Part 25

"_May 1, 1842._ You will hear in a few days of the change that has come to us. I have been entirely 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 the future support of such a large family, and a reluctance 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 restoration 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 _right_, 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 brings,--the hindrances to the satisfactory education of children, the loss of intellectual privileges, and 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 children, that, if the means of one kind of education are denied them, they may in other ways gain the essentials for spiritual life more readily. I cannot distrust 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 Worcester. 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 his sickness, his case demanded 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 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 cannot 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 the 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 _right_ to leave it, and the oppression of spirit which the last two years have witnessed here, reconcile 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 we do the best we can_, God will take care of us. He has many agents of mercy."

Mr. Ware was able to remain in office the rest of the theological term, and to carry through the graduating class, with whom his last exercises were deeply affecting. Very soon after this, in the summer of 1842, the family left Cambridge; having fixed upon Framingham, Mass., as their place of retreat, after looking at many places, and weighing all considerations of position and expense.

Of the last days in Cambridge, we have obtained the recollections of their oldest son, himself a member of the class just spoken of, as the last that enjoyed 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 preparation, and the many adieus. The 'breaking up' was one of the gravest trials of mother's life. Thoroughly 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 children 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. 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.'"

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 husband. The biographer may regret the necessity 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 meridian, 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 prompted 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 one sphere of duty to another; even if it cost the disruption of 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 helplessness 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 similar 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 consciousness 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 partly for its seclusion combined with convenience, and partly for economy. In relation to the last, their anxieties were now relieved by a generous contribution from friends, whom it would have been wrong to refuse; though similar offers had been made and declined before, as we ought to have said in referring to their embarrassments. So long as there was the 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 requital for willing service and acknowledged ability. But now that the power of exertion was suspended, duty to those nearest, as well as gratitude to persevering 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 house is set in order." Thus did Mr. Ware write to his brother John, in that earnest letter 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 Framingham 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 without 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 comfortable here. The house is exceedingly well adapted to our purpose; and though the externals of life are comparatively small matters with respect to happiness, 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 appliances 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,' believing as I do that it was _right_ to try it. Yet you know (none better) how much one has to feel in the detail of life, when so much is at stake. 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 adaptation 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 favorable 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 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 continue as good as they now are, and I shall do very well. I never shrink from labor of any kind.... Our children are much pleased with the place and its occupations; 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 an one should have been with me at this crisis."

This mention of the faithful domestic, "our Margaret," as she was always called, who lived with Mrs. Ware seven years, discloses another trait of character, more rare than it should be. The complaints that we constantly hear of the selfishness and "plague of servants," demand more consideration than they usually receive. The whole matter of domestic service is becoming a serious one. Even where it is wholly free, it affects materially the comfort 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? This is the one question which should be deliberately weighed, instead of being dismissed with a burst of 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 confidence 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 secret of her success we suppose to have been simply this: she looked upon servants as of the same species 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 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_ treatment 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 suffer 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 letters 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 circumstances. 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 sympathize with the soul-stirring emotion which belongs 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 hard; and as if it would have been not only easier, but safer, to have been able to feel your way a little before you absolutely floated off under your own sole guidance. But a second thought has always satisfied me that the arrangement of Providence was the best, although 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 hour 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 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 emotion, 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 advocate free, confidential discussion of inward and spiritual experience. The mere clothing our thoughts and feelings in words sometimes places them in a different position. We take them out of the atmosphere of our own perhaps morbid fears and anxieties, 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. At any rate, we have the 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 suffer 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."

* * * * *