But, as we have said, Puritanism was temporarily consistent with the philosophy of life and Nature for one age.  It held no divided sway over John Winthrop, but filled his heart, his mind, and his spirit.  If, by its influence over any one human being, regarded as an unqualified, unmodified style of piety, demanding entire allegiance, and not yielding to any mitigation through the tempering qualities of an individual,—­if, of itself and by itself, Puritanism could be made lovely to us, John Winthrop might well be charged with that exacting representative office.  We repeat, that we have no abatement to make of our exalted regard for him through force of a single sentence from his pen.  Most profoundly are we impressed by the intensity and thoroughness of conviction, the fulness and frankness of avowal, and the delicate and fervent earnestness of self-consecration, which make these ancient oracles of a human heart fragrant with the odor of true piety.  He uses no hackneyed terms, no second-hand or imitated phrases.  His language, as well as his thoughts, his method, and ideal standard, are purely his own.  Indeed, we might set up and sustain for him a claim of absolute individuality, if not even of originality, in the standard of godliness and righteousness which he fashioned for himself, and then with such zeal and heroism sought to attain.

Entering a third time the married state, John Winthrop, in April, 1618, took to wife Margaret, daughter of Sir John Tyndal.  The clouds, which had gathered so deeply in repeated bereavement and gloom over his earlier years of domestic life, yielded now, and left alike the sky and the horizon of his prospects, to give place soon to the anxieties of grave enterprises, which animated while they burdened his spirit.  This excellent and brave-hearted lady, as she opens her soul, and almost reveals what must have been a sweet and winning countenance, to the reader of her own letters in these pages, will henceforward be one of the enshrined saints of the New-England calendar.  Little did she dream at her marriage what a destiny was before her.  There was in store for her husband nearly thirty years of the truest heart-love and the closest sympathy in religious trust and consecration with her.  We may anticipate our narrative at this point, to say that her situation did not allow her to accompany him on his own removal to this side of the ocean, but she followed him a year and a half afterwards, arriving in November, 1631, with his eldest son and others of his children, having lost on the voyage an infant whom he had probably never seen.  Her death, in a prevailing sickness, June 14, 1647, drew from her husband this tribute to her:—­“In this sickness the Governour’s wife, daughter of Sir John Tindal, Knight, left this world for a better, being about fifty-six years of age:  a woman of singular virtue, prudence, modesty, & piety & specially beloved & honored of all the country.”  Though in the December of the same year we find the Governor again married, now to the Widow Martha Coytemore, we refer the incident to wilderness-straits and the exactions of necessity or expediency in domestic life.