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.