Part 26

"_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 attainment? 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 the aid we shall derive from them in our Christian 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 perfectly 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 deeply. 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 do. 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 consciousness 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 eloquent, 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, showing 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 well 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 find a way." They were much more free from interruptions than ever before. Their new neighbors and friends were not only kind, but considerate,--one of the best forms of kindness. 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 having 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 consciousness that we were spending all our strength, mental and physical, upon a vain attempt for an unattainable result, was worse to me than any degree of labor 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 spirits; 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 there is room for much mental and spiritual discipline; and I must acknowledge that there are times when the weakness of the flesh overcomes the willingness of the spirit, 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 _right_ to suffer from this, because we ought to have faith to believe that the trials even of our own insufficiency are designed to accomplish some end. But the consciousness 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 approaching, and had fortified herself to meet it, not by putting the thought of it aside, but by keeping it before her, and making it familiar, that it might never take her by surprise. And long had she thus disciplined 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 precariousness 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 enjoyed 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!

In the spring of 1843 she accompanied her husband 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, Thursday, 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, confident in the prospect of a reunion in a better state! I shall write again if I can, but I have few minutes unoccupied."

* * * * *

"_Boston, May, 1843._ My dear child: Father continued 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 before 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 responsibility to watch over yourselves, that you do in all things right,--not what is most pleasant, not what we wish, but what is _right_ 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-discipline 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 completely; and the remaining five or six weeks of his life seemed only a vacillation between earth and heaven,--yielding transporting glimpses of the latter, but constantly drawing him back to the former,--and creating altogether as hard a trial for the sufferer, and those around him, as can easily be conceived.

"_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 prepared for any result. The very uncertainty is appointed for our good; let us use it, my dear child, for our spiritual advancement.... God bless you! 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 willing 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 discipline to our souls; let us strive to increase our faith in God's goodness, our trust in his love.... I cannot write much, for I cannot leave father many minutes 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 experience 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, whenever you can; you will be most welcome to us all, and to me your presence will be a real benediction. I feel at times as if I should be overpowered by the tumult of feelings to which I dare not give utterance here, where the composure of all around me depends so much upon my calmness. This last fortnight has shaken to its very foundation the whole fabric of my spiritual being,--thank God! not to displace a single fibre of the fabric. But there has been such a heaving up of all that was hidden in the depths of past experience, as has wellnigh conquered at times my self-control, and I have felt that I must utter myself, or be lost; yet to no one have I dared to speak. John's sickness here has made composure with him peculiarly important.... Happily, we cannot lift the veil of the future; we can only be ready for whatever may be in store for us, and this I trust we are.... I have been prevented from writing in the daytime, and now, at eleven o'clock, I am compelled by weariness to shut my eyes, and rest."

* * * * *

"_August 30._ My dear Lucy: I should indeed rejoice if you were able to be here, for I long for some communion with one who could so enter into all my views and feelings at this time as I know you would. But I bow in submission to all the discipline which God appoints for me.... In some respects 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 necessity of calmness for the children's sake, feeling that their state of mind would inevitably be influenced by the tone I should give it, has aided me in preserving a quiet exterior; and so we have had the great comfort of peace and entire freedom from agitation and excitement. God give us strength to preserve it! But this weary waiting from day to day, alternately hoping and feeling that there is no reason to hope, wears upon the nerves,--the days seem interminable, and the nights ages.... Long as I have looked forward to this change, it seems like a dream from which I must awake,--as if it could not be! No wonder;--for fifteen years, his health, _he_ indeed, has been the first, almost the sole, object of my life. It will be long before I can turn even to my children, with the consciousness that they can now be attended to without neglecting him."

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

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

But of this whole experience it is right to let Mrs. Ware speak in her own letters, several of which we add. The first was written the day after the funeral, to an absent child, and the others to different friends after her return to Framingham. We take them from among many written at that time, either in answer to offers of sympathy, or as a relief to a burdened heart. Of necessity, they contain some 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.

"_Cambridge, September 26, 1843._

"MY DEAR CHILD:--

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

"After dear father's death, I told Uncle John that I wished all arrangements with regard to his funeral should be made in accordance with grandfather's feelings; and I gave it wholly into his hands to arrange. He came up again on 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 Cambridge in our own carriage; we could not feel willing to let strangers do any thing in connection with him which we could do ourselves. We reached here about half past ten, having had a season of precious intercourse upon our way. We found that, in accordance with the wishes of the College Faculty, it had been decided that we should go to the College Chapel, for the service, at half past three on Monday.

"On Monday morning the rest of the family came down, and all the aunts and uncles, so that grandfather had all his children with him. At three o'clock we went to the Chapel. The students attended in their places, and the pews in the gallery were devoted to us. The service commenced by a voluntary, and the anthem, 'The Lord is my shepherd.' Dr. Francis prayed; Dr. Noyes read some 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 considerations. The services closed with 'Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb!' We all went to Mount Auburn; that is, all the family, even grandfather and dear little Charlie. The weather was misty, but the light which it threw around was in keeping with the occasion, and I thought I never had seen the place look more beautiful. One only thing I wanted which I could not have,--the sound of the holy hymn at the consecrated spot.

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

* * * * *

"_Framingham, September 29, 1843._

"MY DEAR EMMA:--