If there were no schools to take the children away from home part

In the wry yet piercing words of E. W. Howe, an American essayist of quiet humor and deep observation, there lies a truth wrapped in jest: “If there were no schools to take the children away from home part of the time, the insane asylums would be filled with mothers.” Beneath its laughter stirs a profound understanding of human nature—the boundless devotion of a mother, the burdens of constant care, and the sacred need for balance between love and self. What seems at first a cynical remark reveals itself, upon reflection, as a tender acknowledgment of the strain that love can place upon the human heart.

E. W. Howe, who lived in the 19th century, was a man of keen wit and unflinching realism. He understood the rhythms of everyday life, its weariness and small triumphs. In his time, homes were crowded, tasks endless, and women bore the weight of both nurture and confinement. His words reflect not mockery, but empathy—a recognition that the mind, even one filled with love, needs moments of solitude and peace. To raise a child is to pour oneself endlessly into another life; yet without pause, the spirit bends under its own devotion. The school, in his saying, becomes more than an institution of learning—it becomes a temple of mercy, granting both the mother and the child a brief liberation, so that love might continue without breaking.

This truth has echoed through every age. In the ancient world, the women of Athens and Rome, though honored for motherhood, often lived lives confined to the hearth. Their days were long, filled with tending, teaching, and soothing. Yet even in those societies, there were festivals—days when the children went to the tutelage of philosophers or priests, and mothers gathered in prayer or rest. The ancients knew, as Howe knew, that no vessel, however strong, can pour forever without being refilled. Even love, the purest of gifts, needs renewal.

Consider, too, the story of Abigail Adams, wife and mother in the early days of the American republic. Her letters tell of endless toil—raising children, managing the farm, writing to her husband who was far away shaping the nation’s destiny. She adored her family but confessed often to exhaustion. “I am sometimes ready to sink under the weight,” she wrote. It was not lack of affection but too much of it—too much labor, too little rest. Like Howe’s mothers, she needed space to remember that she was not only a mother, but also a soul of her own. Without that space, the spirit frays, and the heart that gives too much begins to tremble.

Thus, when E. W. Howe speaks of “insane asylums filled with mothers,” he is not cruel, but wise. He sees how modern life demands endless selflessness from women, while offering little sanctuary. His humor softens the blow, but the truth remains—those who nurture others must also be nurtured themselves. The school, then, becomes a symbol of balance: a necessary rhythm between giving and receiving, between care and freedom. It is not merely for the education of the young, but for the preservation of the mother’s mind, her sanity, and her joy.

In this, Howe’s quote transcends its time. It speaks to every caregiver, every soul who loves so fully that they forget to rest. It teaches that to preserve love, one must sometimes step back from it. A mother who allows herself moments of stillness returns to her children not diminished, but renewed. The laughter in the home grows warmer when the heart within it has known both silence and song.

Let this be the lesson, then, to all who hear: balance is the guardian of love. Whether one tends a child, a home, a craft, or a dream—do not let devotion become imprisonment. Seek moments of solitude, not as escape, but as restoration. Let the mind wander, let the heart breathe, for even the strongest bonds are sustained by space.

For in the end, Howe’s jest carries the tenderness of eternal truth: love, though infinite in spirit, dwells within mortal hearts. And mortal hearts must rest. Thus, the wise do not love without pause, but love wisely—allowing both themselves and those they cherish to grow apart at times, so that they may come together again, refreshed in love’s enduring light.