill this page with the bulletin of health of 
every man, woman, and child belonging to the establish- 
ment, which I was just going to give you myself. 

" Mart." 

In February, we find Mrs. Ware still a prisoner 
in that chamber of sickness ; though not exactly a 
prisoner, for we have heard her speak of the reluo- 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 24d 

tance with which she left that long confinement, to 
retain to the glare and tumult of the world. And 
from the manner in which she wrote to Emma, soon 
after she had left her, it would seem that she had not 
expected to return at all. Indeed, some of her lan- 
guage indicates a serious apprehension on her part, 
of which few were aware. In refusing to let Emma 
come again merely to read to her, as she had pro- 
posed, Mary says : " I allow that it would be an 
especial comfort to be read to sleep sometimes, 
when my opium-fed imagination is conjuring up 
fancies that mar my rest for that night; and it 
would be a great pleasure to have my thoughts a 
little more diverted from self than I can divert them 
unaided. If my disease were rapidly gaining ground, 
the case would be altered. I know too well the lux- 
ury of having done ' the last ' for a friend, to debar 
any one from it. But although I am aware that 
there are many probabilities in favor of the idea that 
the disease never will be overcome, I see no reason 
to nourish the feeling which a state of uncertainty 
cannot but create. It may be that my days are to 
be few. And if the * wearin' awa of snow-wreaths 
in the thaw ' is to be the signal of like decay in my- 
self, I sl\all surely need you more than now. At aU 
events, the spring must be a season of lassitude and 
bodily trial to me ; and if you will give me the 
promised visit then, you will have no reason to be 
dissatisfied with the degree of good you will do me." 
Two months later than this, Mrs. Ware wrote to the 
same friend, more at length. 

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246 UPB IN CAlfBRlDeE* 

*" Qmbridg^, AprU 20, 1881. 
*' Dear Emma : — 

*^ I have watched you from mj working-chair ' out ol 
sight,^ as some of my Dublin friends would say ; and now 
I have taken my desk into my lap for sundry purposes, but 
the first that suggests itself is, to commence an omnium 
gatherum for you. I shall want to say five hundred things 
at least every day for a month to come ; and I don^t know 
why I should not indulge you with one of the five hundred 
daily. What time so good to commence, as that in which 
my heart is full of twice that number of feelings of grati- 
tude and love towards you? But no, this is not a good 
time either, for they come rushing forward with such a 
spirit of rivalry, each wishing to be represented first, that 
they blind my eyes and make my pen tremble ; so I will 
teach them what a good disciplinarian I am, and make 
them all keep silence until they have learned better man- 
ners. 

^' To-day I am as weak as possible, but free from pain. 
The truth is, that I am feeling, just as I told you I should, 
the trial of weakness much more, now that I can move 
about, than when 1 was shut up. When I knew it was my 
part to give up trying to do any thing, and turn my mind 
to the improvement which belonged to such a state of 
things, I had not a wish to step over my threshold, or an 
anxious thought about any thing beyond it. It would be 
time enough when I could go among people and things, I 
thought, and I would enjoy the luxury of idleness to the 
full. I did ; but now the case is changing. I am able to 
use ray bodily powers, and feel that I ought to exert my 
mental energies also; but my strength fails me, mental 
and bodily, and this brings to me a feeling of discourage- 
ment and dissatisfaction with myself, that I find it hard to 
■tru|^le against as I ought. In fact, it carries me back to 



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LIFE IN OAMBBIBOB. 247 

old Mary Pickard's spring feelinge of nothingness, which I 
fight with in vain. I fear that I have been so long indulged 
in idleness, that I have lost my energy of mind, or become 
selfish, and a thousand other wrong things which do some- 
times creep upon one without leave. You will tell me this 
is merely the effect, the inevitable effect, of weakness, as 
my husband does. I hope it is, and that I shall rise in time 
to my wished-for energy. 

^^ I was glad to find you had made so good a beginning 
of your summer life. It is delightful to me to be able to 
think of you enjoying so much, and doing so much, as I 
am sure you will. I think it was very well to strike into 
the plan at once. May I ask you, too, to take one half- 
hour daily, with your door locked, for some little sentence 
and the thoughts which will grow out of it, for the cultiva- 
tion of that internal treasure which you value so much, and 
in which you wish to feel more vital, exciting interest ? I 
know by my own experience that we lose much of what we 
long to keep, by an unacknowledged but constantly operat- 
ing contempt for small means, hourly attentions to the de- 
tails of spiritual discipline. Having calmly, thoroughly, 
may I add, prayerfully, viewed one Christian virtue in the 
day, are we not almost secure of acting in conformity to 
that one, for at least twenty-four hours ? And if every 
day we thus gain one victory, shall we not have reason to 
hope we may in time be wholly conquerors ? But more 
of this in our pretty book, which will contain preaching 
enough for my share of your ear upon such matters. 

*' All send love, with that of your 

** M. L. Wxai*** 

In the spring, Mrs. Ware recovered, as to all ap« 
parent disease ; but she continued feeble through the 
summer, and suffered much from her sense of in*' 



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248 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

efficiency, in body and mind, — " literally unable," as 
she says, " to write a letter." Nor do we find any 
letters before October, when she wrote in full her 
own impressions of this important portion of her ex- 
perience, with an account of its termination in the 
alarming illness of her husband, to whom she was 
summoned at a distance. His health had been con- 
stantly improving through the winter, and he had 
performed all the duties of his office, except preach- 
ing, which he had ventured upon but once for nearly 
three years, and then only on account of the death 
of Mrs. Emerson, the wife of his colleague and suc- 
cessor in Boston. In the summer vacation of the 
present year, 1831, Mr. Ware made a pedestrian 
tour, with a friend, to the White Hills ; and, feeling 
strong enough, engaged to preach on his return at 
Concord, N. H. But before he could reach that 
place, he was prostrated with fever, and became se- 
verely, and he himself believed fatally ill.. Under 
this full conviction, he made a great effort to write 
a few last words to his wife ; and did write a note, 
which we wish we were at liberty to use, so moving 
as it is in itself and its circumstances, so charac- 
teristic of him who wrote it, and so touching and 
beautiful a tribute to her whom he loved, and whom 
he thought to see no more on earth. 

It need not be told that Mrs. Ware went to her 
husband as soon as she knew of his sickness, though 
she had not entirely regained her own strength. He 
had been removed to Concord, where she joined him, 
and stayed till they could come home together. She 
seems not to have been surprised by this summons ; 



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LIFB IN CAMBRIDGB. 249 

it being one of her principles, and a fixed habit, 
to anticipate all probable, even possible events, as 
far as she could, and make them familiar to her 
thoughts ; not to sadden or weaken, but to strength- 
en and prepare her mind for the duties and emergen- 
cies to \)^hich she might be called. If the events did 
not occur, nothing was lost. If they came, the 
shock was less, and there was greater preparation 
and fortitude to encounter it This is not the com- 
mon course, and will not commend itself to all Not 
all would be capable of it ; and it may not be ne- 
cessary or desirable for all. The common habit is 
the very opposite, and the counsel usually given, 
from the pulpit and in private, is to anticipate noth- 
ing, — least of all, to anticipate evil; or, as the 
phrase is, never to "borrow trouble." This is not 
the place to discuss the subject We wish only to 
record our vivid impression of the delight and in- 
struction with which we have listened to that unpre- 
tending woman, as she argued the matter with those 
who differed with her ; not asking them to do as she 
did, or assuming the smallest merit for the habit, but 
only showing them how completely the uniform ex- 
perience of a life of trial had satisfied her that this 
course was best for her. And all who have seen 
her in trial and sickness will testify to the reality and 
power of this persuasion. 

The account, to which we have already adverted, 
of their experiences during this first year at Cam- 
bridge, through her own illness and that of her hus- 
band, is contained in a letter written on the event- 
ing of the first Sabbath that Mr. Ware wa« able to 



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250 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

preach in the College Chapel, when she also was able 
to hear him. 

** Cambridge, October 2, 1831. 

" Mt DEAJi Nancy : — 

** Were you ever so weak as to omit doing a thing which 
you strongly desired to do, entirely because you knew you 
could not do it thoroughly to your own satisfaction? If 
you have been, you can better understand than I can de- 
scribe the many foolish feelings which have, from time 
to time, and a hundred times, made me throw down my 
pen and say to myself, ' I cannot write to her now ; I have 
not time to say half I wish to say, or she to hear.' It is 
just so now ; I knew all the time it was wrong to do so, and 
now I am determined to turn over a new leaf with myself, 
at the commencement of this new year of my life ; and as 
your spirit has haunted my conscience more than any 
other, I begin by laying it with the spell of my fairy pen. 
But where shall I begin ? I cannot remember where I leA 
off, or rather do not know what you have heard from others 
since I left you a year ago. 

*' Of my winter's sickness I cannot write ; it contained a 
long life of enjoyment, and what I hoped would prove profit- 
able thought and reflection. I came out of my nest almost 
reluctantly, for I had a dread of the absorbing power of world- 
ly •ares and interests ; and for a long time my head remained 
so weak that I suffered from the necessity of giving my whole 
mind to the trifling occupations of daily life in order to per- 
form them with tolerable decency. This has been a, bane 
to my comfort throughout the summer ; and although I 
have had Harriet Hall and Mary Ware, and many of those 
I rejoiced to see, again around me, I have not profited much 
by the privilege, my mind having all its capacity more 
than employed by the care of our bodies. This was very 
humiliating for one to whom all the outward cares of life 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 251 

have been mere play-work ; but I could contrive to keep 
externally quiet, and not appear fidgety ; so I try to think 
this was conquest enough for me in my then state of weak- 
ness. The heat prostrated me very much. I began to 
fear I should never bo able to do any two things at once 
again. But since my family has returned to its usual size, 
and the cool days of autumn have sent their invigorating 
influences to my bodily powers, my mind improves ' a 
little, not much' (as my Rob says fifty times a day). Lit- 
erally, I could not write a letter through the whole summer ; 
and now the task is so novel a one, that I cannot expect to 
be coherent, this being my first. 

" In this state of things, my husband lefl me for a walk 
to the White Hills. I felt sure that, if pursued with due 
discretion, it would do him good. He was pretty well, but 
wanted something to give him a spring before beginning to 
preach. I had not the least objection to his going, but hav- 
ing watched him so long, so incessantly, I felt very much 
as a mother does the first night she weans her infant from 
her. In pursuance of my long-established habit, I set my- 
self the, task of preparing for any accident which might be- 
fall him, and I believe looked at all the possibilities of the 
case ; so that when the summons actually came for me to 
attend him at Concord, where he was ill of a fever, it did 
not take me by surprise. I was, as it were, prepared for it, 
and could receive it calmly and act coolly. In two hours I 
was on my way to him, confident in my own strength, for 
no care of him present could be the weight on my mind 
which the thought of him absent had been ; and the bodily 
exertion was not as great as I had been for some time mak- 
ing, having been nearly all summer without my qtmntum 
of help. I found him very sick, but surrounded by kind- 
ness. He soon began to mend, and we jogged home- 
wards. Harriet had been with me, so that I could leave 



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LIFB IV CAMBRIDGE. 

my children without any anxiety; and the journey, and the 
happiness which accompanied it, did me good. I have 
been gaining ever since, and Mr. Ware too. I am now so 
well, that I can walk an hour before breakfast, and into 
Boston with ease ) and to-day I have had the unspeakable 
joy of hearing my husband perform all the services of the 
pulpit. This is a point that I have so oAen thought of as 
the one blessing which I dared not hope for, and have be- 
lieved that, if it could be granted, I should have nothing 
more to ask for, that I hardly know how I feel, now that it 
is actually granted. One thing more, however, I must ask, 
— that I may be truly grateful for it. 

" Yours as ever. 

*M. L. W.^ 

Happy was it for Mrs. Ware if she could be al- 
ways prepared for change and trial. For while her 
life was a favored one, and so regarded by her, few 
enjoying more in any condition, she was equally 
alive to all suffering, and seldom knew a long ex- 
emption. So far, however, she had been spared all 
trial in regard to her children. Not that they had 
been free from sickness, or had caused no solicitude, 
for there had been much of both ; but their lives had 
blen continued, and at this time she was rejoicing in 
their health. Three of them she had just taken to 
Milton, to enjoy a week with them at Brush Hill, 
where she had spent so much of her early life, but 
where she had not been at all since her children were 
born. Pleasantly does she contrast her present with 
her former enjoyment there. Writing to her hus- 
band from this place, she says : — ^< I am enjoying 
myself much, but find I was quite mistaken in 



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LIFC IN CAMBRIDGE. 253 

thinking I could turn into Mary Pickard again by 
the power of association. I do very well under that 
character through the day, but with nightfall the re- 
membrance of home comes over me ; the idea of the 
husband and child I have left there, and the three 
chickens who are asleep up stairs, rises before my 
mind's eye, as so many more blessings than poor 
Polly could boast, that I resign my pretensions with a 
very grateful heart I am sorry, dear Henry, that you 
could not be a little longer with me here, (among 
other very disinterested reasons,) that I might read 
you sundry chapters in the life of that interest- 
ing personage just named, — chapters which are 
written about upon these trees and stone walls, and 
which no other place could recall. It is very de- 
lightful for me to live over those days again, and I 
am sure my mind will be refreshed by this visit, if 
my body is not As to this latter concern, it does 
as well as I could expect'* 

This visit was made just before her summons to 
Mr. Ware's bedside at Concord. After their return 
to Cambridge, they took possession of a new house 
just built for them ; and one of the first events that 
occurred in that house was the death of Mrs. Wafe's 
first-born, Robert, then three and a half years of age. 
It was a sore trial, and well do we remember the 
spirit in which it was met ; for it was our privilege 
to be staying with them at the time, and to be pres- 
ent at the parting. The little sufferer had endeared 
himself to us all by his patience and sweetness of 
disposition. Separated from his parents in early in- 
fancy, and remaining apart until he was two years 
22 



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254 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

old, they had taken him back, when they returned, 
as a fresh gift from. God ; and though another had 
been granted them, there was a peculiar feeling con- 
nected with Mmj which every parent will under- 
stand. Movingly now does the scene return to us, 
of the mother sitting silently and reverently at the 
side of her expiring boy; and when the gentle 
breathing wholly ceased, asking — still silently — 
the husband and father, who knelt by her, to pray. 
Faintly, tremulously, more and more distinctly, and 
then most fervently, did that voice of submission and 
supplication fall upon our ears, and fill our eyes, and 
lift the heart into a region which death never enters ! 
As the voice ceased, the mother fainted ; but soon 
she rose, stronger rather than weaker, and ready for 
every duty. In referring to this bereavement after- 
ward, she says, in the thought of her husband's con- 
stant danger : ^ Having had so long the greatest 
possible trial hanging over my head, every thing else 
seems comparatively easy to bear ; and 1 sometimes 
doubt, whether any thing but that one will ever wean 
me from the world, as I think a Christian should be." 
How much she felt, and how much she trusted, may 
be seen in her first letter after this trial 

** Cambridge, December 31, 1831. 
" My dear Friend : — 

" Again does this anniversary find us inhabitants of this 
world, and again, as usual, does it present in my lot some- 
thing of solemn and interesting import, upon which we may 
dwell with profit for a time. It is a privileged hour, and I 
shall use it as I have been wont to do, in the full indulgence 
of selfish egotism, trusting that some good may result to us 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 255 

both from it. What does the retrospect of the year present 
to me ? My husband and myself have been again raised 
from the bed of sickness and threatened death, and I have 
been called upon to restore to Him who gave one of the 
dearest treasures which His providence had bestowed upon 
me. These are great events for one short year, designed 
to produce great effects, involving great responsibility, be- 
stowing great privileges. My own sickness brought with it 
many pleasures, many pure and elevating views and feel- 
ings; and although it did not bring me to that cheerful 
willingness to resign my life after which I strove and 
hoped to attain, it thereby threw light upon the weakness 
of my religious character, calculated to subdue presumptu- 
ous self-dependence, and teach. a lesson of humility which 
may perhaps be of more importance and advantage to my 
growth in holiness. My husband^s danger renewed the so 
oft^ repeated testimony that strength is ever at hand for 
those who need it, gave me another exercise of trust in that 
mighty arm which can save to the uttermost, and in its 
result is a new cause for gratitude to Him who has so 
abundantly blessed me all the days of my life. 

^' And now has come this new trial of my faith, this new 
test of its reality, that there may be no hiding-place left for 
me, no light wanting by which to search into the hidden 
recesses of the spirit to ' see if there be any wicked way 
in it.' And whatever may be the result of this strict 
scrutiny, am I not to be thankful for it ? Am I not to feel 
that it is indeed the kindest love that subjects me to it ? 
We feel it a privilege that a child should have earthly 
parents to guide, counsel, and correct it ; and shall we not 
be grateful to that Heavenly Parent who does the same in a 
far better manner ? I would thank God that he has by his 
past dispensations taught me the duty and happiness of 
submission, so that I can bow to the rod, and desire only 



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256 LIFE IN CAMBRIDOB. 

to see how its chastisement is to be used and improved. I 
have always looked upon the death of children rather as a 
subject for joy than sorrow, and have been perplexed at 
seeing so many, who would bear what seemed to me much 
harder trials with firmness, so completely overwhelmed by 
this, as is frequently the case. But I know that upon any 
point in which we have had no personal experience we 
cannot form a correct judgment, and therefore I have never 
had any definite anticipations of its effect upon myself. I 
am thankful to find that the general views upon which my 
former opinions have been founded are not obscured by the 
flood of new emotions which actual experience brings. I 
can resign my child into the hands of its Maker, with as 
strong a belief as I ever had, that it is a blessing to itself to 
be removed, ' untasked, untried,^ from a world in which the 
result of labor and trial is so doubtful. It is a blessing to 
be taken from the care of ignorant, powerless human 
teachers, to the guidance of higher and holier and perfect 
instructors ; so that its pure spirit will not now be sullied 
by the pollutions of this degraded world, but go on from 
glory to glory until it has attained the full measure of the 
stature of a child of God. 

" You know too well what are the hopes and enjoyments 
belonging to the relation of parent and child, to require to 
be told how hard it is to lay them all aside ; and there was 
something in the peculiar circumstances of the birth and 
life of this child, which could not but give a peculiar char- 
acter to our connection with him. And so he has passed 
from us ; but what a comfort to know that we have not lost 
him I We had a visit from Dr. Channing yesterday, in 
which he spoke so gloriously of the honor of having given 
a child to heaven, as to elevate me far above common 
considerations. But enough ; think of us still as happy. 

" M. L. Ware." 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 257 

One of the traits of Mrs. Ware's character — not 
named for its singularity or distinction, but simply 
as a fact, noticed by all who knew her — was the 
amount of time and strength which she devoted to 
her children. With all the sicknesses, which from 
this period came almost constantly either to her or 
her husband, and which are apt to make such sad 
inroads upon our quiet and faithful intercourse with 
our children, — amid all her domestic cares, of which 
she took as large a share, in every department, as 
perhaps any woman ever did in a similar position, 
feeling and seeing, all the time, the painful need of 
a rigid economy, in the midst of never-ceasing and 
never-limited hospitality, — her thoughtfulness and 
care for each child, in regard to the body, the mind, 
and the soul, seemed literally uninterrupted. And 
this care of her children reached them in their ab- 
sence as well as their presence. In the summer after 
Robert's ^death, the oldest son, John, was placed 
at school in Framingham, where he remained sev- 
eral years ; and seldom did he fail to receive, not 
only faithful letters, but a journal of daily doings, 
from his mother's pen, though she long remained 
feeble, and was now the mother of another infant, 
which she was compelled to put out to nurse. An- 
other term of severe illness ensued, causing a lame- 
ness of long duration. But as soon as possible, 
indeed all along, she was doing something for the 
absent son. 

" When you left home, my dear John," she writes 
in July, 1832, " I thought I should soon be well 
enough to write you, and intended to keep a journal 
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258 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

for you of what went on amongst us, to be sent to 
you every fortnight ; but now you have been gone 
two months, and I have not been able to write to 
you once, so little can we calculate upon the future. 
I have been obliged to keep my bed a great part of 
the time, and am not yet able to walk across the 
room without much pain, I have not been down 
stairs, excepting twice, when I was carried in arms 
to the front door, and rode about ten minutes, which 
hurt me so much that I shall not try it again very 
soon. I tell you all this, that you may understand 
how impossible it has been for me to fulfil my 
promise to you. I have thought much of you, and 
rejoiced to hear so often from you that you were 
happy and improving. When I have felt that I 
should never get well, and perhaps never see you 
again in this world, I have been very anxious about 
you, and have prayed most fervently that God would 
guide you in the right path, and hoped that you 
would live to be a comfort to your father when I 

was gone 

" This is a busy week with us ; yesterday being 
Exhibition, to-day Valedictory, to-morrow the The- 
ological Exhibition in the iporning and a public 
meeting of the Philanthropic Society in the after- 
noon. We shall have an open house, and hope to 
have as many friends with us as we had last year." 
An open house, filled with friends, all welcomed 
and in some way entertained by the lady of the 
house, who is not able to walk across the room with- 
out pain ! We doubt not there are hundreds of such 
cases, some, it may be, more trying and more re- 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 259 

markable ; but it does not alter the fact, nor make it 
less worthy of notice in a woman who did all that 
Mrs. Ware did. 

It was a feature of Mrs. Ware's domestic charac- 
ter, that the throng of cares and conflict of duties 
seldom worried her. Many are they who are as dili- 
gent and faithful, but yet live in a perpetual hurry 
and fret. She knew the danger, and brought all her 
power and principle to withstand it, even in the 
smallest matters. Often have we heard her lament- 
ing the necessity of spending so much of life in 
mere drudgery, ministering to the perishing but 
never-satisfied bodp; a necessity and service that 
devolve upon many women, and take from them 
the opportunity of high mental and spiritual culture, 
unless they carry into these daily duties and petty 
carea a calm spirit and a cheerful tone, with an ele- 
vated and steadfast purpose. Such was Mary's 
habitual endeavor. The difficulty, and the frequent 
failure, none were more ready to own. She never 
satisfied herself, but she never flagged. She never 
worried. Sudden interruptions, culinary disappoint- 
ments, " shoals of visitors " with little of preparation, 
were not allowed to chill her welcome or cloud their 
enjoyment There were no apologies at that table. 
If unexpected guests were not always filled, they 
were never annoyed, nor suffered to think much about 
^ it. A clergyman, who visited the house often as a 
student, says of Mrs. Ware : " I remember the won- 
der I felt at her humility and dignity in welcom- 
ing to her table on some occasion a troop of acci- 
dental guests, when she had almost nothing to ofler 



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260 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

but her hospitality. The absence of all apologies 
and of all mortification, the ease and cheerfulness 
of the conversation, which became the only feast, 
gave me a lesson never forgotten, although never 
learned." 

Are these little things ? They fill a large place in 
life, and have much to do with its solid comfort. 
They affect the temper, they enter into the charac- 
ter, and may help or hinder our best power and im- 
provement. We introduce them here because they 
are little. There was not much in the life we are 
penning that was not little in some comparisons. It 
is the life of a plain, retiring, domestic woman. It 
is an example not beyond the reach of any who de- 
sire to reach it. We wish to show it just as it was ; 
and to show, that of nothing was it more clearly the 
result, in nothing does its value more clearly consist, 
than in the power of Christian faith and simple 
goodness. 

We have sometimes thought it would be well if 
all parishioners, those especially who are quick to 
discern the failings and slow to understand the labors 
of their pastor, could spend a few weeks in his house, 
and get some idea of the variety, complexity, arda- 
ousness, and endlessness of his duties. But from 
the picture which Mrs. Ware gives of the life at 
Cambridge, we should infer that the engagements 
and interruptions of most parishes were light in the 
comparison. " I used to think Boston life a very 
busy and irregular one ; but our life here is far more 
so. There, there were some hours in the day in 
which, from conventional custom, one was secure of 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDOE. 261 

being quiet. Bat here, neither early hours nor late, 
neither rain nor tempest, are any security against in- 
terruption ; and often, very often, does a whole day 
pass without either my husband or myself having 
one moment for our own occupations, or even a 
chance to exchange a single sentence of recognition. 
I do not complain of this, for it is inevitable. I 
must believe it is our appointed duty. But it seema 
sometimes a most unprofitable mode of passing 
away life ; at least it is very difficult to make prog- 
ress in the things one most desires, when our time 
and our thoughts are so little at our own disposal." 

Still, amid all these calls and cares, the "journal" 
continues, and full sheets of companion-like narra- 
tion or maternal counsel go to the schoolboy at 
Framingham, who is having some of the trials of 
school-life, petty, but serious. 

"Dear John, it is time you had another letter, 
and I am very glad to be able to write you one ; it 
is the next best thing to sitting down by you and 
having a good chat I should very much like to 
look in upon you, and know exactly how you get 
along. I hope you will continue to bear any provo- 
cation you may receive with perfect quietness and 
forbearance. Such conduct as you describe is not 
worthy of notice; and if you persevere in doing 
right, and show no arrogance or pride about it, you 
will gain their respect in time, that is, of all who are 
worth gaining. I am very glad you have Mr. Ab- 
bott's book (The Young Christian). I thought of 
you when I was reading it, and felt as if it would be 
very useful to you. You will find much in it which 



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262 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

you never thought of, and much of which you will 
see a counterpart within yourself, if you examine 
yourself faithfully. It seemed to me, while reading 
it, that I was looking into a glass which reflected 
myself; for I have lived long enough to know more 
about myself than I used to at your age, and I 
often wish that I had had such looking-glasses then ; 
•I should, I think, have been saved many a feeling of 
self-reproach, and many a foolish and sinful action. 
You can hardly imagine now how great a blessing you 
possess in the watchful care which is extended over 
you by your dear father; may it never be with- 
drawn from you until you have learned to guide 
yourself by the high and holy principles of Christian 
virtue ! " 

It shows Mr. Ware's apprehensions in regard to 
bis wife's health as well as his own, that, in a letter 
to the same son, he writes : " I find that your two 
parents are in very frail health, and probably des- 
tined to a short life. You will perhaps, therefore, be 
left at an early age to take care of yourself." 

We learn still more of their mental and social life 
at this period froni two letters which Mrs. Ware 
wrote at the end of the years 1832 and 1833 ; there 
having been little variety between, except a jour- 
ney south as far as Alexandria, which they took 
together, for recreation and health, early in 1833, 
with a few later incidents referred to in the letters. 



«* Camhridgey December 31, 1832. 

"DearN : 

" F prophesied, ten years ago, that friendship be- 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 263 

tween married women could not be of long continuance. 
He did not know that there is in woman's nature some- 
thing which woman only can fully understand ; or his 
knowledge of human nature in general would have shown 
him that the love of sympathy will triumph over many an 
obstacle, which would be a perfect barrier to a less power- 
ful motive. Who but a woman, and one too who knows 
the exact mould in which one's soul is fashioned, would 
understand what it has been to me to stand on the verge of 
the grave, in full possession of the whole intellectual being, 
and prepare myself to leave such an assemblage of bless- 
ings as have fallen to my lot, — husband, children, friends, 
and the delightful duties which accompany these relations, 
-—and then Jo be restored to them all, with an added gift! 
And all without one drawback, but my own want of sensi- 
bility, to make the blessing as great as it would be with a 
more sensitive heart. Perhaps no one can fully compre- 
hend it who has not been placed in exactly the same situa — 
tion. But you can come nearer to it than any one else, 
and you will not wonder that the past should seem to me 
one of the most valuable years of my life. I have often 
wished for just this experience, when I have felt how inef- 
fectual were the monitors of Providence in awakening that 
deep sense of God's goodness, and that clear conviction of 
the reality of a future state, which are so important to the 
Qhristian life. I have almost envied those who were per- 
mitted to approach so nearly to the gates of death as to give 
up all expectation of a prolonged life. It has seemed as if 
this appeal must be irresistible ; as if there could be no 
more deadness, or apathy, or indifference, after this. One 
could not come back to the world and be absorbed as before 
in its short-lived pursuits. But vain is the hope, I begin to 
fear, of our being raised by any thing so much above the 
world, as not to be subject to the power of the tempter 



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264 LIFK IN CAMBRIDOB. 

while we live in it The physical weakness which enabled 
us to realize the uncertain tenure by which we are connect- 
ed with this world is gradually changed into strength, and 
the power to act brings with it the desire ; — and who shall 
easily set bounds to this desire? It is the all-consuming 
monster that cries, ' Give ! give ! ' until we do give it every 
day, every hour, every thought, — until the present alone 
occupies us, and, alas ! satisfies us too. Is this exaggera- 
tion, merely a dark picture drawn from my own sad ex- 
perience ? I hope it is. 

" But I am going too far, filling all my paper with croak- 
ing, when I have so pleasant a picture of my ' outer man * 
to present to you. We are all well ; that is, well enough 
to be free from anxiety on the subject ; — neither Henry nor 
I good for much beyond a very narrow sphere, but free 
from disease. I keep very quietly at home. Indeed, I 
cannot do otherwise ; a ride into Boston tires me so much, 
that I am not fit for any thing for a day after ; a walk does 
the same. So I am fain to content myself with my home 
comforts; and to this end I have converted my chamber 
into a study, where Henry writes, I work, and Nanny plays 
all the livelong day. It is more like Sheafe Street comfort 
than any thing we have had since. My husband's social 
habits, and the fact of our having lived so much together 
for the last three years, make it particularly pleasant to 
him to be saved the trouble of going in search of me whenr 
ever he wants to read a sentence or say a word ; and for 
the same reasons, it is very pleasant to me to have so much 
of his presence without feeling that he is taken off from his 
rightful pursuits by it. January 1, 1833 ! A happy new 
year to you all ! 

" Yours truly. 

"M.L. W.»» 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 265 

« Cambridge, December 31, 1833. 

" My dear N : 

'^ I am inclined to think that it is our inordinate estimate 
of the happiness of this life, and our vague, half-sceptical 
notions of a future state, that make us grieve so much when 
such spirits as Elizabeth B— are withdrawn from us. I 
don't know, but I sometimes greatly fear that we do not 
bring home the reality of the future as we should do ; we 
are so occupied with our theories of right principles of ac- 
tion and correct ideas of moral conduct in this life (all very- 
good in their place), and so afraid of falling into the ex- 
travagant exercise of the imagination, which has betrayed 
so many of our opponents in doctrine into enthusiasm and 
folly, that we lose sight of the good influences which such 
contemplations might have upon our hearts. This year has 
been to me one of less variety than any of the last six. 
My husband's long sickness in the spring, and the efforts 
consequent upon it, were the source of much anxiety, and 
in some points a new experience. But I have had for so 
long a time only to bear and submit, that my mind has 
settled itself into that attitude, and it is no longer an effort. 
It is quite another thing, when it becomes my duty to exer- 
cise my energies in positive acts, — when others are looking 
to me for guidance, when my habitual influence is to form 
the character of this child and check the waywardness of 
• that, with all the train of active duties which devolve upon 
a married woman, — then I am overpowered and power- 
less. 

" I wished you had b^en by my side on Sunday, while I 
isat in my old corner in Federal Street meeting-house, listen- 
ing to that voice which is to us both associated with some 
of our best religious impressions. I went to hear Dr. 
Channing, for the second time only since I returned home, 
as much for the sake of recalling old associations as from 
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266 LIFE IN CAMBRIBOE. 

any expectation of new influences ; for it does me good 
now and then to go back to what I was, the better to under- 
stand what I am. If he had known just what I was suf- 
fering, he could not have adapted himself more entirely to 
my case. He was upon some of the obstacles which may 
prevent our use of the present moment for improvement ; 
and he enlarged upon the tendency to rest satisfied with 
past attainments. Because we had at one period of our 
lives been deeply moved and strongly influenced by re- 
ligious motives, — had performed some great acts of benev- 
olence, or sustained ourselves under great trial with forti- 
tude and submission, — we deluded ourselves with the idea, 
that we had attained a height from which we could not fall. 
But no mistake could be more ruinous. The past was 
nothings except as it influenced the present. We trust too 
much to future improvement, to a vague notion of gradual 
progress, — we know not exactly how, or by what means. 
But as we are not conscious of becoming worse, we think 
we must be growing better, and shall by and by be all that 
we ought to be. Or we hope for more favorable circum- 
stances, to influence us, and expect to be, we know not why, 
in a more fit state at some other time for our religious 
duties. 

•* Had I room, I could give you a long story about this, 
for my mind is full of it. But I have another word to say 
upon the fact of our giving so much time to the mere out- 
side of life, to the employment of our fingers, the mere 
mechanical employments pertaining to the body. It is a 
question with me, whether it is no^ a duty to be satisfied 
with a less elegant, and even a less comfortable style of life, 
rather than take so much from the cultivation of the intel- 
lectual and spiritual, when, as is so often the case now-a- 
days, we must either do the drudgery ourselves or leave it 
undone. I donH know, — I am puzzled. I know that if we 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 267 

are doing our duty, however mean may be our employ- 
ment, we are fulfilling our destiny, and doing God the best 
service. But the question is. What is our duty ? And are 
we not in danger of mistaking the real nature of duty, from 
too great a love of this world and the things of it ? This is 
one of the difficult questions, which ray husband and I try 
to settle. I wish you would tell me what you think. And 
here comes my Willie, with an imploring look to be taken 
up, — a reproving one, too, that in all this long letter nei- 
ther he nor his family are so much as noticed. All are 
well. 

"Yours ever. 

" M. L. Ware." 

Unusual freedom from sickness and apprehension 
was for a time enjoyed. Mrs. Ware was full of hap- 
piness and thankfulness. " It seems to me that 
never had people so much reason for gratitude as 
we ; and I think I never felt this more than at this 
time, for I too am beginning to have the first feel- 
ings of health which I have known for a year and a 
half." But a change came. And with the letter 
which explains it we close this portion of the Cam- 
bridge life. 

<* Catiibridge, May 4, 1834. 

" My dear N : 

" . . . . We have had our usual variety of sickness and health 
since I wrote to you in January. Soon after that, I had a visit 
from my old, and I thought conquered, enemy, the cramp ; 
not a very severe attack, but sufficient to make me very 
-good for nothing for a week, in the course of which Nanny 
had a very severe fall, which for twenty-four hours made 
us apprehensive >that we should have to part with her. But 
this trial was spared us, in much mercy ; for two days after 



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268 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

this, Elizabeth was very sick, though not dangerously. All 
this had its effect upon Mr. Ware and myself, and we have 
been the greater part of the time in the most disagreeable 
state of betwixity, neither sick enough to be excused from 
labor, nor well enough to do any thing profitable, — just 
good for nothing. In the vacation in April, Mr. Ware went 
to Portsmouth to collect materials for his Memoir of Dr. 
Parker, intending by the way to go to Exeter. 

*' The day after he went, my Willie, who had been the 
very perfection of health and happiness all winter, began to 
droop, and, notwithstanding pretty. efficient measures, in a 
few days became the subject of decided lung fever ; not . 
very sick, but requiring constant watching and careful 
attention. A week from the day he was taken, he 'had a 
severe spasmodic attack, from which we thought he would 
never revive ; and when, after various measures, he began 
to breathe again, we sat for four hours expecting that 
every moment would be his last. It was a season of severe 
trial, not a little increased by his father's absence, and the 
impossibility of his reaching home until this sweet child 
must be for ever removed from his sight. Yet it was not 
for me to learn then, for the first time, that He who sends 
trial always gives strength to bear it. I knew it would be 
so, and in that faith I rested in peace and tranquillity. But 
this blow, too, was averted. After a long struggle he re- 
vived, and I realized, what I had never known before, that 
this second birth, as it were, of a child is a far more affecting 
cause for gratitude and joy than the first gift ever can be. 
It was a great experience in many ways. It helped me to 
understand the feeling of those who were witnesses of mir- 
acles more than any thing I ever met with. For all human 
means were at an end ; nothing could be done but to pray 
that the Almighty Power, to whom all things were possible, 
might yet interpose to save. And the fact of having beea 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 269 

carried through such a trial with entire submission and 
calmness, — what confidence does it not give in. the all-suffi- 
cient power of that religion which can alone. succor one in 
such an hour of need ! The kindness, too, which such an 
occasion calls forth from those around us, is not the least 
of its blessings. It makes us view human kind more justly 
than we are sometimes inclined to do, and sinks for ever 
some of those petty and contemptuous feelings which will 
sometimes rise towards those with whom we have but little 
sympathy. 

" My husband returned after all this was over, quite sick ; 
but he did return without the necessity of my going to him, 
and returned to be the better for being at home, gaining 
every moment after he entered his house. All this was 
during that bright, warm interval in April, when nature 
seemed buoyant with joy. We had just completed our 
summer arrangements, and altogether it seemed to me as 
if I had begun existence anew. Although somewhat ex- 
hausted by the struggle, I really am better than for months 

past. 

" Yours ever. 

"M.L.Ware.'' 



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XI. 

LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. (Continited.) 

It is the misfortune of those who are often sick to 
be blamed for their sicknesses in proportion as they 
are active and laborious when well. Their energy is 
sure to be considered the cause of subsequent and 
frequent debility ; and if not blanied, they find less 
compassion or kind considerarion than the indolent 
and self-indulgent. These last may be sick all the 
time, and it is ascribed only to nature or the provi- 
dence of God. But the conscientious and energetic, 
who accomplish wonders for themselves or others ia 
their brief intervals of health, and possibly in sick- 
ness likewise, are accused of imprudence and a sin- 
ful disregard of self j- while in truth it may be only 
by extreme care and unknown self-denials that they 
are able to accomplish any thing. 

If Mary Ware was ever severely censured, we 
suppose it to have been in connection with this -mat- 
ter of health. Few women have been blessed with 
a better constitution, or greater power of action. 
With an. almost masculine frame, there was such a 
degree of firmness with her gentleness, as always 
gave the idea of more strength than was wanted. 
We doubt if in early life she ever thought of saving 
her strength, so accustomed was she to do any thing 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE, 271 

that needed to be done, without saying or thinking 
much about it. She who had been the sole nurse 
of a sick mother at the age of eleven or twelve, and, 
as another describes her then, "going through all 
the offices of the sick-room with the firmness of a 
woman, holding on leeches with her Uttle hand, and 
performing all the necessary duties, not absolutely 
from necessity, but from so much love and so much 
confidence that no one else was wanted," — she who 
had scarcely, from that period until middle life, been 
free from care and toil for the sick and suffering, — 
might be pardoned if she became self-relying, or at 
least self-forgetting. And yet when at last that 
vigorous frame was impaired, and the overwrought 
energies of body and mind partially gave way, so 
that the remainder of her life was subject to constant 
fluctuations of strength and weakness, powerful ex- 
ertion and acute suffering, she does not seem to ua 
to have been presumptuous or ever reckless. It is 
evident now, if it was not at the time, that she made 
this as much a matter of sober calculation and con- 
scientious questioning as any thing, and much more 
than is common. Still she tells us that she was 
blamed for her imprudence ; and she brings instances 
from her own experience to show the frequent error 
of judging of what one does, or forbears to do, by the 
apparent result, rather than from knowledge or by 
principle. " People judge by consequences^ or what 
seem to be consequences, rather than by reasoning 
upon premises." 

It is partly to show how Mrs. Ware defended her- 
self, and at the same time submitted to counsel and ' 



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272 UFB IN CAMBRI]>eE. 

was grateful for admonition, and partly to show 
how singularly insulated she must have been in her 
early training and her self-formed character, that we 
introduce the following note, written to a lady who 
acted the part of a true friend. The date is not 
given, but the note itself shows that it was written 
the year of the journey to the South already men- 
tioned, when she accompanied her husband at some 
risk to herself. 

" My dear, good Friend : — 

** I cannot thank you as I would for your kind note. I 
have not words wherewith to picture to you the joy I feel, 
that there is any one human being in existence who is will- 
ing to admonish me freely. If you have told me nothing 
new, your words are none the less welcome, for one can- 
not have the truth too frequently presented to the mind ; 
and although we may have all knowledge, it is not often 
that we can grasp it all at one glance, or even that we 
remember the points most useful to us at the time being. 

"You will not think I boast, when I say that one and all 
the views you present have long formed part of the rule of 
action by which I have tried to govern myself, because I 
know you will easily understand the deep-searching, Argus- 
eyed vigilance, which one wholly self-educated almost in- 
evitably acquires. I never have had, since I can remember, 
a principle of action suggested to me, or a word said to show 
me why one action was wrong and another right. For 
many years a' whisper of blame never reached my ears ; 
and when at last it came like a flood upon me, there was 
no friendly looking-glass near to point out to me the deform- 
ity from which my mistakes arose. At ten years of age 
I waked up to a sense of the danger of the state of indul- 
gence in which I was living. At thirteen, by the death of 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 273 

my mother, I was left wholly to my own guidance, exter- 
nally as well as internally; and from that time to this I 
have labored night and day to know, discipline, and govern 
myself, as I would a child for whose soul I was responsible. 
Dr. Channing^s sermons and conversation are the only 
.effectual human guide I ever had, until I was married. 
Having no one to whom to speak, and but one friend to 
whom I could write upon the subject, no wonder that my 
habits of thought should have been more cultivated than of 
conversation; no wonder the whole ground of self-decep- 
tion, self-distrust, self-aggrandizement, should have been 
gone over again and again until every root was displaced 
and exposed to view ; though, alas I not a hundredth part 
eradicated. Now this is not to my point, but you will still 
see that you have done me gpod by making me feel thus 
loquacious and unreserved with you. 

^\You remind me that I omitted one item in my defence, 
the mere mention of which will answer many of your que- 
ries. Who can tell how often a person, blamed for the dis- 
regard of many considerations which ought to influence the 
conduct, is inflamed by those very considerations, restrained 
by those very motives ? We see what is done ; we cannot 
see what is forborne. In proof of this, after I recovered 
from the long illness which followed immediately upon my 
arrival at home, three and a half years ago, it was five or 
six months before I felt any thing like elasticity of mind or 
body ; the least effort fatigued me ; I looked perfectly well, 
and every body was asking me why I did not go here, there, 
and everywhere. I knew from my feelings that I still 
needed rest, and I took it. Change of air, consequent upon 
the necessity of attending Mr. Ware in his sickness at Con- 
cord, produced a great change in my whole feelings. I 
seemed well again ; but I knew my system had materially 
suffered while abroad, and I determined religiously to abstain 



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274 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

from all effort of all kinds that did not seem perfectly safe. 
No one knew any thing about it, I was so well. Still I 
persevered. I literally did. not walk across the room, or eat 
a meal, that winter, without deliberately arguing the case, 
— was it best or not ? In this healthy state, I went to Dr. 
W.'s lecture, and was very prudent afterward ; yet when 
my severe sickness commenced, it was all laid to that 
lecture ; I was talked to, even in its worst stages, as if to 
be sick was a crime, and I have not to this day heard the 

last of it Again, I never in my whole life did so 

imprudent a thing as undertaking the journey I did last 
spring ; there was no one reason against the probability, al- 
most certainty, of its injuring me. I knew the risk ; no one 
else did. I took the risk, because I thought the object au- 
thorized it The result, after much suffering by the way, 
was favorable, and all was well. Had it been otherwise, 
there would have been voices enough to point out that it 

was wrong 

" There is one simple question which I wish to have an- 
swered, — How do other people attain infallible correct- 
ness of judgment ? Is it by experience or intuition ? If 
the former, have they not suffered from their experiments, 
sometimes erred in their calculations, and should they not 
have charity for others who are going over the same 
ground ? If by the latter, should they not pity those less 
favored than themselves ? I will not trouble you any more 
with my egotism. Remember, the best favor you can con- 
fer is, when you think I am doing wrong, to check me, ask 
me why, show me wherein I deceive myself; and never 
fear to speak plainly to your grateful friend, 

« M. L. Ware." 

There is another province into which the really 
high-minded and independent will carry the same 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 275 

conscientiousness, with equal firmness. It is a prov- 
ince often regarded as low and little. Nothing is 
little that involves principles and affects character. 
And what does this more than Dress ? It is a mat- 
ter to which few can be indifferent, even in a pecu- 
niary view; and that is by no means the highest 
view. Love of dress is admitted to be one of the 
earliest passions that appear in human nature, and 
may be said to be a universal passion. If it be 
stronger in one sex than in the other, — a fact more 
easily assumed than demonstrated, — she is the no- 
bler woman, wife, and mother who gives it its proper 
place among the elements of education, and both 
deigns and dares to speak of it and act upon it as a 
Christian. 

So did Mrs. Ware speak and act The circum- 
stances in which she had always been placed, in- 
ducing the habit and the necessity of strict frugality, 
as we have seen, would alone have prevented her 
from overlooking so large an item in the domestic 
and social economy. But besides this, she had re- 
gard to the integrity of her principles, and the in- 
fluence of example. She aimed evidently at two 
points, not easily attained together, — to make little 
of the whole matter of dress, and, at the same time, 
bring it under the control of a high Christian rule. 
As to her own attire, we should say no one thought 
of it at all, because of its simplicity, and because of 
her ease of manners and dignity of character. Yet 
this impression is qualified, though in one view con- 
firmed, by hearing that, in a new place of residence, 
so plain was her appearance on all occasions, the vil- 



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276 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

lagers suspected her of reserving her fine clothes for 
some better class, — a suspicion only amusing to 
those who knew her, but sure to give pain to her 
benevolent heart In another note to the female 
friend last addressed, she expresses her thoughts and 
describes her practice on this subject, so simply and 
sensibly, that we cannot hesitate to offer all of it ex- 
cept the specific and personal applications; while 
these, if they could be given, would show yet more 
how consistent and thorough she was, 

** Saturdcof Evening^ Jcmvary 17, 1835. 
" My dear Friend : — 

"I have such a poor faculty at expressing myself in 
speech, that I never feel that I have quite done myself jus- 
tice in any delicate matter, when I have used only oral means. 
I have felt this peculiarly since I left you this afternoon, be- 
cause some expressions of mine have recurred to my 
mind's ear, which I thought might possibly be construed by 
you into a very different meaning from their intended one. 
I do not, as you know, like to trouble my friends with the 
discussions of questions merely personal, and which I 
ought to be able to decide for myself unaided ; and the 
whole subject of dress seems, at a first glance, so trifling, 
that most people would laugh at my having a serious 
thought about it. But to me, the least thing which can 
have an influence upon the character of my children be- 
comes in my eyes a matter of deep importance ; and for 
this reason I have really longed to enter upon this said sub- 
ject with some one who could look at it in the same light, 
or who could disabuse me of my anxiety about it, if it was 
a foolish one. Accident has opened the door to your ear, 
and if you can have patience with me, and I can find words 
to tell you what I mean, I may some time or other try your 
friendship in this way. 



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LIFB IN CAMBRIDGE. 277 

** To go back a little. When we went to Europe, you 
may know it was the liberality of our friends, and the good- 
will of the Corporation, which enabled us to undertake the 
expense of so long a tour. We calculated very well for 
such novices, but could not anticipate the great additional 
draft which a child's birth and the journey home would 
make upoil our resources. Consequently we returned in 
debt. This debt we had hoped to liquidate by living within 
our salary, and thus laying by a little every year. Four 
years' experiment has proved this hope fallacious. Every 
year has brought with it some occasion of great extra ex- 
pense, w^ich has taken up what might otherwise have been 
laid by for this purpose. We have had, you know, a great 
deal of sickness, and there have been other 9ontingencie8 
which it is not necessary to enumerate. These may not 
occur again, but past experience proves that we have no 
right to calculate upon such exemptions ; and it becomes, 
therefore, more than ever necessary that we economize in 
the strictest manner, to do all we cap to free ourselves from 
this burden, and to do justice to others. Our children, of 
course, are acquainted with this state of affairs, and it is 
right that they should do their part, and from right motives. 
They know, as we do, that there are many expenses of 
daily occurrence in which there cannot be any retrench- 
ment consistent with our obligations to our friends and the 
situation we hold in society, — such as the calls of hospitality 
and charity. But they ought to feel that all personal sacri- 
fices are to be made that can be, according to a standard of 
propriety which a high moral ^ense would dictate. This, 
of course, must be in some measure an arbitrary standard, 
to be settled as much by experiment and example as by rea- 
soning. I have therefore had but few rules upon the sub- 
ject, leaving to each occasion which brings up the question 
all argumentation, taking care to have as little discussion 
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278 



LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 



as may be possible, lest it become in any way the subject 
of too much thought. This is particularly to be avoided 
with regard to dress, and upon this I have been more puz- 
zled than on any other branch, as both our elder chil- 
dren are just of an age to require very ^judgmatical* 
treatment upon it. My rule for myself is, as I told you, 
to do without every thing which I can decently^ making 
my own ideas of decency, not others', the standard. It 
is a difficult matter, especially as I make no pretensions to 
good taste, or good faculty, about externals ; but this, I 

maintain, does not alter the question of duty 

** I feel that I am trying your patience with much 
ado about a small thing. But it is my weak side to wish 
to be thoroughly understood by my friends, weak points 
and all ; and it helps me to understand myself, thus to 
try to make others understand me. I have not a word 
of complaint to make. We are far better provided for than 
is necessary to our happiness. We could live upon our in- 
come and grow rich, were our wishes only our rule ; but as 
we are situated, it is not easy to make 'all ends meet,' as 
the phrase is; and as our five children grow every day 
older, it becomes more and more difficult every year. Can 
you teach me to economize ? I fear, however, that if you 
could, you could not insure me strength to carry your plan 
into execution. No one who has not experienced it can 
tell how great a drawback sickness is to all saving, espe- 
cially when it comes upon the head of the house, and when 
il requires the most expensive kinds of remedy. But 
enough of all this. I wish you would tell me if you do not 
think I am right in declining your offer. I am always 
doubtful enough about my own judgment, to be open to 
conviction from those who differ. 

" Yours in all love. 

"M. L. Ware." 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 279 

The years 1834 and 1835 are spoken of by Mr. 
and Mrs. Ware as peculiarly favored, having little 
sickness or severe trial, compared with other years. 
But this must have been only a comparative view; 
for we find several incidental allusions to a state of 
feebleness and inability, which most of us would 
consider quite enough either for discipline or release 
from labor. Very pleasantly, however, does Mrs. 
Ware speak of those interruptions and prostrations, 
as if they were the ordinary condition. To Emma 
she writes : " Could you have alighted upon us at 
any time within the last fortnight, you would have 
found yourself at home. Nearly all last week Mr. 
Ware and myself enjoyed a most social tUe-a-tUe 
upon the two beds which occupy ray chamber, nei- 
ther of us capable of reading to the other, nor, a 
great part of the time, of speaking; I ill from the 
effects of the cramp, he from the fatigue of taking 
care of me with it. From this state we were com- 
pelled to rouse ourselves, by having one domestic 
taken sick, and Nanny -^^ All the rest you know.'* 
This was said in 1834. In the autumn of that year 
a daughter was born; and for a time Mrs. Ware 
was so helpless, that she yielded more than was her 
wont to feelings of discouragement. " I did try 
to be hopeful ; but the idea of so long a period of 
uselessness, and its consequent evils to my children 
and family, was dreadful to me ; and I could not 
quite feel that I could receive it as patiently as I 
ought." But severely does she chide herself for this 
distrust, especially as the result was so much better 
than her fears. She regained her health, and soon 



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280 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

enjoyed a greater sense of strength and en^gy than 
she had had since her marriage. And this period of 
exemption — though not very long as regarded the 
health of all the household — was one of the seasons 
in which she strove to make amends for lost time, 
and accomplished a vast deal. Not that there was 
any remarkable, visible product She never labored 
for one object exclusively, in doors or out, and it 
would not be easy to point to definite results. It 
may be doubted if she ever thought much of results, 
or expected, or even desired, to see them in any sure 
and signal form. To do "all she could" was h^ 
only ambition; and she had the wisdom which is 
worth more than any other, — to be content with do- 
ing all she could, only taking care that that word 
"all" should take in something more than the 
thought of earth, or self. She did not forget that 
objects and interests have a relative, as well as posi- 
tive importance ; and probably all who knew her well 
have marked, this as a characteristic trait, — that she 
studied the exact proportion of the different claims 
upon her time, and was more anxious to do justly 
than to do all things. 

In our times, and in a position like Mr. Ware's, 
there were sure to be numerous calls and claims 
abroad as well as at home, and for a woman not 
less than a man. We have not inquired as to the 
names or number of the benevolent societies and 
industrial enterprises in Cambridge, in which Mrs. 
Ware took part. That she gained any notoriety in 
this way, we should be surprised to hear, both from 
her multiplicity of duties, and her preference of pci- 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 281 

vate to public activity. Yet that her influence was 
felt, her jodgment peculiarly relied upon, and her 
presence always welcomed, in these connections, we 
know. Cases of moral want and exposure interested 
her most, and we have reason to think that she was 
never without some such case on her hands or in her 
heart. What she could not do herself, in the gift of 
time or clothes or money, she always induced others 
to do, never suffering an object of actual want or 
peril to go unassisted. Very far was she above the 
poor apology, that to do any thing for one sufferer 
will create more. In a multitude of small notes 
given us, written by her to various neighbors and 
friends, we chanced to see in one, so small as at first 
to be overlooked, a few words that fixed attention ; 
and on reading it through, we found, in the compass 
of a few lines, a whole volume of illustration as to 
her interest, her courage, and her power of indigna- 
tion for selfish excuses. We give it just as it was 
written to a neighbor, another right-minded woman. 
" I have company, therefore cannot answer you at 
length, or as I wish. I should have stepped in to 
see you this afternoon, if I had not been prevented 
by callers, to say a few words upon the subject of the 
latter 'part of your note. I have to-day got at the 
poor man's wardrobe for, the first time, and deter- 
mined to'beg for some means to supply it with a few 
decencies, for even they are wanting. Mr. Ware has 
thought it quite allowable to state the case to one or 
two of our rich men, to raise enough to pay the ex- 
penses of his journey; and I have just resolved to 
undertake the other matter. But I am full of wrath- 
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282 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

ful indignation at being sneered at for taking him in. 
* You will have enough English beggars at your 
door, if you do so.' A good argument against re- 
lieving any distress! So let the poor suffer as mnch 
as they may, — no relief, — for others will be idle 
and want relief too ! — M. L. W." 

In another brief note, we saw a statement of Mrs. 
Ware, to the effect that for many years she had not 
been without some " case of intemperance on hand" ; 
and a little inquiry tells us that it refers to her habit 
of helping the reformed and the struggling to get an 
honest living. A " Ladies' Aid Society " had been 
formed in Cambridge, with that special object ; and 
its President, being obliged to leave home, asked 
Mrs. Ware to look after her "patients," when she 
found that Mary had long been doing privately, and 
by herself, what they were doing as a society. 

It may seem the language of enthusiastic friend- 
ship, and our readers will deduct what they please 
on that account, but we must give a passage from a 
recent letter, written by one of the many theological 
students who had free access to Mr. Ware's house 
and family. In reference to Mrs. Ware, he writes : 
^' I have often quoted her example since to those who 
make the cares of housekeeping an excuse for the 
neglect of all public offices. She seemed to keep 
house better than any body else, to exercise a larger 
and freer hospitality, to make her tea-table a pleas- 
ant resort, to provide more simply and at the same 
time more attractively, while, after all, her domestic 
cares were only an incident in her daily duties. She 
seemed to have time for every gre^t out-door or 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. &83 

general interest, and to be full of schemes of benev- 
olence and kindness. And it was the easy, natural 
way in which she performed these double functions 
that gave me such a sense of her power P 

In regard to intercourse with general society and 
festive gatherings, Mary Ware was often drawn to 
them, not less by a social, genial temper than by a 
sense of duty. A duty even there she recognized 
and regarded ; a duty secondary, certainly, to many 
others, but involving obligation when other duties 
came not in the way. She believed that society 
had claims as well as the family, and pure enjoy- 
ment as well as religion. Her social sympathies were 
always calm, but never cold; subdued, but ardent, 
and ever ready both to taste and impart pleasure. 
Her interest in children was a passion, and her love 
of seeing and promoting their enjoyment as intense 
as any we have known. She could ill brook any re- 
straint put upon the freedom and joyousness of the 
young, beyond the point of propriety or others' com- 
fort. Her own convenience, her rooms, her whole 
house, she would give up, adding her powers of en- 
tertainment and enjoyment, rather than make life 
cheerless or religion repulsive. Many scenes can 
we recall of childish glee and hearty frolic, presided 
over, shared, and promoted by both the heads of that 
house, with which are associated some of the hap- 
piest hours of life, and the best. We will always 
thank God that those two hearts, which He was 
pleased to chasten with many sicknesses and sor- 
rows, were as genial and joyous as they were pure 
and humble. 



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284 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

There was one fonn of social entertainment — if 
it deserve the name — with which Mrs, Ware had 
no sympathy, and for which she had little charity. 
Indeed, that ** indignation " which we have seen 
enkindled by selfishness, thoogh not easily roused, 
could not always restrain itself in the hearing of 
small gossip or busy scandal We said in the in- 
troduction to this Memoir, that not a single line or 
word allied to those petty vices have we found in 
the whole extent of her correspondence, sober or 
trivial We are sure the same might be said of her 
conversation. Nor was this negative only. There 
was a tone of decided displeasure, and, if necessary, 
pointed reproof, called forth at times by the spiteful 
or thoughtless scandal*monger. She would not allow 
that we have a right to be thoughtless ; nor did she 
believe that we were sent into the world to scan a 
neighbor's conduct or impugn another's motives. 
In a letter written at Cambridge to a friend whom 
she had been to meet in Boston, but with whom her 
enjoyment had been greatly interrupted, she thus 
expresses herself. 

" It is only tantalizing to meet in Boston, to frit- 
ter away the few moments of intercourse which we 
want for better purposes in the idle, profitless gossip 
of city life. Is it because I have so little interest in 
other people, or is it for a better reason, that I have 
no patience with hearing people descant upon the 
whys and wherefores of their neighbors' concerns ; 
discussing their actions with as decided judgment 
upon their merits, as if the secret springs of thought, 
and all the various causes which led to them, were 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE* 285 

as fully developed to us as they can be to the Om- 
niscient only ? I know we may learn much from 
others' experience, both in warning and example; 
and to do this, we must closely observe them, and 
follow or vary from their course as our own con- 
science and judgment may dictate. But surely it is 
not nfecessary that we should be all the time specu- 
lating and gossiping with each other, upon every 
portion of the lives of our neighbors, or such portions 
as cannot from their very nature be of any impor- 
tance to us in any way. Is it just to our minds so 
to employ them ? Is it Christian charity towards 
others ? I may see clearly my neighbor's faults, 
and if there be any chance of doing him good by it, 
I may speak of them to him freely. I may consult 
a friend, who I know will treat the subject with the 
same tender feeling that I have myself, upon all 
the views which could result in good to the guilty or 
ourselves. But to talk publicly to any and all about 
the matter, for no possible result but the getting rid 
of so much time, fostering contempt on the one 
hand and self-conceit on the other, seems to me the 
wickedest abuse of the high privilege of speech that 
I know of, next to absolute falsehood. And how 
often does this habit lead to falsehood, and all man- 
ner of injustice ! But enough. Perhaps I 

am too much of a recluse to judge justly of the 
temptations of city life, and am committing the very 
sin which I am condemning. Suffice it to say, that 
thus was my whole comfort in town destroyed, and 
I came home feeling that, so far as regarded our 
knowledge of each other's inner woman, we might 
as well not have met" 



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286 LIFE IN CAMBBU>6£. 

"^^ith all the variety of the Cambridge life, there 
was necessarily a sameness which makes it needless 
to mark every year, or follow exactly the order of 
events. The chief " events " of these twelve years 
were the death of one child, the birth of four, and the 
variations of health and sickness to both parents. 
In the experience of sickness, the year 1836 brought 
one of the sorest visitations. We subjoin Mrs. 
Ware's account of it soon after its occurrence, and 
her review of the year at its close. 

** (hmbridge. May 29, 1836. 

" My deae N : 

^^ You have heard, no doubt, enough of the 

outline of our story to have traced us in all our outward 
movements. But you cannot know what rich experience 
the last four months have brought to us, and the compass 
of a letter can tell you little. The firat stroke was a heavy 
one. Henry had heen very well all winter, and had gained 
a degree of strength and ability to labor unharmed, which, 
in our most sanguine moments, we never even hoped for, 
so that the disappointment was even greater than when he 
was taken ill at Ware, as the height from which he fell was 
greater. He was attacked, for the first time since that, 
upon the lungs ; and when, for the first few days, it seemed 
quite reasonable to expect that the consequences, if not 
even more alarming, would be at least as lasting as those 
which followed the former attack, the prospect was heart- 
sickening. It required the industrious use of all the few 
moments of thought I could borrow from my occupations, 
to gather strength enough to nerve me for the calm con- 
templation of the picture. 

" His own view of the case was a very reasonable one ; 
and the calmness with which he looked at the improbability 



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LIFB IN CAMBRIDGE. 287 

of recovery, was at once an aid and a source of high enjoy- 
ment to me. A few weeks, however, gave us more en- 
couragement ; the attack was not a severe one, and yielded 
readily to the remedies applied. And although we could 
not but look forward to a long confinement at that season 
of the year, there was much in his state to give us pleasure. 
His mind is always, when he begins to recover, in a very 
animated state, very active, and upon the most entertaining 
subjects. This time he injured his eyes by looking over 
newspapers and books, in the early part of his illness ; so 
that, as soon as my most arduous duties as nurse ceased, I 
had to commence those of reader and amanuensis. I never 
was so literary in my life. I did nothing but read and 
write ; nor have I done much else since, for he cannot yet 
do either for himself. Thus passed ten weeks, a period 
equal to our whole residence at Ware and Worcester ; and 
yet, owing to the difference of the season, he could not get 
out of his room more than once or twice a week, when he 
was carried in arms to a carriage. At this time, too, I 
sunk for a short term, not with disease, but exhaustion from 
confinement and incessant effort of some kind or other. I 
soon got rested ; but whether from the interruption which 
this caused to Henry^s literary employments, or because 
the time had come for a change, I know not, — his own 
animation ceased, and he seemed in danger of losing all 
his energy and strength for the want of air and exercise. 
I had hoped that he would be sent to a warmer re- 
gion as soon as he had strength to get there, for air and 
exercise are always essential to his recovery. But he 
dragged on, until I was not willing to be submissive any 
longer ; and I begged that he might go to New York at 
least, for a city is so much more protected than the coun- 
try, that he could walk there in weather that would have 
kept him in here. I went to New York with him, but could 



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288 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

not well stay ; and as he was in a second borne there, it 
did not seem necessary. He came home just in time to ait 
down by a fire during this long storm ! It was most un- 
lucky, but cannot be helped. Were it possible, I would go 
off with him as soon as the sun shines, to keep him from 
going to work. I never say any thing is impossible, but it 
seems to me next to it that I should leave home now. All 
my five children are at home, — to say nothing of not hav- 
ing attended to any of my domestic duties since last Janu- 
ary ; — a little sewing to be done, you may fancy. Still, 
if it is necessary to go, some way of effecting it will pre- 
sent itself. 

" Yours in all true love. 

« Mary L. Waee." 

"Boston, December 31, 1836. 
Saturday Night. 

" My dear N : 

•' What a crowd of recollections rush upon my mind as 
I date this letter! It is nine years since I have affixed 
* Boston ' to this annual epistle ; and the last ' Saturday 
night' which found me thus occupied was eleven years 
ago, at Osmotherlyj 1825; and the last time I wrote the 
whole date was to a note which accompanied a pair of 
pegged gloves which I sat up till midnight to finish for your 
brother, in 1814. What an interesting and varied picture 
do these dates present to my mind's eye, and how many 
remembrances are associated with them of joy and sorrow, 
of trial and happiness ! I could willingly spend hours in re- 
calling all in detail, and I feel as if it would do us both good, 
should I do so ; for I find that, in the full occupation of the 
present, the lessons of the past are losing their power over 
me. Their voice cannot be heard in the busy bustle of life ; 
and it is only at a few favored moments like these, when all 
creation within and around us pauses, as it were, before tak- 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDOE. 289 

log another onward step towards eternity, that we can hear 
their distant, solemn murmur. It is good, then, to turn our 
hearts to the teaching, and to fix in them more deeply 
the warning and encouragement which we may thus re- 
ceive 

"I have been led lately to think more than usual of 
the past, by Mrs. B 's death. I believe I do not ex- 
aggerate when I rest in the idea that she was a woman of 
rare powers to' interest and influence those around her. 
My own recollections bring with them a sense of almost 
romantic enthusiasm with regard to her ; and I am quite 
sure that I owe as much of my conception of the loveliness 
of a truly religious being to her exhibition of it, as to any 
one other source. With the thought of her in her glory, 
comes the remembrance of many who have been taken 
from time to time from our communion ; and it amazes me 
to find how large is their number. How soon will it be, 
that it will become a rare thing to meet one of the com- 
panions of our childhood ! Perhaps I generalize 

too much from my own individual experience ; but I find 
it so difficult to keep before my eyes the uncertainty of life, 
or to feel as I would do the reality of the spiritual world, 
so busy am I with the occupations of this material one, that 
I should like to be recalled to the subject by some irresisti- 
ble voice every hour of the day. 

" I have spent this evening in our old church at the 
North End, for the first time upon this occasion since I 
lived in Sheafe Street, when Henry preached ; and as I 
look back upon the experience I have had since that time, 
it seems to me I have little hope of ever being what I ought 
to be, when all this has had so little efiTect. 

^^ January 9. Yesterday, heard Dr. Channing preach 
and administer the communion, the latter of which is m^re 
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290 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGB. 

to me than eyen his best sermons, so great is the power of 

association I find I almost lose sight of some of my 

best pleasures^ when I have been for any length of time free 
from great trial. In truth, all this nomenclature is wrong. 
Ease and prosperity make our greatest trial ; we are never 
more blessed than when we are said to be in affliction. ' It 
is remarkable, that not one year has passed since I began 
this custom of recording to you these mercies, that there 
has not been some striking one on the list. What is to 
como this year ? God knows ; and in this I can rest satis- 
fied. Henry^s eyes are useless, and mine still in requisi- 
tion ; of course I do nothing else, except at odd moments, 
when he is away or asleep. 

." Maey." 

Mr. Ware's severe illness at this period seems to 
have been a crisis ; for the two following years, both 
with him and her, were probably the best of all they 
passed at Cambridge, in their freedom from sick- 
ness, their ability to work, and the amount of their 
work. We connect them in this respect, for it is 
not easy to separate their spheres and agencies, even 
in regard to his professional labors. Of course, we 
mean to imply nothing as to any special mental aid , 
for no woman ever made less pretension, or less at- 
tempt, at any thing more than could be done by 
every sensible and interested mind. But so com- 
pletely did she enter into all his engagements, so 
constantly did she watch the degree of his strength 
and the effect of his exerti6ns, and so often was she 
called to assist him directly, as reader or writer, from 
the failure of his eyes and his frequent debility, that 
her cooperation was not wholly a figure of speech. 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 291 

Then, too, her heart was as much enlisted in the 
welfare and success of his pupils in the Theological 
School, as it had been in his Boston parish. All 
that she had a right to know, she did know ; all that 
a 'Woman and friend could do for those pupils, in 
sympathy, counsel, encouragement, or personal aid, 
she invariably did. A son, then a member of the 
School, says of her : " As a Professor's wife, I do 
not think father's heart was more in the School than 
was hers. I suspect she knew every thing about it, 
and was his constant assistant and counsellor. How 
much directly she had to do with the young men, I 
cannot say. They were encouraged to be at the 
house, came to tea constantly by invitation, and in 

all sicknesses she cared for them ; especially M 

and B , who were brought to the house, and 

C , and also an undergraduate, sick. She did 

what she could for the destitute among them ; and 
I remember her getting shirts made, &c., &c. I re- 
member, too, the delicate way in which I was sent, 
on a cold New Year's evening, with a large bundle 
to an undergraduate who was friendless and penni- 
less." There are others, and many, who could tell 
much more ; and whose recollections of her delicate 
sympathy, generous aid, and unpretending good- 
ness, will hardly suffer them to speak of her, but 
with silent tears. They felt her moral power ; and 
all the more, because she seemed utterly unconscious 
of it " Never have I been with her," writes one, 
who says he had but a common acquaintance, '^ no 
matter how short the time or slight the occasion, 
without the feeling of greater elevation of soul. I 



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292 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

never knew one of whom this were truer. Virtne 
came out of her." And he only adds, of one con- 
nected with him, " Even now the thought of Mrs, 
Ware moves her more than the presence of any liv- 
ing Mend." 

While writing these passages, we have received 
the testimony of another of those students, more 
extended, but too pertinent and valuable to be 
abridged. 

" The members of the Theological School were 
always sure of her sympathy. They went to her as 
they would to an elder sister. There was something 
peculiarly engaging and attractive about her, which 
we all felt, but could not well understand. Yet she 
did not encourage, as some kind-hearted women do, 
the morbid sensibilities of young men, which, even 
while apparently depreciating their own powers, al- 
most always have their origin in an exaggerated 
egotism or some masked form of selfishness. Mrs. 
Ware's pecuUar excellence was, that, without en- 
couraging such a state of mind and without repel- 
ling those who had cherished it, she, by the healthi- 
ness of her own mind and the cheerful disinterested- 
ness of her character, dissolved the gloomy spell, and 
sent away her visitors with new hope and life. It 
was the atmosphere in which she lived, more than 
any particular words or acts, that made her presence 
in Cambridge so attractive, and so beneficent to the 
young at that period of life when they are likely to 
be in a morbid condition. To go from our rooms 
to her house, when we had got discouraged or worn 
down, was like going into a different climate* And 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 293 

we went back, like invalids who have been spend- 
ing a winter at the South, with new vitality in our 
veins. 

" While connected with the School, in 1834, I had 
a short but violent attack of brain fever. I was in 
Divinity Hall, and very kindly taken care of by my 
associates in the School, who did for me every thing 
that young men know how to do in such a case. 
After a few days, Mrs. Ware came to see me. The 
bare sight of her countenance, and the sweet, gen- 
tle tones of her voice, I shall never forget. They 
changed the whole aspect of the room. As soon as 
it could be done, I was removed to her house. And 
the delicacy of her touch, as in my helplessness she 
washed my hands and face, with the air of motherly 
cheerfulness and tenderness, was to my diseased 
nerves like the ministry of one from a better world. 
During the months of confinement and extreme de- 
bility which succeeded, the remembrance of her kind- 
ness was a constant source of comfort, and I cannot 
now recall it without deep and grateful emotion." 

In connection with exertions for others, it is but 
just to refer again to the laborious efforts, self-denial, 
and perpetual solicitude, to which Mrs. Ware was 
driven, at home, in regard to pecuniary means. The 
difficulty came at last to its height. They found it 
impossible to live as they did, and yet impossible to 
retrench more than they always had. We would 
not speak of this so freely, did we not feel — beside 
the light it throws upon character and results — that 
it is due to the professors and ministers of all denom- 
inations, whose energies are crippled, and power of 
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294 LIFS IN CAMBRtlKSB. 

serving as well as enjoying sadly abridged, by the 
conflicting facts of unreasonable demand and incom- 
petent support. Those of us who do not suffer, and 
are only grateful, have the better right to speak for 
others ; and we speak in the memory, and as by the 
authority, of those two unsparing and noble woricers, 
whose sentiments on the subject we well know, and 
whose power of usefulness should never have been 
hampered, as it often was, by the want of means 
which hundreds were both able and willing to fur- 
nish. Yes, willing ; for it is no want of generosUy that 
we speak of; were we capable of that injustice, espe- 
cially in the community and the family under review, 
we should expect almost to hear the reproof of the 
departed ones, whose gratitude was as intense as 
their solicitude. Not for themselves did they feel, 
but for others ; for the School, for the ministry ; for 
the students who were prevented from entering the 
School, or forced to leave it, by poverty and the fear 
of debt, some of whom were retained only by prom- 
ises of aid, whose fulfilment cost added labor and 
wearing anxiety. There is better provision now, we 
know ; ample provision for those willing to accept it 
Still are there wants and straits in the actual minis- 
try which are not duly considered. And this it is 
that is needed, — not generosity in the few, but con- 
sideration in the many, and the cooperation of all. 
If the institutions of the Gospel are worth having, 
they are worth supporting. If young men are ex- 
pected to engage in a service that becomes every 
year more perplexed and exacting, they must be able 
to see a fair prospect of such remuneration and sym- 



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LIFK IN CAMBRIDGE. 295 

pathy as will at least set them free from worldly 
anxiety. We believe that in no one way can the 
ministry be more strengthened and elevated, than by 
a consideration and provision, not extravagant, not 
large, not perhaps proportioned to the labor and re- 
ward of other callings, but sure ; and sufficient, while 
it imposes the necessity of all the exertion, prudence, 
simplicity, and sacrifice that should be expected and 
be seen in the service of Christ, to save from all de- 
pression, and the necessity of other pursuits. 

Is this a digression ? No ; for it entered into the 
daily thought, and affected the life, not only of Henry 
Ware, but equally of her whose life was his, and 
whose spirit was always striving to allay his fears, 
and nurse his powers and resources. Reluctantly 
did she consent to his taking upon himself new bur- 
dens and extended responsibilities, as he did in 1838, 
when his father resigned to him his active duties, 
by a liberal arrangement made for both of them. 
" While this makes us very grateful," she writes, " it 
involves more anxiety about health; but we will 
trust" 

Just at the time of these new offices and brighter 
hopes on the one hand, and increased labor and 
danger on the other, a heavy affliction fell upon them 
both, in the sudden death of a sister ; the first death 
in thirty years of an adult member of that family, 
from which six have since gone to the spirit-land. 
Ought any considerations to prevent our giving to 
others the Christian thoughts and high affections 
called forth from Mrs. Ware by that event ? They 
were many and comforting. Some she thus ex- 



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296 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

pressed to Mrs. Allen, a sorviving sister. ^^ The 
more I dwell upon what she was, of what she was 
capable, and how deeply she suffered from the mere 
load of humanity, the more I am thankful that the 
season of discipline is over, the more I rejoice at the 
thought of what she is now enjoying. Can we con- 
ceive of a higher bliss than that which must be expe- 
rienced by a soul of such capacities as hers, which 
has struggled, as we believe, most strenuously with 
temptation both within and without while here, freed 
at last for ever from the burden of the flesh, throw- 
ing off all obstacles to its progress in a purer state, 
bounding' forward to perfection ? O, who would re- 
call her here, even for the best happiness which this 
world could give her? But we are yet too earthly 
to part with our treasures without suffering. It is 
meant that we should suffer. It is a part, a most 
important object, of the dispensation; the inevitable 
consequence, too, of that which we esteem the best 
blessing of our existence, — our capacity for the ex- 
ercise of the affections. It seems as if so great an 
event as I feel this to be must have great objects ; 
and who can doubt that the improvement of those 
who suffer by it is the principal one ? I have never 
felt this so deeply with regard to any event that ever 
happened to me in life. I have never had so loud, 
so imperious a call. O my God, give me grace to 
profit by this call, to be made better by the mental 
exercises to which it has given rise ! " 

At the end of 1838 we find Mary very happy, in 
gratitude for the past and cheerful hopes of the fu- 
ture, with sober but not sad thoughts of the recent 
sorrow. 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGB. S97 

" Cambridge^ December 31, 1838. 

*' My DEAtt N : 

" O that blessed thing, Faith, — faith in the truth 

of friendship ! Among other changes, I have not yet grown 
old enough to lose my youthful faith in those I love ; and 
between you and me, I begin to suspect that I never shall* 
I certainly do not find myself, at forty, one whit nearer 
misanthropy than I was at sixteen. Is this symptomatic of 
folly at the very core ? Or is it only the effect of my su- 
perior good luck in life } Whatever it may be, I bless God 
for it, for I find in it too much happiness to be willing to 
regret it, even if it be a weakness. 

" January 9. Just so far had I got, when I found my 
eyes so dim and my head so giddy that I was compelled 
to go to bed. And there have I been most of the time 
since, quite sick with one of my old attacks upon the lungs, 
which threatened to keep me there the rest of the winter, if 
it did not end in lung fever, so obstinate and violent was 

my cough I have been living in the past very 

much lately, from having many of Harriet's letters to read. 
Some of them, written in Exeter, have brought before my 
mind people of whom I had not thought for years; and 
circumstances having intimate connection with events in 
which I was immediately interested at tfie time, have un- 
folded a long and beautiful page of life before me, which I 
seldom have opportunity to recall. O that Past ! what 
stores of wisdom and happiness are not laid up in it ! Why 
should it be that the busy bustle of the Present hides it so 
much from our sight ? Should we not, by an effort, give 
ourselves more to its retrospection, that we may profit more 
by its teaching ? 

" But here we are, dear N., at the end of another year, 
certainly not growing younger, yet I think not at all losing 



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298 I^lFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

our capacity for enjoying. So far from it, I aii) surprised 
to find, that, while with regard to some things my happiness 
becomes more and more every day a sober certainty, it 
does not in the least diminish my susceptibility of enjoy- 
ment from any new source that chances to present itself 
from day to day. In fact, it is a much more agreeable 
thing to grow old than I expected to find it. This is not 
strange, you may say, in my case, whose blessings increase 
with every year. Truly it is so, and I never felt it more 
than at this present. Never since I was married could I 
look back upon a year of such freedom from sickness in 
my own family ; never was my husband so well for the 
same length of time in his preaching life ; and if I had no 
more to be grateful for than my precious baby, who has 
been nothing but a comfort ever since she was bom, that is 
enough for one year. One sad blight has passed over us, 
and it has indeed solemnized our hearts, and made us feel, 
as we never felt before, by how slight a tenure we hold all 
earthly Uessings. But these afflictions serve to make us 
more grateful for those blessings which cannot be taken away. 
" O, how I do wish you were within talking distance, that 
I might know whether you feel as I do about bringing up 
children. I have no comfort yet in my management of my 
little ones. I have not yet got upon the right track, and 
begin to think I* never shall. Lucy comes and comforts 
me a little now and then, and if I had her power I should 
no doubt have her success ; but that makes all the difier- 
ence in the world. 

" Yours ever, in true love. 

" M. L. W." 

Another year closed its record with similar ex- 
pressions of thankfulness, though we see that it 
brought sickness and discipline. But these are not 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 299 

Apoken of as trials ; for Mrs. Ware appears in fact, 
as well as in word, to have caused sickness to change 
its name and its face. It had become to her a 
friend, whose absence she almost dreaded. " It is 
so long since I have had the slightest physical draw- 
back, that I had almost forgotten that I could be 
other than strong. I am glad to be reminded that I 
am not free from the common lot in this respect ; in 
truth, that I am to be subject to the salutary disci- 
pline which the prospect of certain suffering and 
weakness, with all their possible consequences, brings 
to the soul." She had great faith in the relation of 
events to each other. She looked upon nothing in 
the providence of God as either accidental or insu- 
lated ; every thing had a design and a connection. 
" If any one thing more than any other strikes me 
powerfully as I advance in life, gaining confirmation 
from every day's experience, it is the beautiful adap- 
tation of circumstances to accomplish the great ob- 
ject of existence, each succeeding event pointing to 
some end which the other events of life have not 
particularly aimed at. It seems as if we had only 
to keep our vision clear, to find around us all the 
teaching which we can possibly need to bring us to 
perfection." She had not much respect for the com- 
mon view of " curcum stances," as securing all the 
good and accounting for all the evil in men's con- 
duct and character. To her mind, the responsibility 
was as great of turning adverse circumstances to 
good account, as of using well the most favoring 
and prosperous condition. Yet here she dealt more 
severely with herself than with any one else; too 



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aOO LIPE IN CAMBRID6B. 

severely sometimes, as may be the case with all con- 
scientioas sufferers who are at the same time consci- 
entious workeit. They exact too much of their own 
frames. They make too little allowance for those 
natural limits and occasional weaknesses, for which 
many minds allow too much. Most of us suffer the 
body to be master, where it should be servant ; while 
they of whom we speak are apt to forget that the 
body will sometimes rule, and affect the mind unfa- 
vorably yet helplessly. There are various intima- 
tions, some of which we have seen already, that 
Mrs. Ware was not free from all errors or dangers of 
this kind, though she soon detected them. After a 
short visit to Mrs. Paine, in 1839, she says of it : "I 
did enjoy my visit to you hugely ; I do enjoy it now 
even more ; for I was fighting all the time with an 
evil demon within in the shape of an uncommonly 
violent attack of ' Mary Pickardism,' making me 
feel that I might as well be out of the world as in it 
But that is over ; and I have learnt from it that our 
minds are more frequently under the control of our 
physiquCj than we, in our pride, are very willing to 
admit." 

The season of exemption and favor continues; 
not without qualifications and exceptions, as others 
might think them, but without serious interruption 
to the labors or joys of Mr. and Mrs. Ware. And 
we see the effect of it in the pleasant and playful 
mood of the next letter. 

*' Ocmbridge, January 1, 1841, 1^ o'cMh ^- J^- 

" Mt dbae N : 

*^ There is some difference truly between a solitary spin- 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 801 

Iter sitting in her quiet parlor with her desk before her, pen 
in hand, without a shadow of a hope or fear of interruption 
from any demand of domestic duty or pleasure, and the 
mother of seven children, one of them a most agreeable 
youth of six months, with a husband and nurse to boot, to 
be looked after and taken care of. For instance, after a 
vain attempt to get all the new yearns presents finished 
and arrayed in due order before the clock should strike 
twelve upon the 31st of December, 1840, I was obliged at 
the first date to content myself with just recording the 
hour with one hand, while the other held in durance the 
two hands of the above-named youth, who had been for the 
previous hour exercising his utmost power of fascinating 
blandishment to attract and monopolize my attention. And 
now I must re -date, One o^ clocks P. Jlf., January 3d, being 
my very first moment, since the aforesaid date, that I could 
in conscience give to the luxurious employment of writing 
to you. I think the said little (or, rather, large) gentleman 
had a strong desire to write to you himself, or he would not 
have been so remarkably wakeful upon that occasion ; but 
I chose to enact the part of the dog in the manger, — if I 
could not do it myself, I would not let him. He is a most 
bewitching creature, by the way, and there is no telling 
what you may have lost by my selfishness. Nothing can 
be sweeter than a healthy, bright child of his age ; there is 
certainly something far beyond the mere animal in the en- 
joyment we derive from such a creature. I am some- 
times tempted, when I watch the animated expression of his 
Jittle visage, to go all lengths with the modern spiritualists, 
and believe that there is a higher sense and fuller knowl- 
edge of the deep things of heaven inclosed in that little 
casket now, than can be found in it after the wisdom of the 

world has entered there 

" O, how the business of life thickens as one goes on- 
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302 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

ward 1 I sometinies wish I knew whether there is ever 
to be such a thing as rest in this life for me, wherein to 
breathe a little more freely, and feel it right to forget, for a 
moment at least, the care of the earthly. Or I should like 
still better to know how far it is practicable to keep one's 
mind at ease, and yet do all that ought to be done. It does 
not seem as if it could have been intended that we should 
be the careworn drudges that most of us are, hardly giving 
ourselves time to enjoy the sight of the beautiful world 
around us, or know any thing of that within us. I have 
often great misgivings upon the subject, much doubting 
whether it is not, after all, more my bad management than 
the necessity of the case, which makes me so pressed from 
want of time to do what I wish. But I have looked around 
and within in vain for a remedy for the evil. 

** I am just where I was a year ago, only a little more 
mvolved from having one child more, and that one that 
cannot be tended by any one who is not tolerably sizable 
herself. This is not as it should be, (not my baby, but my 
incessant occupation,) and I feel the evil effect upon my 
intellectual and physical too, — the one becomes utterly 
empty, the other too crowded. Thought is free, happily, 
but one uses up the material for thought if not refreshed by 
outward subjects occasionally ; or rather one's thoughts 
take too uniform a track, and become morbid. I should 
like to peep into some other person's mind and see how 
the land lies ; one is apt to think that no one is as wicked 
as himself, but perhaps the same causes lead to the same 
results. It would be a comfort to know, upon the old prin- 
ciple, that * misery loves company.' Yours, 

" Mary.'' 

A change was approaching. The favored interval 
had been unusually long, and an amount of work 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 303 

had been accomplished of which we attempt not to 
give an idea. In had been to Mrs. Ware, as to her 
husband, a " golden age," in vigor, labor, and enjoy- 
ment. In the family, the school, and the communi- 
ty, both were busy, both happy. There was no dimi- 
nution of care, rather an increase with an increasing 
family, unnumbered visitors, and interruptions, en- 
gagements, and claims, of every possible kind. But 
all this went on easily and naturally. A casual ob- 
server would not be likely to see that there was 
much done, or to be done. There was no hurry, no 
apparent exertion. Each caller or claimant was re- 
ceived so quietly, and listened to so patiently, that 
he might have thought he was the only one, or the 
favored. To be sure, Mrs. Ware felt, as we have 
seen, that there was no such thing as rest, nor time 
to do the half that she would. But very few saw 
the feeling, and it prevented neither her own serenity 
nor others' enjoyment Very grateful did she feel 
for her husband's continued health and active use- 
fulness. At the same time, we can see that her ex- 
perienced eye and watchful heart discovered symp- 
toms of coming change, — as in passages of her 
letters of different dates. 

" December 31, 1841. I look at my husband with 
a sort of wonder, to find that another whole year 
has passed without any serious consequences to his 
health. I dare not look forward for him, for it seems 
presumption to expect that he can be long exempt. 
His duties are very perplexing from their variety, 
and I think the effect upon his system, by harassing 
bis mind, is really worse than a greater amount of 



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904 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

labor would be upon a more concentrated and satis- 
factory object He is the greater part of the time in 
that dragging, half-sick state, which leaves neither 
freedom of mind nor comfort of body. I often think 
he could be happier, and do in fact more good, in a 
parish, than here ; and were it not that men at his 
time of life get to be too old-fashioned and ' con- 
servative,' £t8 the phrase is, to suit the rising genera- 
tion, I should hope he might yet end his days in the 
vocation which he best loves. I would not have you 
suspect me of a discontented spirit; but my heart 
leaps at the idea of parish-meetings in my own par- 
lor; and other pastoreen enjoyments. Bnt I have no 
care about the future, other than that which one 
must have, — a desire to ful£d the duties which it 
may bring. 

" Jammry 16, 1842. I have been prevented by all 
sorts of things from finishing this ; it is not worth 
while to enumerate them. I will only say, that for 
the last fortnight I have had little thought or time 
for any thing but preparing my husband for a six 
weeks' absence. Not that I had so very much to do 
for him (although it is a different thing to poor folks, 
to live where their clothes can be mended every day, 
or must go without mending for six weeks) ; but 
he has been very unwell lately, and I am so little 
accustomed to the idea of his going away sick with- 
out going with him, that I found it very hard to 
bring my mind to submit to it. I did not feel quite 
clear whether it would be right to let him go, in the 
hope that change of scene and occupation would do 
him good, or to prevent it from fear that the necessity 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 305 

of the case would tempt him to exert himself, wheth- 
er he was able or not. However, 'he has gone ; 
and went too upon the anniversary of dear Dr. Pol- 
len's loss. But I have heard of his safe arrival in 
pretty good case, and I hope for the best Yet I 
am a very baby at the prospect of so long a separa- 
tion. Truly one's affections do not become blunted 
by age, — do they ? '* 

What her affections were appears in the letter 
which she had already written to her husband, — 
written in fact the very night of the day he left her ; 
for her heart was full. Its quick, keen sensibilities 
told her that this was more than a common parting. 
Seldom had Mr. Ware gone from home since they 
were married, without being sick, or without her 
going to him. And though she had not the least 
superstition, , nor even indulged gloomy apprehen- 
sions, she held herself ready for the worst, and saw 
reason at this time to expect some decided result 
from such a journey in mid-winter, with all that had 
preceded it. Before she slept, therefore, she gave 
utterance to the emotions — prayers and blessings 
we might call them — which were yearning within 
her. 

" Cambridge^ January 12, 1842, i past 11. 
** DsAB Heney : — 

" And you are really gone ! And notwithstanding I have 

looked forward to this moment for so long a time, and, as I 

thought, realized over and over again all that I should feel 

when it should arrive, I am ashamed to find how little all 

my anticipations have prepared me for it. I do not mean 

to overwhelm you with an outpouring of all my woman's 

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306 LIPS tU CAMBRIDGE. 

weakness, but I could not go to bed without saying, ^ Good 
night to you, dearest.' I have a quiet faith that all is well 
with you, and I have much hope that this expedition will 
result in good to your mind and body both. I can say from 
my heart, ' God speed you ! ' And the thought that His 
care is over you reconciles me to having you withdrawn 
from mine, as nothing else could do. I feel that, in your 
absence, great responsibilities rest upon me, and I cannot 
therefore go to my solitary chamber for the first time with- 
out many solemn and affecting thoughts. But my hopes 
are bright, and my confidence unshaken ; and 1 can send 
my mind forward with a cheerful trust, although the tear 
will come to my eye. So good night, again. 1 know your 
thoughts are with me, as mine with you, and that this union 
in the spirit can never cease, whatever may betide our out- 
ward being. 

" Friday Evenings I4th, Thanks for your letter, — and 
many most grateful thanks to the Giver of all good for your 
safety I It could not be but that the recollection of the past 
should be present to our minds ; it was good that it should 
be so, and I trust it has not been without great blessing to 
our souls. For myself, I almost feared that I was a little 
superstitious, or rather inclined to forebode evil ; for I feel 
so much that we have been peculiarly blessed in having so 
many times had threatened evils averted, that, upon every 
new exposure,'! find I am inclined to think it is presump- 
tion to expect exemption this time ; and I never felt this more 
strongly than now. I hope I have behaved well outwardly. 
I have tried to do so, but the struggle has been very great. 
This experience is a new lesson of trust and comfort for 
us. May it have its due influence ! 

" Farewell. Blessings be with you ! 

" M. L. Wahe." 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 307 

The result of the visit to New York is known. 
Mrs. Ware had not over-estimated the importance 
of the period. It was a crisis. The second Sunday " 
of her husband's absence was the last time that he 
ever attempted to preach. He was attacked in the 
pulpit with bleeding, as he supposed from the lungs,' 
and did not finish the service. It was the end of his 
career as a preacher, and the extinction of many 
bright hopes in those united minds and devoted 
hearts. For to Mrs. Ware, alsQ, was this a disap- 
pointment of cherished purposes, not simply as his 
wife, but from her own fervid interest in the Chris- 
tian ministry, and her sympathy with the aspirations 
and the struggles of those engaged, or about to en- 
gage, in this great work. 

Her account of the change, and other changes 
that followed, closing the Cambridge life, may be 
best given in extracts from various letters, which will 
constitute a journal of the time. 

" Marchj 1842. Mr. Ware had not been well for 
two months previous to his going to New York ; no 
difficulty upon the lungs, — simply out of order from 
too close and wearisome attention to a vexatious 
variety of duty, having no rest, and not time enough 
to dt) any thing well. His system seemed disar- 
ranged, and he thought he should be most benefited 
by going away, changing the scene entirely, and ob- 
taining rest to, mind and body. He went. Every 
letter spoke of improvement, and I had made up 
my mind, that, in spite of all my fears, he was doing 
the best possible thing. So I said to his father on 
Sunday evening; and on Monday I received his 



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308 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

letter, telling me of his having been taken in 
church with raising blood. Of course I went im- 
mediately to him, arriving at his lodgings at nine, 
Tuesday morning. The weather was very mild, 
and the uncertainty of its continuing so made me 
anxious to get him home. After some reluctance 
on the part of his physician had been overcome, we 
decided to return that day. So, after spending eight 
hours in New York, I turned my face homeward, 
and in forty hours after leaving my own door lauded 
at it with my precious charge, none the worse for 
the journey. You may suppose it all seemed a 
dream to me. It was, however, a sad reality to him, 

a very sad disappointment. Your picture of 

' rest' is a beautiful vision, — one which many of our 
friends have brought before our eyes at this time. 
But what can a man do, with seven children, and 
only his own hands to depend upon ? I scruple not 
to say, that a ten-foot house, and bread and water 
diet, with the sense of rest to Atwi, would be a luxury, 
and I trust some door will be opened to us by which 
we shall obtain it Now he is tied, bound hand and 
foot; and if he does not die in the bonds, it is more 
than any one has a right to calculate upon. How 
various the trials of life! and how difficult always to 
feel that elasticity of spirit which is needful to make 
one as cheerful as we ought to be at all times ! '' 

" May 1, 1842. You will hear in a few days of 
the change that has come to us. I have been en* 
tirely satisfied, ever since last October, that it must 
come to this, and I felt, the sooner Henry stopped, 
the better for him. But the utter uncertainty as to 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 309 

the future support of such a large family, and a re- 
luctance to leave his father's side in his declining 
years, important as he is to his parent's comfort, 

could not but make him deliberate And 

now, dear Nancy, we are once more afloat on the 
world's wide sea^ You will easily guess how much 
there is of deep, soul-stirring emotion in all this, and 
how much more there must be before we quit for 
ever our dearly loved home, rendered doubly dear by 
the hours of sickness and sacred sorrow experienced 
in it. What will be our destination, I know not. 
We have some plans, but the execution of any must 
depend upon contingencies now hidden from us. 
The first thing to be thought of is Mr. Ware's resto- 
ration to health; and had we the means, I should 
like to spend a week or two in riding about home, 
or in little excursions, giving him the opportunity of 
doing what he could by conversation for the class 
about to leave the School Should he ever get well, 
there are some possible projects already presented 
which would support us, but in the mean time all is 
dark, — that is, we know nothing about it. I am 
satisfied that we have done rights, and I am ready for 
the consequences, be they what they may. I am 
not as strong as I once was to meet hard labor, but 
I am willing to work to the extent of my ability ; 
and I know that no amount of bodily labor can be 
so wearisome as the mental struggle of the last two 
years. I feel as if I could meet any thing better 
than seeing my husband declining; can he only be 
spared, no matter what comes. Do not think that 
I am unmindful of the difficulties which poverty 



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310 LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 

brings, — the hindrances to the satisfactory educa- 
tion of children, the loss of intellectual privileges, Vtad 
the wear and tear to the spirit by the uncertainties 
of daily supply for even the necessary wants of life. 
I understand it all ; and I know that in all there is 
useful discipline for heaven, and I think for my chil- 
dren, that, if the means of one kind of education are 
denied them, they may in other ways gain the es- 
sentials for spiritual life more readily. I cannot dis- 
trust or doubt the good providence of God under all 
circumstances; how can I, after the experience I 

have had in life ? If Mr. Ware and I should 

ride off anywhere, it will probably be towards Wor- 
cester. O the money, the money! what can be 
done without money ! I have written to the end 
of my paper, and all about self; but I have much to 
say about other things." 

" May 8, 1842. I have tried in vain, dear Emma, 
to find time and ability to answer your kind notes, 
for I have longed to tell you something of the mighty 
movement which has been going on within our little 
domestic world, as well as to satisfy you of Mr. 
Ware's gradual progress towards health. But for 
the first three weeks of bis sickness, his case de- 
manded my undivided attention ; and since the day 
he wrote his letter of resignation, I have been, with 
the exception of three < poor days,' sick myself. Not 
made sick by that fact, I beg you to understand, — 
unless the reaction of relief from anxiety might 
make one sick, and the exhilaration consequent upon 
it act too powerfully upon the nervous system. It 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 311 

is indeed an unspeakable relief to my mind, and I 
could see that it was also to Henry, for he began to 
improve at once when the deed was done. It is a 
great step, at our time of life, with so large a family, 
and so little substantial health in the acting portion 
of it, to be launched forth upon the wide world to 
obtain a support we know not how. But of what 
use is experience, of what value is faith, if they can- 
not enable one to meet the changes of life without 

fear? I have been quite sick, having had a 

sudden and severe attack threatening fever. I felt 
for a little while as if I could not have one of my 
long sicknesses just at this juncture, as if I was for 
once too important a person to be laid upon the shelf, 
and I never was more truly thankful than when I 
found myself relieved by the first applications. I 
have not yet been down stairs, but expect to ride to- 
morrow, if it is pleasant. The breaking up will be 
severe, I know ; but I think I am prepared for it. It 
is not the first time that th^ strong ties which bind 
me always to my home have been severed. And 
although I have never before felt so much that my 
home was indeed my own creation, the thought that 
it is i'ight to leave it, and the oppression of spirit 
which the last two years have witnessed here, recon- 
cile me to all the suffering in prospect. Don't think 
me a romancer, that I can feel joyous when I know 
not how we are to be fed and clothed. If God gives 
me strength, I am willing to work, and prefer that 
my children should be obliged to; and I have no 
fears but that, if toe do the best we can^ God will take 
care of us. He has many agents of mercy." 



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312 LIFE IN CAHBRIDOB. 

Mr. Ware was able to remain in office the rest of 
the theological term, and to carry through the grad- 
uating class^ with whom his last exercises were 
deeply affecting. Very soon after this, in the sum- 
mer of 1842, the family left Cambridge ; having fixed 
upon Framingham, Mass., as their place of retreat, 
after looking at many places, and weighing all con- 
siderations of position and expense. 

Of the last days in Cambridge, we have obtained 
the recollections of their oldest son, himself a mem- 
ber of the class just spoken of, as the last that en- 
joyed the instruction and benediction of his father. 
We give the account in his own unstudied words. 

" That last summer was a very pleasant one, as I 
remember it Things were very much as ever; if 
any thing, the little social gatherings of neighbors 
were more frequent, as all felt they must be few. 
The drives with father to find a place, the selection 
of Framingham, the pilgrimages there, occupied a 
good deal of the time^ as also the gradual prepara- 
tion, and the many adieus. The 'breaking up' 
was one of the gravest trials of mother's life. Thor- 
oughly convinced of its necessity, looking forward to 
it as a relief in all ways, yet the whole summer was 
tinged by the thought of it. I remember long talks ; 
one in particular, in which she drew nearer to me 
and I to her. I think that, feeling obliged to keep 
up before father, she yearned to confide in us. 
When it came to the last, it was hard. The chil- 
dren and all were gone. Mother, father, and I were 
left, and I was to be left, for I was just going into 
the world myself. The wagon was at the door. 



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LIFE IN CAMBRIDGE. 



313 



Father got in, merely wringing my hand, but most 
deeply moved. I could see it and feel it If he had 
spoken, it would have been more than he could bear. 
I never till that moment imagined, so feverish had 
been his desire to get away, how much his heart was 
in that spot. Mother was behind, and had got down 
one step, when she turned round and threw her arms 
about my neck, and there we stood. It was. one of 
the moments of life. • God bless you, my child ! ' 
I have heard her say it many times, but it never 
meant more. Father could not bear it. He urged 
her away; the horse started at his quick word; I 
was alone, -^* and that chapter of life was ended! 
We never all three of us entered Cambridge together 
again, until the night that mother and I brought 
with us from Framingham * the last of earth.' 

" Since writing this, I have chanced upon father's 
first letter afterward. He says : ' The struggle at the 
last moment was a hard one ; but we got composed 
after a while, and then found ourselves excessively 
overcome with weariness.' " 



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XII, 
LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM. 

It is no cause of regret that the narrative of a 
married woman's life cannot be separated from that 
of her husbands The biographer may regret the ne- 
cessity of referring to familiar facts, and sometimes 
using materials already in possession of the public. 
But more sorry should we be if the history of the 
wife could be drawn out by itself; especially that 
history of every-day life, and idea of the inner being, 
which we are attempting to give. Few women, in 
our community, and with " troops of friends," have 
been more thrown upon themselves at an early age, 
or have led a more truly single life until life's me- 
ridian, than did Mary Pickard. But the moment 
she became Mary Ware she lived for another, — 
as unreservedly and devotedly as woman ever did. 
Principle and affection alone would have prompt- 
ed this, as a pleasure; the circumstances in which 
she was placed, from first to last, made it a duty, 
and still a delight. And more and more, as years 
passed, did the duty and the delight grow, tinged 
only by the sad thought of his premature* failure and 
sore disappointment 

It is a small trial to be summoned from oqe sphere 
of duty to another; even if it cost the disruption of 



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LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM. 315 

many ties, still if it be a call of duty, with continued 
power of activity and usefulness, it is not to be 
called a hardship. It surely is no evil, but rather 
a privilege, for the faithful laborer to die at his 
post, with his harness on. But to die and yet to 
live, to have one's chosen work broken off for ever, 
and the strong, disinterested love of labor forbidden 
all exercise, with the prospect of years of helpless- 
ness at the best, perhaps protracted suffering and a 
dependent family, — this is trial, calling for as much 
of fortitude and faith as humanity^ often requires. 
It may be partiality which leads us to doubt whether 
there was ever more of fortitude and faith, in sim- 
ilar condition, than in the hearts of Henry and Mary 
Ware, as they turned their back upon the fond 
scenes of their labor, and, with the unavoidable con- 
sciousness of high qualification as well as affection, 
withdrew from all public service and peculiar trust. 
Nor is it too much to assume, that, while on him 
pressed most heavily the burden of responsibility 
and the grief of incapacity, it was to the wife and 
the mother that there came most loudly the call for 
exertion, for cheerful courage, a wise diligence, and 
unfaltering trust. 

The village to which they retired was chosen part- 
ly for its seclusion combined with convenience, and 
partly for economy. In relation to the last, their 
anxieties were now relieved by a generous contribu- 
tion from friends, whom it would have been wrong to 
refuse ; though similar offers had been made and de- 
clined before, as we ought to have said in referring 
to their embarrassments. So long as there was the 



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316 LIFE IN FRAMINOHAM. 

power of exertion, or a reasonable hope of it, Mr. 
Ware could not bring himself to accept any mere 
favors of this kind, — seldom so grateful as a fair re- 
quital for willing service and acknowledged ability. 
But now that the power of exertion was suspended, 
duty to those nearest, as well as gratitude to perse- 
vering benefactors, made him more than willing. " I 
have got rid, through the kindness of excellent 
friends, of all distressful anxiety for the living of my 
family ; I can leave them in comparative peace ; in 
that sense, my |^ouse is set in order." Thus did Mr. 
Ware write to his brother John, in that earnest* let- 
ter in which he begs him, as a physician, to deal 
frankly with him, and tell him the whole truth as to 
the probability of his recovery or decline. And this 
was the state of mind in which the life at Framing- 
ham began, and continued to the end, — a state of 
suspense, entire uncertainty, unwillingness to be 
idle, but inability to enter confidently upon any 
plan, or engage vigorously in any employment. 
There is little, therefore, to be told of this period, in 
regard to occupation or incident. We can only 
show in what spirit Mrs. Ware met this new trial, 
— to many minds the hardest of all, — living with- 
out an object, yet striving to live cheerfully, busily, 
and profitably. 

This may be shown best by giving brief extracts 
from her letters, written during the first season of 
their residence there. 

''July 30, 1842. My dear Mrs. F— : You will 
be glad to know that we find ourselves very comfort- 
able here. The house is exceedingly well adapted 



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LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM. 317 

to our purpose ; and though the externals of life are 
comparatively smcdl matters with respect to happi- 
ness, in health, there are cases of sickness in which 
they must be of importance. It is a great comfort 
to me, in the present case, that our outward appli- 
ances are such as will aid the chief object for which 
we have made this change. I feel deeply that it is 
an experiment, and, like all human plans, has some 
disadvantages ; but I will ' hope on, hope ever,' be- 
lieving as I do that it was ri^ht to try it. Yet you 
know (none better) how much one has to feel in the 
detail of life, when so much is at stalfe. O, why can 
we not, with full faith and perfect peace, cast all our 
care upon Him, who indeed careth for us more than 
we can care for any being ? I can for the most part 
feel this, but it is not easy to keep always on the 
mount. ..... Although I realize the change, and fully 

appreciate all I have left behind, I am perfectly 
amazed to find how obtuse my feelings are. I could 
almost fancy I did not love my friends as well as I 
thought I did, so entirely do I find myself absorbed 
by my new duties and occupations, with scarcely a 
thought for any thing but the best accomplishment 
of my immediate business, — my husband's comfort 
and improvement. What a blessed power of adap- 
tation is given us, to enable us to meet the varieties 
of life! The fact is, in our case, never could so 
great a movement have been made under more fa- 
vorable circumstances ; and, with so many blessings 
about our path, it would be strange indeed if we 
could find place for regret." 

'^August 21, 1842. My dear N : I begin to 

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318 LIFE IN PRAMINOHAM. 

think I shall not gain much in the way of leisure by 
this change. For although there is not the same 
necessity for attending to extraneous matters that 
there was in Cambridge, so much more of the detail 
of affairs necessarily passes through my hands, that 
I find the days all too short to accomplish half I 
should like to do. I cannot give up the hope, and 
indeed expectation, that the mode of life we have 
adopted will prove good for Mr. Ware; and as I 
view it nearer, so many of what I had anticipated as 
hindrances vanish into thin air, that I am more than 
ever satisfied with the form of the experiment Of 
course, I expect to put my shoulder to the daily wheel 
in a new line of labor, and have fully calculated the 
cost. I only hope my health and strength will contin- 
ue as good as they now are, and I shall do very well. 
I never shrink from labor of any kind Our chil- 
dren are much pleased with the place and its occu- 
pations ; and I hope to give them by the change the 
opportunity of acquiring the knowledge of many 
things, and exercising some of the virtues for which 
they had no chance in their former mode of life. 

I have a treasure of a woman, who has been 

with me nearly two years, bound to me and mine by 
the strongest affection, kind, capable, and refined;, 
particularly pleased with being ' monarch of all she 
surveys' in the kitchen, and so well informed and 
respectful, that it is a pleasure to me to associate 
with her as I am obliged to in work, and a comfort 
in the perfect security I feel in her intercourse with 
my children. It is not the least of my blessings, 
that just such ah one should have been with me at 
this crisis." 



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LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM« 310 

TEis mention of the faithful domestic, *^ oar Mar* 
garet," as she was always called, who lived with 
Mrs. Ware seven years, discloses another trait of 
character, more rare than it should be. The com- 
plaints that we constantly hear of the selfishness and 
"plague of servants," demand more consideration 
than they usually receive. The whole matter of do- 
mestic service is becoming a serious one. Even 
where it is wholly free, it affects materially the com- 
fort of life, and exerts an influence on the character 
of both the employers and the employed. Are the 
employers or the employed most in fault? Thi» 
is the one question which should be deliberately 
weighed, instead of being dismissed with a burst oi 
passion or a smile of self-complacency. There are 
women who have little or no trouble with their 
servants, — who retain them long, secure their confi- 
dence for life, obtain from them better service than 
many who pay more and exact more, and repose in 
them the most important trusts. To this class we 
believe Mrs. Ware to have belonged. And the se- 
cret of her success we suppose to have been simply 
this : she looked upon servants as of the same spe- 
cies with herself; creatures of like passions and like 
sensibilities ; as liable to be selfish, unreasonable, and 
easily offended, as those whom they serve, but not 
more; having equal claim upon kind consideration, 
and a perfect right to feel wounded and wronged, if 
dealt with unjustly. On this subject Mrs. Ware 
seems to have asked herself these two questions: 
Why do so many people, who are never harsh or ill- 
natured toward any one else, think nothing of being 



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320 LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM. 

harsh and ill-natured toward their domestics ?- And 
why do many sound and zealous religionists forget 
to carry any of their religion into their intercourse 
and dealings with servants? It would not have been 
easy, we think, to discern any difference in her treat- 
ment of the highest and the lowest, the affluent and 
the dependent. Nor did she think it her duty to 
visit iniquity even upon the vicious, by withdrawing 
from them all confidence, and' turning them into the 
streets to sin and sufler more. Not in words alone, 
or of one sex only, has she said, as we find her 
saying in an aggravated case : " I see not why a 
man's sins should for ever cut him off from the 
charities of his kind, if he is truly penitent. What 
are we that we should condemn, if God forgives? " 

In continuing our extracts from Mrs. Ware's let- 
ters at this period, we shall draw freely from those 
which she wrote to the son who had been left in 
Cambridge, and was now entering upon the work of 
the ministry, feeling painfully the separation from 
his father, and the loss in part of his guidance and 
counsel. 

" Framingham^ August^ 1842. At last, dear John, 
the great crisis has passed, the great movement is 
made. We have changed our home, and are no 
longer to live together under the same circumstan- 
ces. The change is indeed great to us all, but I feel 
that for you it is greater than to any one else, and 
therefore it is that I am impelled to use my first 
quiet moment in expressing my deep sense of the 
trial of your present position, and most heartily sym- 
pathize with the soul-stirring emotion which belongs 



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LIFE IN FRAMINGUAM. 321 

to it. To you it is indeed a very important turning- 
point in existence, and when one looks only upon 
the momentous responsibilities which it involves, it 
is not strange that the heart should sink, and the 
question should involuntarily arise to one's lips, 
* How can this change be borne, how can such duties 
be met ? ' I have felt sometimes, in looking at the 
singular combination of events, by which you should 
be separated from your father, just when you were 
commencing the most trying and important period 
of life, as if it were almost too bard ; and as if it 
would have been not only easier, but safer, to have 
been able to feel your way a little before you ab- 
solutely floated off under your own sole guidance. 
But a second thought has always satisfied me that 
the arrangement of Providence was the best, air 
though for the time the most painful. Standing 
forth in your lot, as an ambassador for Christ to 
the world, you cannot be too soon led to rely solely 
on his teaching for direction, and it cannot but be 
best that you should be compelled, by the removal 
of earthly succor, to go only to Him who is *the 
way, the truth, and the life,' for strength in the hout 
of need." 

" My dear John : You are now passing through 
that ordeal which I have long looked forward to as 
inevitable at some period, sometimes with an almost 
irresistible desire to avert it by opening to you pages 
of my own painful experience in self-education; 
sometimes with an uncontrollable impatience to 
hasten it, that, being past, you and I and all might 
be enjoying the happiness it might produce. It is 



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322 LIFE IN FRAMIN6HAM. 

one of the most difficult questions to decide how far^ 
and when, to make opportunities, or wait for them 
to come in the natural order of things ; we should 
very decidedly wait, if we were sure they would 

come at some time, — but there is the rub 

'' It is a common and very natural idea with 
young people, that older ones cannot understand or 
sympathize in their feelings ; forgetting that we have 
all been young, and that the struggles by which the 
soul is exercised in youth are never to be forgotten. 
The experience of different natural characters of 
course varies, but the fact of struggle is common to 
all. And upon no spot in the review of the past 
does one's memory dwell with so much intense emo- 
tion, as upon that thorny and tangled labyrinth 
through which the spirit wandered, ' bewildered, but 
not lost,' at the period when the necessity and duty 
of proving its own character first roused it to a sense 
of its responsibilities. You say most truly, that it is 
good to look at things at a distance, from new and 
various points of view. I have always advocated 
this, for my own changeful life forced the conviction 
upon me ; and for the same reason, I would advo- 
cate free, confidential discussion of inward and spir- 
itual experience. The mere clothing our thoughts | 
and feelings in words sometimes places them in a 
different position. We take them out of the atmos- 
phere of our own perhaps morbid fears and anxie- 
ties, and can therefore see them more clearly. Then, 
too, we have the advantage of another's observation, 
and, may-be, experience of the selfsame difficulties^ 
to aid us in our judgment of their true character. 



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LIFE IN FRAMIN6HAM. 323 

At any rate, we have tbe certainty of that warm 
kindling of the affections which to a loving heart is 
always a help in bearing the burden of life. Believe 
me, dear John, there is ample reward for all the 
effort it may cost in unclothing ourselves, in the 
consciousness that however the outer world may 
think of us, at home^ in that sanctuary which God 
and nature have alike appointed as the best resting- 
place for the spirit upon earth, we are understood 
and appreciated and loved. Let us not suflier any 
factitious thoughts or circumstances to cheat us of 
this privilege, but with trusting, confiding hearts 
take the good which Heaven designed for us when 
the family-community was established in the world. 

I could write more than I should care to 

give you the trouble to read, if I attempted to write 
half that I have in my heart to say." 

" December^ 1842. The going forth into the world 
for the first time alone is, it seems to me, the most 
trying point in the existence of any one of any 
sensibility. But does not the very difficulty of the 
case indicate the value of the experience ? Are not 
almost all the most valuable results of effort those 
which require the greatest efforts for their attain- 
ment? The higher the summit to which we would 
arrive, the more toilsome must be the ascent. When 
by a prayerful, self-surrendering spirit we have 
sought to learn the will of God concerning us, shall 
we not believe that, into whatsoever path we may be 
led, it must contain for us the discipline we need, 
— treasures of experience, hidden perhaps at first, 
which will amply repay any toil, any suffering, in 



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824 LIFE IN FRAMIN6HAM. 

the fldd we shall derive from them in our Chriatian 

progress ? We admire, we reverence, the spirit 

which actuated Oberlin and Felix Neff, and many 
others of the class of missionary spirits who have 
left all to do their Master's work in the field he has 
appointed for them ; but we do not easily realize how 
much of the same spirit of self-sacrifice is called for 
in what no one would think of calling missionary 
ground, and which yet requires as much surrender 
of earthly desire as their situations could, which none 
but the All-seeing can know." 

An event which all felt, at this time, was felt by 
none" more than by Mrs. Ware. We mean the death 
of Dr. Channing. The reader will remember how 
much he had done for her in early life, not only as a 
public teacher, but as a private friend, with whom 
her intercourse had been frequent and perifectly free. 
For several years she had seen little of him. And 
now, in her seclusion and comparative solitude, the 
unexpected intelligence of his death moved her deep- 
ly. To a friend in Cambridge, she writes : " You 
cannot imagine how trying it is to me, to know 
nothing of Dr. Channing's sickness and death, except 
what the newspapers can tell me. You know not 
the peculiar relation in which I have stood towards 
him. Do in pity tell me what you know about the 
event I cannot realize it, I can scarcely believe it. 
There 'is so much to be thought of in relation to 
such an event, that my mind is perfectly bewildered. 
I cannot arrange my thoughts enough to give them 
utterance. But my heart goes out toward those 
many dear friends who will feel his loss as I da 



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LIFE IN FRAinNGHAM. 335 

One is tempted to say, * What a loss to the world is 
the death of such a man ! ' But such a man cannot 
die. How will his words have new power over the 
hearts of those who read them, from the conscious- 
ness that the spirit that uttered them already sees 
behind the veil, that his light can never be put out, 
but will penetrate still more and more the inmost 
recesses of men's souls! How will that last elo- 
quent, touching appeal for the Slave gain access to 
the coldest hearts, when it is remembered that it was 
the last effort of the departing saint for the rights 
and sufferings of the oppressed ! The impulse which 
such a mind gives must be felt for ever. Who can 
measure its power?" A fact is here suggested 
which there seems no reason for withholding, show- 
ing the estimate which Dr. Channing himself put 
upon the character and power of Mrs. Ware. A 
lady intimate with both of them when they were 
most together, says : " Dr. Channing talked with her 
on religious experience, to learn as weU as to teach. 
I have known him to request her to make visits of 
instruction to a disconsolate person, whom he could 
not awaken to religious hope, — trusting that her 
gentle sympathy and clear views might shed a ray 
of light that would point her to the day." 

The first season at Framingham was a busy one, 
though tranquil Mrs. Ware's bodily as well as 
mental labor must have been unusually great. " It 
is true, I do not see how we are to set all the 
stitches which will be necessary to prepare eight 
people for a winter campaign in a cold house ; but 
I have faith that we shall fiiud a way." They were 
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326 UFE m FRAMtNGHAlf. 

much more free from inteiraptions than ever before. 
Their new neighbors and friends were not only kind, 
but considerate, — one of the best forms of kind- 
ness. Gratefully does Mrs. Ware acknowledge this. 
*^ How much there is in human life to interest our 
hearts! One cannot go anywhere without finding 
some cases of peculiar interest. We are here cut off 
from general knowledge of those around us, by hav- 
ing come expressly for retirement Our neighbors, 
understanding this, do not calL And yet we have 
already happened upon some most interesting people, 
from whom we cannot in conscience hold back." 

Thus the year closed ; a year of as great outward 
change as any that had preceded it, and leaving 
them in as great uncertainty as to the future. Yet 
Mrs. Ware could say : <' The prevailing emotion in 
the retrospect is one of gratitude at having been 
enabled to escape from the burden which before 
oppressed and weighed me down. The conscious- 
ness that we were spending all our strength, mental 
and physical, upon a vain attempt for an unattain- 
able result, was worse to me than any degree of la- 
bor for an attainable end, or even any uncertainty 
about the future means of support I rejoice that 
my husband is free from that incubus upon his spir- 
its ; and still more do I rejoice, that it is given to us 
both to feel, in the uncertainty that lies before us, 
such a tranquil trust that all will be well, that we 
have no fear, no wish. Still the^p is room for much 
mental and spiritual discipline; and I must ac- 
knowledge that there are times when the weakness 
of the flesh overcomes the willingness of the spirit, 



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LIFE IN FRAMINOHAM. 327 

and I feel for the time entirely depressed by a sense 
of inadequacy to meet the demands of duty. I have 
not the power to do all that ought to be done, and I 
feel as if the effects of my incapacity would be 
grievous. I know that one has no rig'ht to suffer 
from this, because we ought to have faith to believe 
that the trials even of our own insulEciency are de- 
signed to accomplish some end. But the conscious- 
ness that others are suffering from our deficiencies is 
just the very hardest thing to bear in life. It is my 
cross, and always has been ; and I fear I do not learn 
as I ought, to bear it in meekness and humility,— 
I need not say * fear,' I know I do not" 

To those familiar with the life of Henry "Ware, and 
with its close, it is unnecessary to recount the events 
of the year 1843; the year that brought into stern 
requisition all the trust and endurance of a devoted 
wife. She had long seen that this trial was ap- 
proaching, and had fortified herself to meet it, not by 
putting the thought of it aside, but by keeping it be- 
fore her, and making it familiar, that it might never 
take her by surprise. And long had she thus disci- 
plined her mind and her affections. For during the 
sixteen years that she had lived with Mr. Ware, she 
could never, for any long time, have failed to see the 
great precarioiisness of his hold on life. At this very 
period, she says : " In such alternation of hope and 
fear do I live, and indeed have lived for the greater 
part of my married life." Yet how much had she en- 
joyed life ! and what an amount of happiness, labor, 
and usefulness had she extorted — if we may use 
the word in a grateful sense, as she would — from 
every year and every position ! 



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328 lilFB IN FRAMING HAMT. 

In the spring of 1843 she accompanied her hus- 
band to Boston, for a short visit at his brother's ; and 
there occurred that severe and alarming illness, 
which confined Mr. Ware for ten weeks, and from the 
effects of which he never recovered. Of this attack, 
and of all that intervened until his death, we will not 
give the particulars, but would only trace Mrs. Ware's 
own thoughts and feelings, as she expressed them 
from time to time in letters and fragments of letters 
to those most concerned. 

" Boston^ Thursdat/j May 11. Since writing to you, 
dear N— — , I have had a season of intense anxiety. 
Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, Mr. Ware suffered 
extremely, and it was not clear what was the nature 
of the difficulty that produced this suffering; one 
thing only was certain, — that he was very sick, and 
too weak to bear such distress long. It must be a 
long time before he is free from the effects of it, 
even if he have strength to hold out. So end my 
hopes for the present, and I must give up all thought 
about any thing but the care of my husband, for I 
know not how long. God's will be done ! He must 
know what is best, — but it is not easy to understand 
how it is so in this case. And if it were easy, where 

would be room for Faith ? These are trying, 

but blessed days, for the cultivation of the spirit of 
faith and trust; and I know I need much to make 
me feel that this is not my home. God grant that 
I may effectually learn it, so as to be not only willing, 
but glad, to give up all that belongs to me here, con- 
fident in the prospect of a reunion in a better state! 
I shall write again if I can, but I have few minutes 
unoccupied.'* 



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LIFE IN FRAMIN6HAM. 329 

« Boston^ May^ 1843. My dear child : Father con- 
tiiiued very much as you left him, yesterday. He 
does not suffer as much as he did, but his disease is 
a very tedious one, and it may be many weeks be- 
fore he is able to get home, if it pleases God still to 
restore him to health. Let us pray to Him to look 
in mercy upon us, and spare him to us yet longer. 
The circumstances of our lot in life are just now very 
trying, and no doubt are arranged for us in order to 
our improvement. It is a great trial to father and 
me to be separated from our children so long ; and 
to you all, this separation brings the greater respon** 
sibility to watch over yourselves, that you do in all 
things right, — not what is most pleasant, not what 
we wish, but what is ri^ht to do, without regard to 
self. Next to my anxiety about father, now, is my 
anxiety about you ; because I feel that you are at an 
age when the habits are formed, and the principles 
of action settled for life ; that your whole future, for 
time and for eternity, may depend upon these years. 
And I cannot feel happy unless I see you gaining 
from day to day more and more of that self-disci* 
pline and self-control, which can alone, by the grace 
of God, make you what you ought to be." 

Mr. Ware was able to return to Framingham in 
June, and afterward took several short journeys 
among friends, one as far as Plymouth, and thence 
to Fall River (where his son was then settled in the 
ministry), and home by Providence, — his last visit 
to those places. In August, another and still more 
violent attack upon the brain prostrated him com- 
pletely ; and the remaining five or six weeks of his 
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330 LIFE IN FRAMINGflAM. 

life seemed only a vacillation between earth and 
heaven, — yielding transporting glimpses of the lat- 
ter, but constantly drawing him back to the former, 
— and creating altogether as hard a trial for the sof- 
ferer, and those around him, as can easily be con- 
ceived. 

" August 17. "We feel, in father's case, ' how 
vain is the help of man.' His system is so delicate, 
that he cannot bear the administration of any potent 
means. Our reliance must be upon our Heavenly 
Parent, in whose hand are the issues of life and 
death. Let us pray to Him, that, if it be consistent 
with his wisdom, this cup may pass from us ; but 
let us be ready to say, and feel in our inmost hearts, 

* Not my will, but thine, O Lord, be done ! ' 

We do not feel it to be impossible that dear father 
should recover from this illness ; but we know that 
his repeated sicknesses must have weakened his 
power of reaction, and we strive, therefore, to be pre- 
pared for any result. The very uncertainty is ap- 
pointed for our good; let us use it, my dear child,* 

for our spiritual advancement Grod bless youi 

be submissive, be patient, be grateful^ if it so please 
God that dear father should be released from the 
burden of his earthly house, to be transported to his 
heavenly home, where there is no more pain." 

" August 21. It is all in the hands of Infinite Love 
and Wisdom. God will order all well ; let us be 
wilUng and be thankful to place our trust in Him. 
What a mercy it is to us, that He has not given us 
the power of foreknowledge! But whatever may 
be the event, let us not lose the benefit of this disci- 



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LIFE IN FRAMIN6HAM. 331 

pline to our sonis ; let us strive to increase our faith 
in God's goodness, our trust in his love I can- 
not write much, for I cannot leave father many min- 
utes at a time, — and all the time I can get, I am 
bound to devote to sleep.'* 

" 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 expe- 
rience now, than by any words of mine. I have 
wished, as you do now, to know all that was passing 
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, when- 
ever 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 
80 much upon my calmness. This last fortnight has 
shaken to its very foundation the whole fabric of ray 
spiritual being, -r* thank God! not to displace a sin- 
gle 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 my- 
self, or be lost; yet t^ no one have I dared to .speak. 



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332 LIFE IN FRAMINGHASr, 

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 re- 
joice 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 yoa 
would. But I bow in submission to all the disci- 
pline which God appoints for me In some re- 
spects the bitterness of the stroke has passed. 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 ne- 
cessity of calmness for the children's sake, feeling 
that their state of mind would inevitably be influ- 
enced 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 agi- 
tation and excitement God give us stirength 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 



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LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM. 833 

as I have looked forward to this change, it seems 
like a dream from which I must awake, — as if it 
conid 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 chil- 
dren, 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, association and custom are 
allowed to check our highest aspirations in the ho- 
liest 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 God, in the most sol- 
emn 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 associating 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 



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334 LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM. 

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 con- 
tinued Sabbath." Then, on Sabbath evening, after 
a simple religious service, the " precious remains " of 
the husband and father were taken in their own car- 
riage, by the wife and eldest son, to Cambridge; 
where, the next day, the more public ceremony of in- 
terment 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 fu- 
neral, 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 
repetitions 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. 

'' CkLmbridge, Somber 26, 1843. 

" My dear Child : — 
*' I use my first moment of repose to write to you, for I 



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LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM. 335 

know you will long to hear what we have been doing, and 
as far as possible to enter into all our thou ght% 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 be- 
long 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 Saturday, 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 God, 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 passages 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 Cam- 
bridge 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. 
W^e found that, in accordance with the wishes of the College 
Faculty, it had been decided that we should go to the Col- 
lege Chapel, for the service, at half past three on Monday. 



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396 LIFE IN FRAMINOHAK. 

** 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^clook 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 passages 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, gratitude, 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 circumstances 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 considera- 
tions. The services closed with ' Unveil thy bosom, faith- 
ful tomb I ' 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 inhab- 
itant ; 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.^' 



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LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM. 337 

" 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 assure 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 I 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 re- 
turned, was at the moment bounding, in the height of his 
joyous spirits, from one side of the bed to the other, ex- 
claiming, ' Sail 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, — ' Sail I buss 
the flies off father, now he has gone to heaven ? ' I felt it 
a peculiar blessing, that all the circumstances of the event 
were such as to make any movement or change in any ex- 
ternal respect unnecessary, so that the children might have 
their first associations 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 
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338 LIFB IN FRAMINOHAH. 

when talking with them, until he was removed from the 
house, and that process the little ones did not witness. I 
dcubt 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 toithin. 

^^ You know how I have suffered in anticipation 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 suf- 
ferings 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 associations 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 cany those precious 
remains to Cambridge. 

" I find it is as I anticipated, — 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 ybrm ; I look back to 
it only as the associate of the spirit in health ; I do not 
cling to it now. Yours in all love. 

" M. L. W.'' 



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LIFE IN FRAMINOHAlI. 339 

^'fVamingham^ October 6, 1843. 
" My dear Mary : — 

" The first moment I can call my own since my retun^ 
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 sus- 
tain the pressure of circumstances, the tension and excite- 
ment 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 convic- 
tion 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 atmos- 
phere which it seems as if death had created around me. 
Death ? transition I would rather call it. s And yet let us 



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340 I«IFB IN FRAMINChHAJi. 

Strive to disabuse that word of some of the horrors in which 
education has wrapt it. O, could you have seen how mer- 
cifully it was stripped of all its terrors to us, how calmly 
that spirit left its earthly tabernacle, how sweet was the im- 
press of peace and rest it left upon that face which had so 
long almost lost its own expression in the veil that sick- 
ness 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 
«nywhere 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, al- 
though still unable to exert himself to talk, — for it tired him, 
he said, * even to think,' — his mind was perfectly clear ; in- 
deed, I had reason to suppose his mind was never as much 
clouded to himself, as it appeared to be to us. The pres- 
sure upon his brain was so great, as to produce great diffi- 
culty 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 situa- 
tion ; he felt decidedly that the time for going home 
come, — *the fitting time,' *the best time'; and he 
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 



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LIFB IN FRAMINOHAM. ' 341 

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 suffer- 
mg from the apprehension of his continuing, for years per- 
haps, in the half-paralyzed, half-torpid state in which he lay 
for so many weeks, that it was not only with resignation, it 
was with a sense of relief, that I saw the doubt was at 
an end, the prisoner was released. So strange is it, that 
that event to which I had ever looked forward as the one 
thing that could not be borne in life, came at last under 
circumstances which made it welcome ! Do I live to say 
it, to feel it? But O the chasm left in my lot, in my 
heart ! Who can estimate it ! No one. No, * the heart 
knoweth its own bitterness^; no human being can enter 

into it But I must stop. I hope to see you, or at 

least hear from you. 

" Yours with much love. 

"M. L. W." 

*^ Draminghami November 5, 1843. 
" My deab 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 asso- 
ciated 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 be- 
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843 UFB m PRAMmGHAlL 

coming to me a mibstitate for all other thoaghts 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 chamc- 
ter into an idolatry of a moce 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 in- 
fidelity, — 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 coun- 
sel to turn to, with the certainty of comfort and peace in the 
turning ! I do indeed feel his presence with me, but my 
heart calls and he" 'answers not again ' ; there can be no 
response to my application. How deeply, how tenderly, is 
he associated with all the holiest hours of existence ! It 
seemed to me to-day I could hear his voice in the hymn 
which had so often been read by him on the same occasion ; 
I could anticipate the words which would fall upon my ear 
as we should leave that service together, rejoicing, as he 
was wont to do, that such a service had been ordained for 
weak, sensual mortals, to take their souls sometimes away 
from flesh and sense to the unfettered contemplation of 
heavenly love. Fully do I realize, that the sense of loss 
is to grow with every added day of my existence ; nothing 
can come near enough to supply it in the least degree ; 
nothing else can become so a part of one's own self. This 
consciousness of desolation must press perpetually like « 



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LIFE IN PRAMTINOHAlf. 343 

weight upon ihy heart, as long as life lasts. And yet how 
atraoge I 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 heen actually passed, which in 
anticipation had always seemed impossible in the possession 
of any power of action ? I have thought that the trial could 
not be borne and sense left ! 

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

" Your own Mahy.*' 

Language so strong as this, from a nature so calm 
-as Mary Ware's, means a great deal. Nor can we 
marvel. For what a change is that through which 
a true woman passes, — from wife to widow ! Is it 
not greater than even the first change ? Often has 
Mary referred to the difference, which few could feel 
as she had, between her former isolation as to nat- 
ural ties, and her adoption into a large and united 
family circle. But now she felt the change through 
which she was passing still more, — inasmuch as 
she had a more profound and pervading sense of all 
that is comprised in conjugal affections and parental 
responsibilities. And while none can have a higher 
standard of duty and obligation, very few have a 
meeker estimate of their own powers ; particularly 
as regards the care and i;he tmining of Children. 
This was to be now her great work, — the chief ob- 
ject and anxiety of her remaining days. And un- 
feignedly did she shrink, not from the task, but from 



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344 LIFE IN PRAMINGHAH. 

the vastness of the trust and the burden to be sns- 
tained (Uone. ^ When I think of this large family of 
little children to be left to my care, instead of hisy it 
requires a process of thought to feel so assured that 
God can bring good out of seeming evil, and work 
out his purposes by the weakest instruments, as 
to be able to calm the throbs of anxiety, and say, 
* Peace, be still ! ' to the troubled spirit" True, her 
ideal was high, and she could never be satisfied with 
that which would more than satisfy many parents. 
Years before had she said of one of her children: 
" For her intellectual progress I have no anxiety, that 
is, so far as the acquisition of knowledge goes ; but 
how to cultivate the moral, so that it shall govern and 
guide this intellectual progress into the right chan- 
nels, and establish the supremacy of the spirUiuU 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 
il^on the deficiencies of my condition until it had 
exaggerated to a more than earthly possibility the 
happiness of having something to love which would 
satisfy the desires of my mind and heart, — and then 
compare that longing with the present reality, — is 
it strange that I can scarcely realize my identity 
with that same lone one?" The time had now 
come when she was again a " lone one." And this 
is what we would say, — that the loneliness 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 



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LIFB IN FRAMfNOHAM. 345 

thing inexf^icable in the fact, that the most consei- 
entiouB, even the strongest in character and high- 
est in aim, suffer most from a sense of their own 
deficiencies, and use language which seems tP many 
exaggerated and hardly sincere. ^< I am so perpetu- 
ally 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 
moek humility ; I think as well of myself as I de- 
serve. I am aware that it grows in some measure 
out of the newness of ray position, and know that 
time and habit may bring somewhat different feel- 
ings; but it is only these which can do it, and I 
must suffer for a long time yet from this as well as 
jfrom the other effects of isolation." 

We are tne 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 vis- 
age, 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 hear 
trial had she felt so intensely or suffered more poig- 



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346 LIFB IN FRAMINGHAK. 

nantly. ^ Every word was an HercuLsan labor ; and 
I was oonscious that all were disturbed by it Fcnr 
once, I must say, I could not help ti. And shall I teU 
you att my wickedness? I have in vain tried to 
look at life with sufficient interest to care about liv- 
ing. 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 didy 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 disci- 
pline,— the first having been written to her hus- 
band, the others to her children. 

" My dear Henry : When I am left to the 

sole care of my family, there is nothing that exer- 
cises my mind more than the right performance of 
family worship. It seems to me that it ought to be 
more peculiarly adapted to the capacities of children 
than we are apt to make it For the older and well- 
educated part of a family, other means of instruction 
and communion with God are open and acceptable 
every day ; but the children and domestics must of 
necessity depend upon this exercise for nearly all 
the religious influences of the day. The simplicity 



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LIFE IN FRAMING HAM. 847 

of diction which would fix the attention of even 
little children, would not be too plain for the' gen- 
erality of domestics ; and we all feel that the most 
simple is often the most sublime and affecting ex- 
pression 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 circum- 
stances of the family, — not merely the general, but 
particular circumstances. For instance, if they are 
about separating, to dwell upon the use to be made o^ 
such an event, reminding us of finai 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 remind- 
ed of the importance of governing our passions ; and, 
if done in the righfc way, subdue the rebellious spirit 
more than any arguments. So, too, with regard to 
reading the Scriptures ; it seems to me the time is 
all but lost if a familiarity of the words only is 
gained; and that the book should never be closed 
without having the attention fixed upon some one at 
least of the useful passages read, either in the way 

of explanation or application to duty I have 

not time now to put into shape half that is in 
my mind, but I really feel that we do not do justice 
to our children in not acting more directly upon 
their religious characters every day. In many instan- 
ces, I believe a wayward spirit might be checked by 



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848 LIFE IN PKAMINGHASi; 

having a nsefdl current of thought opened for it^ 
which would take off the mind from the subject of 
irritation." 

^ Dear E ; Looking at affairs at home 

from a distance, I see many points in which we 
need improvement, and I want to talk and read 
more with you upon the subject of education. 

" When we look back, and see and feel how much 
the circumstances by which we were surrounded, and 
the treatment of those about us, affected our views, 
we must bring it home to ourselves that what we 
are now doing is having the same influence upon 
them. God has set us apart in families to mark 
out for us a specific line of duty ; and however we 
may^wish that our path had been different, or our du- 
ties 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, af- 
fectionate 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. Dis<» 
agreeable manners, childish though annoying ways, 
may be remedied in after-life, and are, after all, mat- 
ters 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 sub- 
ject what it may, and they will have an association 
of jarring and displeasure with those who keep it up. 



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LIFB IN FRAMINGHAM. 849 

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

" My dear E : The old saying, that 

* children will be children,' might be improved by the 
substitution of 'should' for *will.' I mean in the 
sense, that their natural characters, which are as dif- 
ferent as their faces, ought to be educated gradually; 
not requiring of one child any thing because another 
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3d0 LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM. 

child does it, to whom the thing may be peifectiy 
easy, or more than we can in justice require of them 
at their age, in consideration of their peculiar cir- 
cumstances. We' are to judge and discipline a child 
simply in reference to its own individual character 
and circumstances, and deal with it with the single 
view to the improvement of its individual character, 
rather than to our own comfort or even its external 
improvement. Now, of course, the application of 
this principle, in detail, involves a great deal of 
thought, observation, and self-denial; but if we 
really desire to do good, and this opportunity of do- 
ing it is in our path, can we engage in a work of 
more extensive good, when we consider how these 
children's characters are to influence a still larger 
circle, and how great is our responsibility to future 
generations as well as the present, that we do all we 
can to prepare the way for their best instruction? 

But to come down to our own case. We all 

take too much notice of mere disagrejeables. The evil 
of doing this is obvious ; if the child is dealt with in 
the same way for making a noise, or for carelessness, 
that it is for a moral delinquency, it soon learns to 
confound moral distinctions ; and if it is fretted by 
being perpetually talked to about small things, it 
is easily worked up to a state of irritation which 
leads almost insensibly, and certainly without any 
design, to the commission of some moral misde- 
meanor. I think we may often see this with all 
children, and it is very clear, in such a case, that 
their sin is as much our fault as theirs. We should 
watch our own state very carefully, and see how far 



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LIFE IN FRAMING HAM. 351 

our desire to check them grows out of our own pe- 
culiar state at the time, and how far that influences 
our view of the offence. We all know that what at 
some times we feel to be a great annoyance, is of no 
consequence to us at others ; and for the same rea- 
son, in a different physical state, it is sometimes 
easier for them to control themselves than at others." 

" Dear E ^ : I think it is good for young 

people to have some variety in life. I suffered 
much from the want of it ; and I trust that you have 
too much good sense and right feeling to be unrea- 
sonable in your wishes, or in any measure unfitted 
for the duties and enjoyments of home by the indul- 
gence. I know it has formerly been a great trial of 
your patience to pass from the irresponsible position 
of a visitor, to the occupations and responsibilities 
of home. But I trust, as you grow older and look at 
life more and more with a clear appreciation of its 
use and end, you will take more and more delight in 
the consciousness of living for some useful object ; 
and, despite unpleasant accompaniments, find, in 
using all your powers for the good of others, a pleas- 
ure beyond any to be derived firom a mere indulgence 
of taste. We cannot, and we had certainly better 
not, if we could, choose our own lot in life ; we know 
not in that matter what is best for us. It is happily 
under the guidance of a more perfect wisdom than 
we can attain, and we may rest in faith that our po- 
sition in life is unquestionably the best one for us, or 
it would not have been appointed. Therefore, dear 
E., remember that He who appointed all 'knows 
what is in man,' and in wisdom and love adapts our 



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332 LIFE IN FRAMIN6UAM. 

triak to oar wants ; and the very fact that such and 
euch things are particularly hard to bear, is a proof 
that we need to cultivate just those virtues which 
would uiake it easy to us to bear them." 

" Most people think it as well that the young 
should ' fight their own battles,' as they term it, and 
find their own way out of their childish troubles. 
But I believe many a character is seriously injured 
by the want of aid in its petty difficulties, at that 
period when the right principles of action are most 
easily taught ; they are as necessary to the right ad- 
justment of small matters as of great I do not 

think as much as I once did of the loss of constant 
intercourse in the daily routine of life, in cultivating 
family affection. I believe family attachments are 
sometimes increased by occasional separation. But 
I do think a great deal of the loss, to a girl, of all 
domestic education, for the whole of that period 
when domestic occupations can best be learned. 
Of all objects in life there is none more distasteful 
to me than a merely literary woman; no amount 
of learning is a fair balance, in my mind, for the 
feminine graces of a true woman's character. It is 
not merely that she looks better, clean and tidy, or 
that a careful use of the needle is a preventive of 
waste in the use of means, — although these are con- 
siderations worth weighing. But there are internal 
graces connected with these external habits; and 
there is no higher object for a woman's life than the 
cultivation of those powers which make the comfort 
of a well-ordered household." * 

* A strong assertion j but it is evident that Mrs. Ware's idea of a 



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LIFE IN FRAMINOHAlff. 353 

« December 31, 1843. The last day of this most 
eventful year ! Dear Annie, how many precious, sol- 
emn thoughts does the very writing its date suggest! 
In all the future years of our lives, be they many or 
few, no one, it now seems, can bring to us so great, 
so affecting a change in outward things, as this 
year which is just passing away. It is not only 
that the outward circumstances of our lives are to 
take a new course, because he has left us who was 
to us the leading and controlling spirit in all that 
pertained to our life in this world, but that we shall 
no longer feel the perpetual action of his character 
in the daily detail of the education of our souls 

" Your expressions of discouragement and anxiety 
about yourself touch me very much. I can enter 
fully into all your feelings, for at your age I was not 
only separated from the loved circle and influences of 
home, for a time, but I lost for ever my chief earthly 
dependence for aid and happiness in my mother's 
death. Thus, being left to myself, I was led to a 
self-inspection and care of my own character, which 
do not usually come for many years after. I know 
all the trials that beset one's path at your age, for I 
have had deep experience of them ; and I can say 
with confidence to you, that they may all be over- 
come by a resolute will, united to a true spirit of 
humility. Not, perhaps, in one year or two ; but I 
do know that, by the persevering use of the means 
which God has placed within our reach, in reliance 
upon and earnest seeking *of the aid which he will 

•• well-ordered household " comprised all that the Scriptures mean by 
the direction, " Set thine house in order/' 

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3S4 LIFB IN FRABCtNOHAM. 

give, we shall make progress in the Christian life, the 

only life which can give us any satisfaction 

Seek the truth in your own character, and see it in 
others. Fix for yourself a high standard of excellence, 
and never < tire nor stop to rest,' until you have put 
yourself in the way to attain it Stop not then ; 
there is no stopping in this world (or in another, I 

believe) Look your great difficulties full in 

the face; seek not to gloss them over, or find ex- 
cuses for them. You have them as the means of 
excellence, by giving you something to do, a mode 
of applying Christian principle. Use them as such, 

and faint^uot. 

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

One is perplexed to understand how Mrs. Ware, 
who neglected no duty, found time to write so much ; 



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LIFE IN FlUHflNOHAM. 8S6 

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

But not for her own pleasure alone was this done. 
She had yielded to the earnest desire of all the 



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356 UFB IN FRAMINOHJLM. 

friends of her husband, that a Memoir shonld be 
written, and many of his letters and private papers 
given to the public. Not, however, without long 
deliberation and great reluctance did she give her 
consent; for, as we have said in the beginning of 
this work, it cost a hard struggle, and even " agony," 
to open to the public eye that " sacred inner life " 
which seemed her own, and only hers. But here, as 
everywhere, she soon conquered all selfish feeling, 
and, taking the largest view of usefulness and duty, 
afforded every facility for a faithful exhibition of 
such a character. To her son she says : " I know 
that, if the picture of what he was is to be a true 
one, it must have all those beautiful lights and shad- 
ows thrown into it which come from the light of 
the soul ; and I hope to be able so to lay aside all 
personal consideration, as to do what ought to be 
done in this regard to make the work as useful as it 
can be. I trust you will feel so too. In our horror 
of gossip, do not let us go to the other extreme, and 
be too external and cold." In all such relations, it 
was a great part of her principle and power of action, 
that she had entire faith in her husband's knowl- 
edge of her motives ; with the added conviction, 
that, whatever had been his thoughts and wishes 
under the burden of the flesh and of disease, he was 
now looking only at the highest and broadest aspect, 
the spiritual and eternal issues of every act. Her 
communion with his mind seems to have been as 
habitual and actual as it is possible to conceive. 
•Again and again does she refer to it, and expresses 
regret and pain when a doubt is raised, or a check 



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LtFB IN FRAMINOHAX. 357 

given to tbe fall, cordial assurance of the " fellowship 
of the spirit.'' And her enjoyment of this thought was 
never troubled, but rather enhanced, by the thought 
of another^ with whom the sharer of her affections 
and her existence was now reunited in heaven. 
Distinctly does she refer to it, in writing to one of 
the children of those parents who were now restored 
to each other. " I never experienced the sense of 
continued union as fully as now. It may be vision- 
ary, but I know it is beneficial. Your mother and 
your father are as much really present with me, to 
my consciousness, as if Scripture had told me so, it 
seems to me. In his case, it is but a continuation of 
perfect oneness; in hers, it has always been the 
sense of accountableness, which has aided it." 

We attempt no concealment of our wish to ex- 
hibit fully this rare and beautiful feature of a Chris- 
tian's faith and love, — less rare, we would fain be- 
lieve, in the reality of its existence, than in the cour- 
age that avows it. We value it, not only for its own 
sake, in a connection where it is needed and may be 
the source of peculiar happiness, but also for the evi- 
dence it affords of the power and glory of our relig- 
ion. We find a letter written on the first anniver- 
sary, after Henry Ware's death, of her decease who 
had been the object of his earliest attachment, and 
whom every later change, in life and death, endeared 
the more. The letter was written to a child of that 
departed mother. 

*^ Framingham^ February 5, 1844. 

" Mt dear John : — 
** I always feel, when I get your letters, as if I wanted to 



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358 LIFE IN FRAMIKGHAM* 

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

pleasure in contemplating it 

" I have often wished I could convey to your mind, with- 
out the intervention of words, what I felt to be the ten- 
derness of the relation in which I stood to you ; for my 
views and feelings have always been so different from what 
I find to be general, that it was not to be expected that 
you should understand them without such communication. 
From the very commencement of my connection with your 
father, I have realized the truth of my long-cherished theo- 
ry, that the strength of one affection does not interfere in 
the least with the strength of another; we love not one 
brother or sister or child the less because we have an- 
other to love ; if there is any difference in the degree, it 
arises from other causes than number ; and I know not why 
it should not be the same in all relations, where the soul is 
large enough to take so wide a range. I would thank God 
for this special blessing in addition, I might almost say 



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LIFE IN FRAAIINGHAM. 359 

above all others, for without it all others would have had a 
bitter ingredient. It has been one of the purest sources of 
happiness, that we could dwell together upon the memory of 
her who had gone, and feel an equal anxiety and interest 
in 'fulfilling her wishes towards her and our children. 

" With the love of your Mother." 

One other letter we give from Framingham, ad- 
dressed to the same son, in relation to the first ex- 
periences and discouragements of the ministry. Its 
plain good sense may be of use to some other begin- 
ners, — confirmed as it is by the fact disclosed in it, 
that some of the strongest minds and most success- 
ful ministers have suffered in the same way. 

" Frcaninghamy March 15, 1844. 

" Mt dear John : — 

" I turn now to that for which I most wished 

to write, — your present anxieties in your professional du- 
ties. I cannot indeed, as you say, help you, as he could 
have done, but O how fully can I sympathize with you ! It 
is to my mind only the reiteration of what I have so often 
heard from him ; even after the ten years' experience 
which he had had when I first was partaker of his joys and 
sorrows, he suffered at times as you do now ; and the details 
he has given me of his trials when he was first settled 
would equal, if not exceed, yours. You may depend upon 
it, dear John, yours is a common experience of all young 
ministers who have feeling and sensibility enough to be 
really good ministers ; and you must not be discouraged by 
thinking your difficulties grow out of peculiar disabilities. 
I remember hearing a parishioner of Mr. Buckminster say,^ 
that he felt so much his incapacity to administer comfort to 
the sick and afflicted, that it was distressing to see him in 



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360 LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM. 

a sick-room. I wish you coald talk freely with some min- 
bters about it I have no doubt you would find it more 
or less so with all, according to their natural temperament. 
As I have said again and again, it is well to keep one's 
conscience and sensibilities tender; it is well to realize 
one's^ deficiencies to the extent of making us humble and 
energetic to improve, but not to make us despond or be 
discouraged; for ^foint heart never won* the prize of 
goodness, any more than of the less spiritual objects. I 
know what it is to feel that more is expected of one than 
can be accomplished ; and it is, I grant, of all things the 
most distressing. But we must shut our eyes to all such 
considerations, and go on, looking only to the standard we 
have in our own minds, striving with all diligence to reach 
that, and be satisfied with striving, if it be but real, hearty 

endeavor I remember there were some passages in 

Taylor's ' Holy Living,' which used to be a great help to 
me in your state of mind. I have not the book by me, and 
cannot quote the words. Fenelon, too, has much comfort 

for one thus tried We forget, in our familiarity with 

what seem ^commonplaces,' that they really contain the 
great, fundamental principles from which all strength, all 
consolation, is to be derived ; and of course, when the vision 
is quickened by present need, they all seem to be worth 
more than at any other time. And as to the other point, 
it is not you that speak, — you are only the medium by 
which the truths which God spake are conveyed to the out- 
ward ear ; you are only His instrument, and, while you are 
to seek to supply yourself with a full portion from the foun- 
tain of all truth, you are to be satisfied to present it aa 
His, not your own ; sympathizing as a fellow-Christian, not 
dictating as a leader and guide. I see no other way in 
which a young, inexperienced minister can have any com- 
fort in that department of his duties. Many reasons come 



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LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM. 361 

to me which may account for the greater difficulty in cases 
of sickness, than in bereavement. 

" Truly your Mother.'^ 

While looking for a place of permanent residence 
for herself and family, with an opportunity of doing 
something for their support, Mrs. Ware received an 
earnest invitation from a gentleman in Milton, to 
go there and take the instruction of three little chil- 
dren, in connection with her own, for two or three 
hours a day. On many accounts, she was inclined 
to accept this offer at once. But she looked well at 
all sides of it, and especially at its moral aspect and 
probable influence upon character. One is struck 
with her plain and practical, yet comprehensive and 
exalted view of the question, where so many would 
have looked only at the immediate and tangible ad- 
vantage. " There are many things to be weighed 
before so great a step is taken. Expense is of course 
a great item, but not the greatest. The influences 
upon my children must be the first, usefulness the 
second, and the possibility of living without debt a 
sine qua non anywhere. Now I am not a very ro- 
mantic person, and am not disposed to live under 
any less refining influences than I can help. But 
my children are destined to work for their living, and 
I wish to have them as happy in doing so as right 
principles and a healthy tone of mind can make 
them." The result of full reflection was favorable 
to the plan ; and the wisdom of her decision, while 
it aflected all her remaining days, became more and 
more manifest to the end. From that moment she 
31 



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863 LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM. 

had a new object, demanding and creating new en- 
ergies. '< I already see how I shall be a great gainer 
by. this plan, in the strength of the stimulus it will 
offer to mental effort In fact, I begin to realize that 
I am more exhausted mentally than I am physically, 
by the anxieties of the past, and absolutely need the 
application of salutary mental medicines, as my 
body would of physical, if it had suffered in propor- 
tion." 

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

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

" March 26, 1844. I think you will like to have a 
few words written from this room, consecrated as it 
is to us, by having been the last earthly home of 
dear father's spirit This is the last time I shall sit 
in this spot ; and I feel as if all the memories of the 
past were concentrated in this moment of time. 
How much do they teU of the peaceful and holy life 
which was here closed ; how much recall of that tri- 
umphant struggle with the weakness of humanity ! 
Dear child, may we never lose the influence of those 



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LIFE IN FRAMINGHAM. 363 

last days passed in this place ; may it strengthen, 
encourage, quicken us to all diligence in our Chris- 
tian warfare ; knowing that, if we strive as he did, 
we too may enter into that rest which we doubt not 
he has attained. This is a holy hour^ — this leav- 
ing the things that are behind, and stepping for- 
ward into a new, untried scene of life's discipline, — 
alone, — and yet not alone, for the Father is with 
me." 



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XIII- 

LIFE IN MILTON, 

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

Thus did Mary Ware write to a friend and true 
sympathizer, whose residence in Milton was one of 
> the great inducements that had drawn her to that 
place. She had been there but a short time, and had 
not yet risen from the complete exhaustion of body 
and mind — the effect of years of solicitude, exertion, 
and suffering — for which she made too little allow- 
ance. She had been more than mortal, if she had 
not felt the effect, especially in the inevitable reac- 
tion when the great anxiety and demand ceased. 
She would not allow that or any thing to plead for 
her ; and her danger was, as we have seen, that of 



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LIFE IN MIl.TON. 365 

forgetting the designed and necessary sympathy be- 
tween body and mind. She did not always forget 
it. Her balanced mind led her to saspect the true 
cause of the change that had coixie over her; and 
she confessed that what she had called " a stroke of 
mental paralysis " was only physical, though affect- 
ing for a time all the powers. Still she was inclined, 
through its own nnconiscioTis influence, to give it a 
different name. " I doubt not you will smile at my 
quick sensibility to every thing which is likely to in- 
jure myself; and I am deeply convinced that I am 
growing more and more selfish." Selfish in moral 
sensibility ! May we not be instructed by this, as by 
the other aspects of her eventful life ? There is good 
sense in the pleasantry of her words to Emma not 
long before, in regard to power. " I sometimes 
wonder whether you and I are doing ourselves or 
our constituents justice, — whether we do not at- 
tempt too much, to do any thing as it had best be 
done, — whether we secure sufficient repose of mind 
to keep our judgments clear, our thoughts bright, 
and the supply of mental food what it ought to be 
to enable us to have the best influence of which we 
are capable." 

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

"Afi/ton, Jun6ll, 1844. 

"DearN : 

"You have no doubt expected long ago to hear from 
me. You had a right to do so, and must have wondered at 
my silence, as I could not but know how much you must 
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366 LIFE IN MILTON. 

wish to hear of our new life. But I have purposely foN 
borne to write ; I could not have addressed myself to you, 
without uttering all that was passing in nay mind and heart ; 
and so perfectly chaotic has been the state of my feelings, 
that I was sure it was best to wait until time and expe- 
rience had arranged and quieted them, before I trusted my- 
self to the slightest expression. It was as if the fountains 
of the great deep of my soul were broken up, and the 
waters were overwhelming every power and faculty. I 
thought I had anticipated the whole amount of suffering 
which my isolation was to bring to me, and vainly imag- 
ined that I was prepared to meet it with a firm mind ; but 
nothing but experience can picture the agonizing sense of 
desolation, which entering upon a new life, unaided by the 
sympathy that has been so long the light of life, brings to 
me. Nothing in life can come near it, unless it be the 
homesickness of a little child, when for the first time it finds 
itself in new scenes without its mother^s presence. At 
Framingham I was but living out the plan of life which we 
had formed together ; the sense of association was not for a 
moment lost, and it was comparatively easy to realize the 
continued presence of the spirit. But on leaving that home, 
I seemed for the first time to be cast upon the world alone, 
and every mementos experience in Boston and elsewhere 
only increased this feeling, until it reached its height in the 
necessity of forming here a new plan of existence, under 
circumstances of great responsibility, — alone. I used to 
think I felt all of loneliness that could be felt, in that little 
chamber in Pearl Street, and that humble cottage in Os- 
molherly ; but that was nothing to this. I had then never 
known what perfect sympathy was ; I could not understand 
as I now do its loss. I have been a puzzle to myself; but 1 
still am sure that I would not change, one iota, the decree 
of Heaven 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 367 

*^ We oame hither the last week in April, and find every 
thing pleasant, and every body kind. As far as I can yet 
see, I think I anticipated very truly the pros and cons of the 
case, not excepting my own incapacity for the employment 
One would laugh at the idea of a woman of forty-five doubt- 
ing her capacity to teach children their letters ; but the intel- 
lectual is the least part of the concern to my view, and I still 
think I have no tact for the education of children. The little 
I can do for my own is through the connection which nature 
has established, not a power of my own acquisition. I have 
determined to try the experiment for a year, and the result 
only can decide the question of the expediency of pursuing 
it another year. I must consider the good of my own 

children first, of course My time is entirely filled, 

from early rising to very late sitting. The only time I can 
take for writing is at night when all are in bed, and I ought 
to be ; for the constant bustle of children wearies my head 
much. 

" Yours, as ever, lovingly. 

" M. L. W." 

So far from mental infirmit.y or loss, the mind of 
Mrs. Ware was never, we should say, more active or 
energetic than at this time, as soon as she was wholly 
rested. It is obvious, indeed, that the growth of the 
mind had kept pace in her, as in many, with the 
growth of the affections and higher aspirations. In 
such a character and life, mental and spiritual are 
nearly synonymous. The spiritual had been always 
in exercise, sharply disciplined and expanded. And 
thus chiefly, thus only, we may almost say, had she. 
advanced mentally. For she was not a student. 
No period of her life had permitted her to be an ex« 



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368 UFS IN MILTON. 

tensive or habitaal reader. Persons, and not books, 
events and experiences, were her study. She lost no 
opportunity of direct instruction, but she made it 
subservient, or rather concomitant, with other en- 
gagements and positive duty. And no better mental 
discipline, perhaps, could she have had, in connection 
with the communion she enjoyed with the best 
minds, and the lessons of her lot We see the effect, 
and the progress, continually. There is a striking 
difference between her earlier and later letters. We 
have felt, in fact, that injustice may have been done, 
in giving so many of not only the early, but the un- 
studied and hurried, productions of one so pressed 
and unpretending. But they all serve to show her 
as she was. 

If we mistake not, vigor rather than feebleness 
will be seen in her remarks upon that vast and inex- 
haustible subject, which now engaged her most, — 
education. She had always thought herself incom- 
petent to teach ; and no burden or responsibility did 
she feel more painfully, than that of opening, fur- 
nishing, and guiding the minds of children. This 
can never seem a light or easy task, unless to the 
superficial in self-knowledge and conscientiousness. 
Where the religious principle and the moral aim are 
like hers, we can understand any confessions of 
humility or distrust, in view of such a work; and 
we do not doubt the entire sincerity of the fear she 
more than once expressed, that she had almost done 
wrong' in giving up the reluctance she at first felt to 
assume the office of a wife and mother, on account 
of her disqualification for so great a charge. And 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 

now that it had become an undivided charge, now 
that her children were left to her alone, and she had 
engaged to be their teacher and sole guardian, she 
felt that the daty, the solicitude, and the happiness 
of her life were centred there. " O my dear child! " 
— she exclaims, in addressing one of them, and re- 
ferring to all, — " when I think of what you may be^ 
my heart beats almost impatiently to stretch forward ; 
for if life is ever again to have any zest to me, ever 
to seem like life, it must be through the successful 
struggles of my children. On them I now must rely 
for all I can enjoy of this world ; their affection, their 
character, must be my sole dependence." 

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



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370 LIFE IN MILTON. 

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

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

" October 18, 1844 I have determined, as a 

fixed principle, not to go beyond my income, for any 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 371 

thing shoft of necessity, and it is a delicate question 
to settle what necessity is. I choose to take it for 
granted that there never can be a question in any of 
our minds, that taste is to be held in subjection to 
principle, and I am not only willing, but desirous, to 
indulge taste, within that limitation^ to the utmost 
bounds of my ability. I think a refined taste has an 
indirect, but certain influence upon morals ; and I 
never can believe that one of my children will ever 
for an instant be pained at any restraint put upon 
them by a necessity which God has ordained. 

" I have great sympathy with the struggles of young 
people in this matter. I well remember how often I 
had to school myself (for you know that many of 
my associates in early life were of the wealthy 
classes), when I saw my companions gratifying every 
wish for amusement, instruction, and dress, while I 
could only just keep decent enough not to shock 
them, and had to give up all my longings for expensive 
amusements and accomplishments. But I had this 
great advantage, by mixing familiarly with the rich, 
— I soon discovered that neither goodness nor hap- 
piness were dependent upon these adventitious cir- 
cumstances, and I was so fortunate in the characters 
of those whom I thus dealt with, as to be made to 
feel very early in life that my own position among 
them was not in the least degree affected by externals. 
I soon began to look upon my oft-turned dress with 
something like pride, certainly with great compla- 
cency ; and to see in that, and all other marks of my 
mother's prudence and consistency, only so many 
proofs of her dignity and self-respect, — the dignity 



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372 LIFE IN MILTOl^. 

and self-respect which grew out of her just estimate 
of the true and the right in herself and in. the world. 
I can distinctly remember coming to this conclusion 
upon the occasion of wearing an old-fashioned, stifl^ 
purple silk dress, with a narrow plaited tucker in if, 

to a party at Colonel P ^'s, about the year 1808 ; 

I have never had any trouble on that score since. I 
did shed some tears, when I found I must give up 
my long-cherished hope of learning music, some years 
after, but they were < natural tears,' and ^ wiped 
soon.' 

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

" November 8, 1844. I feel that I roust have some 
free communication with you, for my heart is full to 
overflowing. That I can understand all your internal 
trials, I have often assured you ; and, strange as it 
may seem to you, it is from experience that I am 
enabled to enter into them. In the solitude of my 
early days, the consciousness of unworthiness preyed . 
upon my spirit, until I persuaded myself that every 
body despised me, that I was nothing to any one, 
that nobody could care for me for my own sake. 
Many and many a night have I lain and thought of 
this, and looked at life through this medium, until 
I wished that I had never lived, and in my agony 
have cried myself into perfect Jiysterics. Even my 
mother's love failed to satisfy me, for I thought it 
was only an involuntary feeling for an only child, 
not depending upon or growing out of my own 
deserts. O, how many precious hours of life have 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 373 

1 thrown away in uselessneas to others, and in misery 
for myself, by this morbid sensibility ! Would that 
I conld recall them ! Would that my example might 
ward off from you like regrets ! I had suffered many 
years from this cause before I discovered the true 
source of my trial, or caught a glimpse of its remedy. 
And when at last it flashed upon me, that it was the 
want of true Christian humility, not the real con- 
viction of inferiority, which led to all this, I could 
tiot at once credit my own consciousness ; and many 
and severe were the mental exercises by which I was 
l6d at last to understand and feel the truth. I believe 
this to have been a constitutional tendency ; and how- 
ever much the demon may have been brought under 
subjection, there have been times all along life, that 
it has so striven for the mastery, that I have feared 
it might conquer. But knowing one's danger is 
more than half the security against it, and I have 
gained in happiness more than a compensation for 
the warfare. 

" When we find ourselves disturbed in spirit, 

we very naturally refer to the exciting cause as an 
excuse for it ; and however we may blame ourselves, 
we still feel that those whose wrong-doing irritates 
us are really the most to blame. But we must get 
away from this view of things, if we ever hope to 
improve ourselves. As long as we live in the world, 
we are to live with those who do wrong. We can 
never be perfect, nor can we find others who are; 
and our care should be, to learn so to control our- 
selves, that not only shall we cease to be tempted to 
do wrong by their wrong-doing, but also cease to 
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374 LIFE IN HILTON. 

tempt them by our own. And who can doubt that 
the best hope pf improving them is by showing them 
the advantage of self-control ? " 

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

" January 1, 1845 I can scarcely realize that 

the year has come to an end, so little have I marked . 
the progress of time during its passage ; and yet it 
has witnessed a great change outwardly. But how 
little does mere outward circumstance affect the life 
within, — how do we carry ourselves with us every- 
where ! Does not this fact of experience help us to 
anticipate something of future retribution ? The 
past year has been to me one of such constant, tre- 
mendous struggle, that in looking back upon it I 
seem to see nothing but the heaving of the waves 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 375 

upon which my spirit had been tost And yet I 
cannot lose sight of the many bright spots, the 
many and great blessings with which my life has 
been cheered. How should we praise and thank 
God that our circle has not again been broken, — that 
we are blessed with such kind friends, and the means 
of improvement and usefulness! As I look forward 
into the uncertain future, I sometimes feel as if I 
longed to know how it will be with us at this hour 
next year ; but a glance at the possible picture makes 
me ready to exclaim, * O blindness to the future, 
kindly given ! ' I feel as if some great change may 
come, but I can leave the whole to Him who will 
direct it right 

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

^^June 26, 1845 No woman can be a true 

woman, whatever may be her intellectual acquire- 
ments or capacity, without that womanly knpwledge 
which will fit her for domestic life, and enable her to 
fill < home,' that appointed sphere of most women's 
duties at some time or other, with all the comforts 
which alone can make it happy. I do not mean merely 



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376 LIFE IN MILTON. 

the knowledge of the daily loutine of outside domes- 
tic employments ; but the caltivation of the domestic 
affections, the habits of concession and self-sacrifice, 
of delicate attention to the little things which go so 
far to make up the sum of domestic happiness, and the 
mechanical facility with respect to a thousand minor 
matters, -— all of which nothing but practice in the 
atmosphere which calls them into exercise can pos- 
sibly teach. I will not deny that I think a great 
deal, too, of education in < common domestic employ- 
ments,' as a means of happiness and usefulness. I 
hold that nothing can compensate for a wilful neg- 
lect of whai^ may be made the means of so much 
comfort to others, as order, cleanliness, and a facility 
in administering to the human wants of our friends, 
which is peculiarly woman's province. Now, for this 
part of education, home ought to be the best place. 
Of course it is impossible, while attending school 
constantly, to find time for these other matters, and 
all theoretical learning upon such subjects can be of 
little use without practice." 

Mrs. Ware had found another, new home, — a 
pleasant cottage built for her use by a friend after 
she went to Milton, and entered by her and her chil- 
dren toward the end of the year, — her last removal. 
And highly favored did she feel, both in the society 
around her and the local situation. No heart could 
be more alive to the beauties of that glorious " Mil- 
ton Hill " than was hers. Its rich landscape, its gor- 
geous sunsets, and ever-varying hues, she enjoyed in- 
tensely, for their natural beauty, and not less, if not 
more, for their moral influence. The thought of her 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 377 

enthusiasm comes over us even now with subdu- 
ing power, as we stand again at her side on those 
beautiful heights, to which she longed to lead all her 
friends, and see the emotion, if we hear not the utter- 
ance, of her glowing, admiring spirit We catch again 
the earnest words with which she urged a visit there, 
even in the freshness of her widowed grief. " O this 
glorious view ! I do hope the weather will be good, 
that you may see it in all its glory. I had no con- 
ception of the moral influence of the sublime and 
beautiful before. I really think one must be verp 
wicked to be troubled about little things, within sight 
of such a display of the Divine love ; even children 
feel it." 

The time had come when she might be pardoned, 
had she been "troubled," not indeed by "little 
things," but by some of serious import. A hidden, 
insidious disease, which seldom leaves its nature long 
doubtful, had begun its work, and the quickened 
spirit caught the first whisper of monition. Even 
two years before, she had a sort of presentiment, if 
not a distinct warning, of her fate, and in a pleas- 
ant way signified it to her husband, who answered 
as pleasantly, and probably thought no more of it. 
How much she thought of it we cannot know. But 
as early as the summer of 1845 she prepared her 
mind for a painful operation ; and, when relieved of 
the immediate necessity, wrote thus to a friend: 
'" You may imagine the depth of my gratitude ; for 
I could not doubt that an operation, even if success- 
ful, would disable me for a long time ; and I could 
not look upon the fact of being taken off from my 
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378 LIFE IN MILTON. 

duties, withoat much anxiety as to how my place 
was to be supplied. Still I have a strong conviction 
that ultimately this is to end my days. Bat I am 
not troubled at the thought, otherwise than that it is 
a mode of decay distressing to others. But Good's 
will be done ! " 

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



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LIFE IN MILTON. 379 

enoe, she was striving to do all that was possible in 
the time that remained to her. 

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

''Milton, December 18, 1844. 

" My dear Friend : — 
*' As I read over again your precious letter, I wonder if 
there is any pardon for one who could have delayed so 
long to answer it. There could not be, were it possible 
that such delay proceeded from indifference, or want of just 
appreciation of the feelings which dictated the letter. To 
neither of these charges can I plead guilty ; and can only 
say in my excuse, that I have not had, since it was found 
safely rolled up in a bale of carpeting, the command of one 
hour of daylight, and that my eyes have been so trouble- 
some that I could not use them at the only time when my 
mind was free to write. Thus have I been compelled to 
put it off; until now, on the eve of leaving home, I dare not 
put it off any longer, and am compelled to take the hour of 
midnight to tell you, as I may be able, almost without eyes, 
how deeply grateful I am for it. You have indeed shown 
yourself the true friend by your benevolent proposition; 
what more could a friend do for another ? But delightful 
as is the thought that any of my children could have such 
ft home in the heart of one I so truly love, I dare not lift a 
finger, or say a word, which would decide such a question. 
I feel my own short-sightedness so much, I believe so fully 



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380 LIFE IN MILTON. 

in the circumstantial leading of Providence, that I could not 
venture to anticipate the future expediency of any arrange- 
ment, the advantages of which must depend upon a fitness 
of things when the time comes^ of which we now cannot know 
any thing. How little we can tell what a child may he at 
any future period, — What its tastes, or its adaptedness to 
any particular position in life, — and how great may he the 
^ embarrassment which might arise from any arrangement 
made in anticipation of results which are never to be 
reached ! 

''I have always had a strong objection to giving one 
member of a family any great external advantages over the 
rest. I had rather all should stand upon the same level, as 
a better security for the cultivation of that family affec- 
tion and sympathy which I believe to be a valuable preserv- 
ative of virtue. I should much prefer that all my children 
should live together, if it were possible to find any one to 
act as a judicious head to such a community, than risk the 
growth of separate interests and a feeling of superiority 
from any outward cause. This, you will say, is impracti- 
cable, as, in the common course of events, one is likely to 
gain for himself a better position than another ; but when a 
strong family afiection is established by early dependence, 
I have no fear for after influences, — I am willing to risk 
them. Yet this is only an idea, and I have no hope of its 
accomplishment ; both the means and the person would be 
wanting, were I taken from them now, and I should leave 
them to their fate with the delightful confidence that there 
are many instruments in Grod's hands ready to do for them 
what may be best. Bless you, for the satisfaction of know- 
ing that it is in your heart to be one of them. I have 
much anxiety about my children, not from any peculiar 
difficulty in their original characters, but from my deep 
sense of incapacity to guide any child in its progress 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 881 

through life I want Faith, I want Hope, — O, I 

want a great deal which I ought to have gained, by this 
time, to make life bearable. And yet, when I think of the 
possibility of being soon taken, I can hardly say, ' I am 
ready.' Pray for me that it may be otherwise when the 
time comes. 

" Ever yours, most truly. 

" Mary L. Ware." 

As the months advanced, Mrs. Ware was more 
and more occupied and active, evidently feeling that 
her time was short. And yet we see none of that 
anxiety about the future which such a conviction is 
apt to create, in reference either to the present world 
or another. As regarded another world, and her ap- 
proach to it, we doubt if she ever felt the slightest 
dread or unwillingness to go. Not from any sense 
of fitness or self-sufficiency, but with the deepest 
humility there mingled the firmest trust; and a 
trust that refused to separate the exercise of justice 
from mercy, in God. She could trust the one as 
much as the other, and she could not distrust either ; 
but, assured that a perfectly righteous and omnis- 
cient Being would do exactly that which was need- 
ful for her purification and perfection, she rested 
there, — and left all else. We say this of the pecu- 
liarity of her faith, if it be peculiar, from personal 
knowledge of her mind on this point, and from her 
own explicit declarations at a later day. And we 
refer to them at this time, to say that the same con- 
victions sustained and tranquillized her in regard to 
the future of this life for those whom she was to 
leave behind From the earliest moment of the ex* 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 

pectation or apprehension of death, a mother's mind 
must turn strongly and fix intently on her children. 
And to most mothers this is the great struggle. 
Who can wonder ? Who will reprove, even if the 
struggle be bitter, and the vision dim ? He will not, 
who has given a parent's aflFections, and likened to 
them his own. Many a mother, who could leave 
the world without a pang for herself, will suffer and 
fear for her children. It is only the highest faith 
that prevents all this suffering and fear. Such, we 
think, was Mary Ware's. Not in commendation do 
we say it, — we know not that it deserves that, — 
but as the simple fact, that while she was always 
doubtful of her power to guard and train her chil- 
dren in the best way, she never feared to leave them 
with God, in reference either to things temporal or 
spiritual. Even when she could see no sufficient 
provision for their temporal comfort, she seemed un- 
able to believe that she was essential to that comfort, 
or that her life would be better for them than her 
death. She knew that that would be best which 
God appointed. Does not this belong to the highest 
faith ? No one could induce her to make any re- 
quest, or express even a wish, as to future arrange- 
ments, the outward condition or fortune of any child. 
Many wishes, many prayers, did she offer for the in- 
ward condition and the spiritual preparation for both 
worlds, — but only the spiritual. "I could write a 
sheet," she says to a mother who was herself anxious, 
— "I could write a sheet upon the text your letter 
gives me, with regard to the preparation of our chil- 
dren for life. But I can only say. Why should we 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 383 

feel anxious for them when we are gone ? Do we 
not see that the finest characters are those which are 
formed by the necessity of acting for themselves ? " 
And again : " I have felt so gratefal for having had 
health and strength to do for Henry what I was sure 
no one else could do, that I had nothing more to 
ask, and could submit to any thing. I hope I shall 
not find my faith fail, come what will. I do not feel 
that I am as essential to my children. I do not feel 
that I am competent to train them." 

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

^'MUon, December 31, 1845. 

" My dear N : 

"Twenty years ago at this hour, I was writing my 
annual upon a pair of bellows, crouching over a small coal 
fire, in poor old Aunty's chamber at Osmotherly. What 
changes, what a variety of weal and woe, does a glance at 
the intervening space present to one's mind ! It is all too 
familiar to you to make a recapitulation necessary, and you 
can understand, without any explanation, the wide difference 
between the nature of the loneliness I then felt, and that 
which I now experience. Have I not gained that which 
can never be lost, a bond of uiyon with an immortal spirit 
which can never be broken ? O that I could realize more 
the perpetuity of this spiritual union ! then should I suffer 
less from this merely earthly isolation. But I have gained 
a little since last year, dear N ; either I have become 



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384 LIFE IN MILTON. 

more wonted by time to my condiUcMi, or the indreasing 
care and anxiety about my children have taken my thoughts 
away from myself; be it what it may, I am more able to 
turn my mind from that one idea of change, and have ac- 
quired a more tranquil state of mind, under the conscious- 
ness of it. So far, so good ; but God knows there is still 
enough of sin in me, to keep me from that state of quiet 
trust which, as a believer in Providence, I ought to have. 
1 cannot get away from the terrible sense of insufficiency 
for the great work which lies before me in the education of 
my children, and I cannot learn to rely, as I should, upon 
the All-sufficient, for the supply of that deficiency. It is a 
living, acting Faith that I want ; how shall I get it ? 

" It is Icmg since I have written to you, but I have little 
of variety to detail. I spent a fortnight in November, and 
another in December, in Boston, helping Dr. John in the 
completion of his work, and since my return, three weeks 
ago, I have been very fully employed as nurse and maid 

of all work ; for I found C , W , H , and my 

Margaret, all sick. E too has not been well. Help is 

not to be got here extempore, and, with the exception of two 
nights from a nurse, I had no aid, until within a few days I 
have had a little girl of thirteen. You know something about 
such concatenations, and need not be told, that under such 
circumstances one finds no time for any thing but supplying 
the bodily wants of those about us. Add to this, that I have 
been more than half sick myself all the time with one of 
my tedious coughs, keeping me awake at night and tiring 
me terribly in the day, 

" Only think of Emma^s trip to England, — and, good 
soul, that she should go and see *• Cousin Jane ' for me, and 
(xeorge Lovell, too ! Does she not always do more than 

any one else ? 

♦' Your faithful 

*' M. L. W.'' 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 385 

« Milton, December 31 , 1 846. 

*' 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 conscious- 
ness 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 reciproca- 
tion of an affection for which there is no substitute, has ex- 
hausted 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 owj;i, heart-sick 
and home-sick 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 ill 
this: that I finc^ myself utterly inadequate to the duties 
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386 LIFE IN MILTON. 

which belong to me, and am in consequence in a perpetual 
state of anxiety, which incapacitates me from doing or en- 
joying. 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 he, at a loss how to fill up the vacant hours, 
thankful to resort to sleep to dispose of some of thenu 
Does it seem as if we were both destined to the same end > 
The more I look upon life, the more 1 feel that the outside 
has less to do with improvement or "happiness. And dis- 
satisfied as I sometimes feel with my own position, 1 know 
not how 1 should improve it, on the whole. When 1 look 
calmly at my deficiencies, 1 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 1 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 he prepared for it I fear 1 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 he to me, than I ever felt before, I fear this is not a 
right feeling 

** Yours always. • 

" M. L. W." 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 387 

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 in- 
timate 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 aiquick 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 ac- 
cepted, 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 feeling for and feeling wiih another." 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 these greai trials of faith, that 



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388 LIFE IN MILTON. 

one feelB 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 interven- 
tion of words, all that is passing in mine concern- 
ing you. ' Vain mortal ! ' whispers Humility, * what 
could you show her worth her seeing ? ' I was not 
thinking of the worthy but of the sympathy and love. 
I know that is worth spmething 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 
inind is full of, as if my thoughts all came wrong 
end foremost ; and the idea of taking up a person's 
ti^ae to listen to me seems so foolish, that it embar- 
rasses me by making me feel in a hurry to get through 
for their sakesJ' 

But if she could not or did not talk much, in the 
way of solace, she wrote freely; and her letters, 
though not original or remarkable, are drawn from 
the depths of experience and faith. We offer none 
entire^ but only the parts that indicate her manner 
of urging upon others the great truths and principles 
on which she herself relied. The extracts that follow 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 389 

are not all of one character, but such as were called 
forth by different experiences near the same time, — 
all showing the serious cast of her own thoughts, 
and her deepening interest in others' moral condition. 
The first was written to her son in the ministry. 

^^ February 9, 1846. Dear John: Oh! you are 
but just beginning to know what life truly is in its 
solemn discipline. The great book of religious ex- 
perience is now but opening to you ; and, believe me, 
you will find in it treasures of happiness of which 
the heart of man cannot conceive without such ex- 
perience. You say you feel something of *fear* 
coming over you. I will not say, put away all ap- 
prehension ; 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 spi»> 
itual 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 firuit- 
less attempt to obtain peace under great difficidties, 
33* 



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390 UFE IN MILTOK. 

upon false principles, by happeaing upon these verse» 
of Watts (I believe) : — 

*Is resigiiation'fl lesson bard? 

On trial we shall find 
It makes ns give np nothing more 

Than angnish of the mind. 
Believe, and all the ills of life 

That moment we resign/ &c 

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

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

^< Naushon^ September 13, 1846. I am glad, dear 
William, to write to you from this place, not only 
because I am happy in being here, but because it 
must remind you of him with whose memory this 
place is so strongly 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 
IL^e by the memorials which are everywhere around 
me, in hearing his parents talk of the formation of 
his character, in reading the record of his death, and 
contemplating at his grave his present life. O, I 
have felt, dear William, that to have such a child 



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LIFE IN MILTON* 

was the highest happiness this world could give ; and 
however great must have been the pain of parting, and 
dreary the void which his absence made in the earthly 
pilgrimage of his parents, it was all more than com* 
pensated, 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 prog* 
ress 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, foUc^ing all the common pursuits 
which belonged to his age, but doing all with a con- 
scientious 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 to begin the 
work of life in earnest When you look forward 
and consider that you must depend on your own 
efforts for subsistence, that you have a gift of mind 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 

(ix the use of which yea are accountable to yotur 
Maker, and that the person with one talent is equal- 
ly 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-educa- 
tion. 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 consci- 
entious 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 accom- 
plishment of all the good youlnay have it in your 
power to perform." 

A letter from England informed Mrs. Ware of the 
death of an excellent kinswoman, who may be re- 
membered 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 de- 
clining. 

" OreenhiU CoUage, 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 in- 
tercouse I had with it in times past, for there was 
more in her soul than appeared to the casual ob- 
server. Her departure has added one more attrac- 
tion to that spiritual state in which I hope to renew 
the interchange of kind affection and holy thought. 
How beautifully is it arranged for us, that, as we ap- 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 393 

proach nearer and nearer to the exchange of worlds 
ourselves, our interest In that to which we ate going 
should be so increased by the removal of so many 
loved ones before us. 

'^ It can be no new thought to you^ that all sick- 
ness must be of uncertain result, and you under- 
stand 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 certain* 
ly 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 en^ 
joyment of the purely spiritual could not be formed 
in us without them ; we should be too self-depends 
ent, 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 experi- 
ment ; and if it does riot reach all the difficulty, it cer* 
tainly will do this good, — that, by removing some of 
the causes of irritation and consequent exhaustion, 
it leaves you more strength to contend with what 



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394 LIFE IN MILTON. 

may remain of disease, — and, after all, that is the 
main thing. 

« I have had a very kind note from Miss 

Sedgwick, inclosing a letter from Madame Sismondi 
after reading Henry's Life. It was a most grati- 
fying testimony to the influence of the truth upon a 
mi)id which had been educated to undervalue every 
thing proceeding from our form of faith." 

The younger son, to whom Mrs. Ware had writ- 
ten 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 Acad- 
emy. 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 fol- 
low, 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. 



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LIFE IN HILTON. 895 

. " January 1, 1847. The clock has just strack one, 
so I roay fairly date 1847. And with the recollec- 
tions 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 meas* 
ured 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 prog- 
ress. You have come to that period of life at which 
one cannot escape from a deep sense of responsibili- 
ty for the formation of one's own character ; when, 
with every power and faculty in a peculiarly excit- 
able 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 expe- 
rience, I can suffer and enjoy with you, in anticipa- 
tion, I feel the satisfaction of a quiet trust that ^ all 



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LIFB IN HILTON. 

will issue well.' I believe that yon mean to govern 
yourself by the highest principle, and in that faith I 
can leave you to the guidance of your own con- 
science ; hoping that you will never forget, that prin* 
ciple, 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 moth- 
er'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 continu- 
ally. 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 intellect- 
ual 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 re- 
ligious spirit; read God's word to learn what he 
would have you do ; pray to Him for power to do 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 897 

It, -.and yon will succeed. Here lies the only sure 
foundation. Religious principle is the rock upon 
which alone you can build any superstructure ; all 
other will be like the sand on the sea-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 thai 
which we have deciiJed 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 va- 
rious characters. But if you once establish it with 
yourself to pursue only the right, and to have a 
strong moral courage to say < No ' to any measure 
of even doubtful character, you will find that you 
not only gain peace of mind, but win the respect 
even of those who may at first laugh at you. Never 
fear for the result, if you only do righV^ 

^^ 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 knowl- 
edge of your father was during his residence there, 
through the medium of the admiration of that bril- ' 
Itant circle of young ladies, in whose society he 
34 



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398 LIFE IN MILTOIf. 

foand poetical inspiration. It was the borne and the 
death-place of the first specimen of the highly intel- 
lectaal 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, twen- 
ty 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 littie 
qualified I was to decide the question, in comparison 
with a father's knowledge and experience." 

" February 2 This has been an intensely 

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

^ March 3 Do not for a moment lose sight 

of your dear father's example. He was what he 



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UF£ IN MILTON. S99 

was, not by the bestowment of great natural powers, 
but by the religious industry with which he used his 
powers, the high standard of moral and religions 
character at which he aimed, the disinterested devo- 
tion with which he labored for others' good. Be 
cuUivaled his conscience^ and by its light he cultivat- 
ed 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 regu- 
lated 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 minis- 
trations 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 man- 
ner. 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 wont speak something good ; shonld 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 self- 
ish, for those who preached not Christ, but them- 



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400 LIFE IN MILTON. 

selves, and offered stones rather than bread to the 
hungry soul, she fonnd it difficult to maintain her 
respect, or refrain from expressing a very different 
sentiment. Her indignation at some kinds of preach- 
ing, 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 proper* 
ties of mind and matter, containing (I suppose) a 
conclusive argument against Materialism, abound- 
ing in technical phrases and abstruse quotations, — 
which, to a certainty, not one in fifty of his audience 
could understand. What food for sinful, account- 
able, half-asleep souls! If an inhabitant of the in- 
sane hospital had called such a production a ser- 
mon, 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 man- 
ner, 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 to- 
gether do not seem to me — it is a matter of taste, I 
suppose — to need the factitious aid of such a de- 
clamatory style of writing or studied mode of deliv- 
ery. 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 satisfao- 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 401 

tion. 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 faith- 
ful 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 un* 
tried 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 sympa- 
thetic 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 of th(U voice, in devotion, 
34* 



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408 LIFE IN nLT<»«. 

Scriptorey or hymn, die away from the heart Never 
will those cherished words, " To prayer, to prayer! 
for the morning breaks," — be so moving and nplift- 
ing, 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 for- 
merly, 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 domes- 
tic life, personal and private incidents, and playful 
communications. No absent child was left in ig- 
norance of that which occurred at home. Nothing 
that could interest, edify, or amuse was thought too 
trivial to be recorded, if it would tend to strengthen 
the bonds of family affection. " I believe the love 
of home to be the best safeguard to man and woman 
for life,"-— she once said; and she used every op- 
portunity 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, un- 
less 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 her- 
self, 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 follow- 
ing letter to her son was written some time in the 
summer of this year. 



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UPE IN MILTON. 40t 

^MSIimy 1847. 
^^ Mr BEAR 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 sufii« 
ciently like it to be considered premonitory symptoms of 
that affection, — amounting to loss of sensation, and giddi« 
ness, followed by a great oppression in the brain, for a long 
time after. Since this I have found that I soon get over- 
powered 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. Be- 
sides 'that, the sense of hurry which I have from the daily 
pressure of the necessity of adhering to certain hours, in 
order to get through the necessary business of the day, 
keeps my head in a state of tension which I often feel must 
end in some sudden change. I work almost constantly 
eighteen hours out of the twenty-four ; but this I could bear, 
were it not for the sense of hurry I have, in my anxiety to 

spare E every thing that I possibly can, while she has 

the labor of the school. Nor is this all. I am sensible 
that the trouble in my side does not diminish or stand still ; 
its progress is slow, but evidently sure ; and though there 
are often weeks, in which I am not reminded of it by any 
sensation, there are times when it produces great discom- 
fort. I know from the nature of the case, that this may be 
so many years, and also, that at any moment it may sud- 
denly 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 mj 
children, 1 should be wrong to spend these few years in 
such a harried life, that I cannot have time to give them an 



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404 LIFE IN MILTON. 

unfettered hour. This is the case now; whether from 
want of faculty, or an undue anxiety to spare others, or 
the necessity of the case, I cannot say. All I know is, that, 
of the eighteen hours in which I am awake, I have not one, 
commonly, free from the pressure of some necessary, im- 
perative occupation. I may almost say, I never choose my 
employment ; and as you find it, so do I with regard to my 
children at home, — I cannot give any of them a hun- 
dredth 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 depend- 
ence, 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 bless- 
ings. There is an elevation in such an habitual state of 
mind, which takes one beautifully away from the annoying 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 406 

perpTexities of life. I could write on for hours, but I hare 
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 conscien- 
tious 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. 

"My dear Friend: — 
" My visit to you this afternoon was so broken, so unsatis- 
factory, 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 
httsband suffered, I feel as if I had a doable power to 



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406 LIFE IN MILTON. 

sympathize with you. Well do I understand that strange 
elevation of spirit which comes to one in the first hours of 
bereavement, when the heart is strong to endure, and the 
mind seems to act spontaneously. It would seem, when 
one with whose spirit ours had become as it were identified 
* 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 ac- 
tivity. We long for rest, we doubt if we have a right to 
risk the loss of any portion of the benefit which may come 
to us from the life of meditation and self-communion to 
which our state of mind naturally leads us, by going back 
to the busy bustle of external life. We feel that our soul 
has been moved to its very depth, as it never was before, 
and we long to ^ hold the fleet angel fast, until he bless us ' 
with an increase of spiritual life, proportionate to the de- 
mands of our condition. But on the other hand, there lie 
the duties of life, appointed by God for us to perform ; in 
their performance lies our mission to the world ; have we 
any right to neglect them for any object of self-improve- 
ment ? 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 op- 
position in his requisitions, and if both duties are required^ 
of us, it must be that they may be united. What is spirit- 
ual progress? What is the benefit we believe to be in- 
tended for us by the discipline of bereavement ? Is it in- 
creased love of God, reliance upon him, union of soul with 
him ? How shall we gain these by any process of medita- 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 407 

tion, 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 con- 
sciousness 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 re- 
quiring 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 when you think it ought to be. 
Put aside, my dear friend, this desire to regulate the opera- 
tion of God's providence. You say you have never for a 
moment felt that you were hardly dealt with, in the out- 
ward circumstances of this afiliction. Apply the same faith 
to its internal circumstances ; give up your own will as fully 



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408 UFS IN MILTON. 

in the one case as in the other; go on, meekly relying 
upon Almighty wisdom, with your appointed work, not 
attempting too much at once, but selecting just tliat 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 re- 
gret 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. Wake." 

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 strug- 
gling 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* 



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LIPB IN HILTON. 409 

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 equa- 
nimity: "Taking her life through, as I knew it, 
there were disturbing causes enough. 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 con- 
cerned, or some principle, or morality, rather than 
where she was herself personally interested." 

Another affliction came, and came nearer than any 
other could, out of her own family circle. The de- 
cline which she had so^anxiously watched in " Em- 
ma" 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 com- 
munion, 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 firee use. A brief ac- 
count we may take, from a letter which we ourselves 
received. 

35 



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410 LIFE IN MILTON. 

^ 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 lier 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 spirit- 
ual 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 fal- 
tered in her faith, but laid down her almost une- 
qualled 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 Cam- 
bridge, 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 re- 
sponsibility, as if it were my affair. And my heart 
turned instinctively to the thought of all my respon- 
sibilities there, and the thought of how much he 



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LIFE IN MILTON. 411 

would have enjoyed, and added to the enjoyment of 
others. There was a sense of the want of his vis- 
ible presence, such as I never expected to feel again, 
so familiar have I become with the idea of the invis- 
ible." 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 under- 
stand. And there are consequently periods when it 
seems as if I should stop^ from want of the sympathy 
and counsel of some contemporary who knew the 
past as well as I do myself. In the various question- 
ings 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 aroand me. I 
cannot tell you what a sense, a perpetual sense of un- 
certainty, 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 be- 
come 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, in- 
stead of the sickness I anticipated, not one day of 



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413 LIFE IN MILTON. 

actual snspension of labor have I had, I am amazed 
at the small amount I have accomplished, and won- 
der 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 gmnted 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 sad- 
ness, 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 inters 
course enter it! 'I think, as I grow older, no part of 
my experience satisfies me so much, as the conscious- 
ness of an increasing sense of wnion with a purely 
spiritual state. Not that one loses all interest in this 
state, but there comes a fuller sense of the reality of 
another." 



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XIV. 

THE END. 

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 they were the last, und 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 bad gone, but had used that power as one respon- 
sible 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 anotfier 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 from 
35* 



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414 THE END. 

her in the month of May, 1848, which shows like- 
wise 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 ; bat perhaps it is that / am more charm- 
ing 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 wa& 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' 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 atten- 
tion." 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 folly conscious of that ap- 
proach, though yet in apparent health, appears from 



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THE END. 415 

many 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 writ- 
ten. ^ 

" MiUan, May 2, 1848. Dear E : Have not 1 

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 other- 
wise in my chirographyl Alas for me, who have 
to write with quill-nibs without mending! But I 
have rather a fancy for these close lines, which re- 
mind me of the days of my youth, when I used to 
write as closely without lines. I am particularly re- 
minded 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 pos- 
sessed 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 trials 



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416 THE END. 

which 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 in- 
significance into which outward circumstances sink 
in retrospect, other than as the occasion for the cul- 
tivation 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 mem- 
ory." 

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 «he 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 to 



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THE SND. 417 

a crisis at any time, and I be suddenly prostrated. 
With these views, I wish not to bide 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 ^ith 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 rela- 
tive 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 mo- 
ments and anxious cares, by showing me the insig- 
nificance 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 dear- 
er all the children are to me every day I live, or how 
earnestly I pray that they may be such as their fa- 
ther'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. Of 



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418 THB BND. 

the accoaDts 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 under- 
stand 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 ter- 
minated 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 man- 
ner, 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 course 



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THB BND. 419 

looked 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 suf- 
ferings. ' But if I had foreseen it all,' she said, ' I 
should have done the same.' There was no shrink- 
ing from what lay before her, but that entire humili- 
ty 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 won- 
der why I have not written to you in all this age of 



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420 THE END. 

a week since yoa 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 go- 
ing to venture to town to-morrow. I have had but 
one hour yet for accounts, and as my arm is becom- 
ing 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, with- 
out 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 uncertainty 



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THE END. 4S1 

bas been familiar to me through the softening in* 
fluence 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 re- 
member one in which I have had less anxiety about 
the future. I feel strangely perplexed sometimes at 
this ; I know that while it is possible my 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 delu- 
sion, — that death is not the reality to my mind which 
I conceived it to be ? I confess I cannot answer sat- 
isfactorily. I seem to myself, as I did at sea in a 
dangerous storm, quiet, confiding, sure that no hu- 
man 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 physi- 



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422 THB END. 

cal powers in some way all the time, it is inipoS' 
sible to bring home the conviction that all may stop 
at any moment. 

" One solution of the mystery comes to me some- 
times. You know I have felt, ever since my hus- 
band's death, that it was the most inexplicable mys- 
tery 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 
tl^refore feel that my withdrawal will be to them an 
essential evil. I have seen many instances of chil- 
dren 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 affec- 
tion 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 instru- 
mental to the education of the soul, by that over- 
ruling 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 what 



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THE END.- 428 

seems 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 anxie- 
ties, 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 npt 
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 of seeming 
neglect 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 acqui- 
esce in it. My nervous system is not touched yet in 
a way to affect the firmness of my views of the fu- 
ture. 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 them 



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434 THE END. 

any benefit they may receive by free and foil knowl- 
edge of my condition, I am sure it must be intro- 
duced with a judicious reference to their different 
casts of character. I am feeling my way, and ear- 
nestly pray to be guided aright As to my vis- 
iting yon, 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 let- 
ters, but cannot promise to answer them very punc* 
tually." 

^^ 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 an- 
swer 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 pre- 
vented my writing. 

<<I have lost ground greatly in the last three 



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/ THE END. 435 

months, 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 pene- 
trate 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 famil- 
iar 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 wid- 
ows' 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. He guided 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 ear- 
nestly pray to be guided aright I should love to 

see you, and hope to do so in the course of the win- 
ter or spring. I sit quietly at home, but have sel- 
dom 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 Cam- 
bridge 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 assuredi 
36* 



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436 THE END. 

that, come when it may, I can say with perfect tratb, 
« 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 be- 
stowed upon mortal, I believe, such as is every day 
showered upon me, and nothing yet has come to dis- 
turb 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 in- 
flux 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 in 



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THE END. 427 

ifelation 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 I cannot be 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 cor- 
respondence shows how beautiful had been the influ- 
ence of the life whose close she now witnessed. In- 
deed, 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 upon them, 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 sufiicient, — un- 
failingly, abundantly sufiicient And it was a bless- 
ing to her in her last days, to know that others of 
the «ame 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 hour 



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428 THE SND. 

passes in the day, that I do not think of you with sa 
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 w^hat 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 re- 
joice that you are able to act out your highest con- 
victions, 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 ever- 
lasting 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 re- 
union with those that have gone before me ; so I 
welcome pain, hoping it may purge me of my sins, 



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THE END. 439 

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 can- 
not 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 mo- 
ment 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 to my efforts 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 "sucIl 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 ! " 

It is a touching incident, that one letter came from 
England just too late. It was from 'little Jamie,' 
the motherless boy, now a man, whose life Mary 
Pickard had been instrumental in saving, during the 



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430 THE ENDb 

dreadful sickness at Osmotherly. She had neyer 
heard from him. But he now wrote a long and 
grateful letter, thanking her for her kindness to his 
dying parents and to himself, of wbieh he bad heard 
so much, as well as for her continued remembrance 
of his aged grandmother as long as she lived. Had 
the letter come a few days sooner, it would have 
rendered still more fervent the thankfulness which 
filled and animated that deathless heart. 

We offer nothing more from Mrs. Ware's pen. 
She used it as long as she had strength, forgetting 
no friend, keeping her personal and domestic ac- 
counts, and leaving nothing to others that she could 
do herself. Attention to things temporal was with 
her not even secondary, but part of religion, all of 
which was primary and essential. Essential also, 
in her view, was the duty of cheerfulness, and of 
making others happy. Thoughtfulness for others, 
and a participation in all their joys, were among the 
latest manifestations, as prevailing in sickness as in 
full health. She wished no household duty to stop 
for her, no happy face of youth or manhood to lose 
its brightness. The song of the birds, and the song 
of the children, were glad notes even to her decay- 
ing sense. " Never did a sick-room have less of the 
odor of sickness than that," says one of her chil- 
dren. " It was the brightest spot on earth. Noth- 
ing was shut out from it, but the door stood wide 
for all the joys and hopes of all, even to the last" 

In this connection it deserves to be mentioned, 
that Mrs. Ware found a true and most devoted 
friend in her physician. She knew the worth of 



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THE END. 431 

«nch a friend ; and it was one of her last acts of 
thoughtfulness and gratitude, to beg her children to 
remember the kindness of the Doctor.* 

~ The last letter that Mrs. Ware wrote, or rather dic- 
tated, was in behalf of an aged and destitute clergy- 
man, whose family she had often taken to her home, 
and for whose benefit the provision made by some 
generous friends, partly as a solace to her own depart- 
ing spirit, shed upon that spirit a serener and brighter 
radiance. To him who told her of it, she said, joy- 
fully, " I hope to have some spiritual ministry given 
to me ; I have been able to do little here, but I 
hope to do more." 

With great clearness, and in words that were re- 
tained, she had defined to a friend and clergyman, 
a short time before, her views of the world to which 
she was drawings near. " I find myself thinking very 
little of the future world as to its * circumstances.' 
I mean, I am surprised to find how little amositp I 
feel about it. I trust myself with my Father, both 
now and hereafter. Whatever is best for me then, 
as now, I feel sure will be ordained If we suf- 
fer here, it is by a Father's hand, it is in wisdom and 
mercy. If we suffer there, it must be no less so. 
No, I desire to suffer in the coming world, as in this, 
if He pleases, if He will that I should. I have a 

perfect trust and confidence in God Ah, Mr. 

H , it is the self-surrender, a renunciation of 

our will for God's, which is the thing. If we can 
only do this truly, it is all. But how much it 

* Dr. C. C. Holmes, of Milton. 



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488 TBS BND. 

means! It has lelation to the wh<^e of life. It k^ 
chides action as well as endurance. It is a perpetual 
act At times we feel strong to do it, — to do it in 
one great act. But in the details of life we come 

sadly short There are some who seem to 

think of self-surrender as implying and inducing a 
certain weakness of the spirit, a giving up of power, 
a lessening of the soul's activity. But it is not so. 
Far from it. It implies no lessening of activity, of 
energy or power of character. It is that these are 
out of self, and in and for God." 

" The afternoon of the day before she died," writes 
her pastor, " I was told that she had expressed a 
desire to see me. As I entered the room, her face 
was perfectly radiant She knew that her hour had 
come, and she would say a few last words of kind- 
ness to us all. * I wish to thank you,' she said, ' for 
all that you have done, — every thing. And it is all 
here,' placing her hand on her breast, ' it is all here. 
This peace, this peace ! it is all here.' * Yes,' I re- 
plied, * if we seek we shall find it' ' I have not 
sought it,' she said quickly. ^ It came. It was 

sent.' * Come with a smile,^ she said to one 

whom she had called to bid her farewell. And her 
chamber then seemed to us more as a forecourt of 
heaven, than a painful approach to the tomb." 

On a lovely April day, the windows of her room 
all open that she might breathe freely, she looked up 
at one who entered, and said with a smile, " What 
a beautiful day to go home ! " Near the end, one 
at her side said to another, in tears, << How much 
stronger she is than we are ! " ^< I am so much nearer 



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THE KND. 433 

the Source of strength/' she whispered. Her suffer- 
ing was acute, but her thought and care were more 
for others than herself, to the last Much of the 
time she held in her hand that sacred note which 
her husband had written to her when he thought 
himself dying, at a distance. And precious, very 
precious, must have been to her those last, parting 
words from one to whom she was now going. 
^' Dear, dear Mary, if I could, I would express ail I 
owe to you. You have been an unspeakable, an in- 
describable blessing. God reward you a thousand 
fold! Farewell, till we meet agcdn?'* 

In the evening twilight of another balmy day, — 
Good Friday, — that spent frame was ladd by the 
side of his^ in the hallowed rest of Mount Auburn. 
And as we turned away, we felt that anotfaer^tie to 
earth was broken, and heard another voice calling us 
to heaven. 



With regret, rather than gladness, we lay down 
the pen which has attempted to record the life of a 
humble Christian. Delightful has it been to renew 
our communion, and extend our intimacy, with one 
whose presence was always felt as a blessing. If 
we have transgressed the bounds we set for our- 
selves in the beginning, and given expression to feel- 
ings as well as facts, we can only say that we have 
repressed more than we have disclosed of the recol- 
lections and emotions awakened by this intercourse. 
37 



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434 THE END. 

A true pOTtrait may seem to be praise, but less than 
that would be injustice. 

. We draw no character, in the end, but only refer 
to the two facts which seem most worthy of note. 
First, the amount of happiness enjoyed by one 
whose life was passed in the midst of sickness and 
trial, and who for six years felt that a fatal and dis- 
tressing disease was consuming her life, — yet could 
say of the whole, " It has been a beautiful expe- 
rience." ^' I have been so happy, — no one can 
tell bow happy." And, next, the vUustration here 
seen of the large sphere, the vast power, and imper- 
ishable work, of a woman who never left the domes- 
tic relations, nor aspired to any thing that is not pos- 
sible to every daughtcar, wife, and mother. If this 
appear, it is enough, — that religion, with or with- 
out rank, wealth, beauty, rare endowment, varied 
accoiSplishment, or any singularity, can lift woman 
to the highest distinction and confer the most endur- 
ing glory, — that of filling well, not the narrow, but 
Ihe wide and divine realm of Home. 



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