We have not thought it necessary to speak of Mrs. Ware's peculiar interest in the public ministrations 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 manner. 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 worst speak something good; should 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 selfish, for those who preached not Christ, but themselves, and offered stones rather than bread to the hungry soul, she found it difficult to maintain her respect, or refrain from expressing a very different sentiment. Her indignation at some kinds of preaching, 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 properties of mind and matter, containing (I suppose) a conclusive argument against Materialism, abounding in technical phrases and abstruse quotations,—which, to a certainty, not one in fifty of his audience could understand. What food for sinful, accountable, half-asleep souls! If an inhabitant of the insane hospital had called such a production a sermon, 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 manner, 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 together do not seem to me—it is a matter of taste, I suppose—to need the factitious aid of such a declamatory style of writing or studied mode of delivery. 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 satisfaction. 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 faithful 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 untried 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 sympathetic 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 that voice, in devotion, Scripture, or hymn, die away from the heart. Never will those cherished words, "To prayer, to prayer! for the morning breaks,"—be so moving and uplifting, 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 formerly, 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 domestic life, personal and private incidents, and playful communications. No absent child was left in ignorance 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 opportunity 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, unless 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 herself, 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 following letter to her son was written some time in the summer of this year.
"Milton, 1847.
"My dear 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 sufficiently like it to be considered premonitory symptoms of that affection,—amounting to loss of sensation, and giddiness, followed by a great oppression in the brain, for a long time after. Since this I have found that I soon get overpowered 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. Besides 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 discomfort. I know from the nature of the case, that this may be so many years, and also, that at any moment it may suddenly 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 my children, I should be wrong to spend these few years in such a hurried life, that I cannot have time to give them an 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, imperative 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 hundredth 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 dependence, 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 blessings. There is an elevation in such an habitual state of mind, which takes one beautifully away from the annoying perplexities of life. I could write on for hours, but I have 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 conscientious 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.
"Milton, 1847.
"My dear Friend:—
"My visit to you this afternoon was so broken, so unsatisfactory, 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 husband suffered, I feel as if I had a double power to 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 activity. 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 demands 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-improvement? 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 opposition in his requisitions, and if both duties are required of us, it must be that they may be united. What is spiritual progress? What is the benefit we believe to be intended for us by the discipline of bereavement? Is it increased love of God, reliance upon him, union of soul with him? How shall we gain these by any process of meditation, 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 consciousness 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 requiring 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 operation of God's providence. You say you have never for a moment felt that you were hardly dealt with, in the outward circumstances of this affliction. Apply the same faith to its internal circumstances; give up your own will as fully 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 that 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 regret 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. Ware."
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 struggling 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. 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 equanimity: "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 concerned, or some principle, or morality, rather than where she was herself personally interested."