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 intimate 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 a quick 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 accepted, 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 with 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 great trials of faith, that one feels 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 intervention of words, all that is passing in mine concerning you. 'Vain mortal!' whispers Humility, 'what could you show her worth her seeing?' I was not thinking of the worth, but of the sympathy and love. I know that is worth something 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 mind is full of, as if my thoughts all came wrong end foremost; and the idea of taking up a person's time to listen to me seems so foolish, that it embarrasses me by making me feel in a hurry to get through for their sakes."
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 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 experience 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 experience. You say you feel something of 'fear' coming over you. I will not say, put away all apprehension; 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 spiritual 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 fruitless attempt to obtain peace under great difficulties, upon false principles, by happening upon these verses of Watts (I believe):—
'Is resignation's lesson hard?
On trial we shall find
It makes us give up nothing more
Than anguish 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 struggle,—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 life 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 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 compensated, 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 progress 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, following all the common pursuits which belonged to his age, but doing all with a conscientious 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 for the use of which you are accountable to your Maker, and that the person with one talent is equally 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-education. 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 conscientious 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 accomplishment of all the good you may have it in your power to perform."
A letter from England informed Mrs. Ware of the death of an excellent kinswoman, who may be remembered 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 declining.
"Greenhill Cottage, 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 intercourse I had with it in times past, for there was more in her soul than appeared to the casual observer. Her departure has added one more attraction 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 approach nearer and nearer to the exchange of worlds ourselves, our interest in that to which we are 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 sickness must be of uncertain result, and you understand 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 certainly 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 enjoyment of the purely spiritual could not be formed in us without them; we should be too self-dependent, 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 experiment; and if it does not reach all the difficulty, it certainly 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 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 gratifying testimony to the influence of the truth upon a mind which had been educated to undervalue every thing proceeding from our form of faith."
The younger son, to whom Mrs. Ware had written 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 Academy. 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.