Memoir of Mary L. Ware, Wife of Henry Ware, Jr. Part 23

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 distinguis.h.i.+ng 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."

Another _affliction_ came, and came nearer than any other could, out of her own family circle. The decline which she had so anxiously watched in "Emma" terminated as she had long known it must; and that true friend had gone before her to a purer sphere. Deeply must Mary have felt this at any time,--how deeply then! Toward the end, all the time that could be spared, day and night, had been pa.s.sed in that sick-room, where she enjoyed a communion, and exerted an influence, that few could. Perfect congeniality, perfect confidence, an intimacy of years and souls, a unity of faith and hope, with an affection unreserved and undimmed, bound them as one; and when the tie was severed, the world seemed another abode,--fast pa.s.sing away.

The letters in which Mrs. Ware speaks of this change are most tender, and reveal as much of the character of the writer as of the subject. But they are too personal to admit a free use. A brief account we may take, from a letter which we ourselves received.

"I do not remember that I have written to you since dear cousin Emma's death. I should love to tell you of the pleasant hours pa.s.sed in her chamber after her return from Europe, the precious hours of her last week with us. Her state of mind was a most elevated one, but her words were few. She could not overcome the habit of reserve upon spiritual subjects, and it was only in moments of the most private intercourse that she would utter herself freely. It was a beautiful case of great humility, united with perfect trust. She never for an instant faltered in her faith, but laid down her almost unequalled power with as perfect readiness as if she had never loved its exercise. You may suppose that her loss is daily, hourly felt, by all who belonged to her. This is not the same place without her. We constantly miss her wisdom and her disinterested kindness. Do you know that she made this cottage mine,--and more? I never received any gift which was so unexpected, or so touching. It has made this place more beautiful than ever; for the very walls have now a sacred a.s.sociation."

On Christmas Eve, 1847, Mrs. Ware, with some of her children, joined a family gathering at Cambridge, in the same house that they occupied during those twelve eventful years. And many were the recollections awakened there. "O, how strange it seemed to me, to be 'guest' in that house, on such an occasion! I could scarcely help a sense of responsibility, as if it were my affair. And my heart turned instinctively to the thought of all my responsibilities there, and the thought of how much _he_ would have enjoyed, and added to the enjoyment of others. There was a sense of the want of his visible presence, such as I never expected to feel again, so familiar have I become with the idea of the invisible." On the last night of the year, she writes in a tone more like sadness than was common with her, though with the same tranquil trust:--"I live now so entirely among the young, who could not comprehend the results of an old woman's long experience, that I am unconsciously led to shut up the thoughts which mostly occupy me, lest any should be annoyed by what they might not understand. And there are consequently periods when it seems as if I should _stop_, from want of the sympathy and counsel of some contemporary who knew the past as well as I do myself. In the various questionings about my children, and the many doubts which will come to an insulated mind, how have I craved your ear!... It has seemed to me, since Emma's death, that every thing was giving way around me. I cannot tell you what a sense, a perpetual sense of uncertainty, appears to pervade every thing. It seems as if not merely one strong being had failed by the way, but as if strength itself, the very thing, had become weakness. And I find myself clinging more than ever to the things that remain, and more and more impatient to use opportunities of intercourse with those I love, feeling that the time is short both for them and myself. Little did I think, at this time last year, that I should be here now; and when I look back upon the interval, and remember that, instead of the sickness I antic.i.p.ated, not one day of actual suspension of labor have I had, I am amazed at the small amount I have accomplished, and wonder why it is I am left. The year has been marked by less external change than usual, and yet it has brought some important changes in the progress of my children's education."

And if Mrs. Ware had not expected to see the end of that year, she could have little idea of seeing the whole of another. Yet this was granted her,--and a little more. And whatever the inward change, there was none outward, unless in greater diligence in duty, and a more earnest endeavor to make others happy. This, too, was evident, in conversation and in letters,--that while life in the present was still full and bright, there was a growing conviction of life beyond and above. It was seen particularly, as one and another of her friends departed,--when the emotions expressed were more of joy than of sadness, as in the case of a bereavement not long before. "O, how the holy band is gathering in that other state! And how near does it seem to us, when those with whom we have been wont to have daily intercourse enter it! I think, as I grow older, no part of my experience satisfies me so much, as the consciousness of an increasing _sense of union_ with a purely spiritual state. Not that one loses all interest in this state, but there comes a fuller sense of the reality of another."

XIV.

THE END.

Of Mrs. Ware's last months and days we have nothing remarkable to record. They did not differ from the months and years that preceded them, except that they _were_ the last, and she knew they must be. But she did not on that account seek to impart to them any new aspect, or new occupation. She had no formal preparation to make for a change, great indeed and momentous, yet perfectly familiar to her thoughts, and never dismaying. She had not left the work of life to be done after the power to do it had gone, but had used that power as one responsible for the use of all that was given her, and she continued to use all that remained, diligently and tranquilly. Had she been asked, as another once was, "What would you do, if you knew you should die to-morrow?" we suppose her reply would have been the same,--"That which I am doing to-day." And she was doing a great deal,--as much perhaps as she had ever done, in all that pertained to family and friends, the dest.i.tute and suffering. And she was enjoying a great deal, both at home and abroad, with apparently more, instead of less, freedom from that sense of "hurry" which had so troubled her. This she expresses in a note that we received from her in the month of May, 1848, which shows likewise how fresh and full was her enjoyment of the opening year. "We are beginning to look lovely here. It seems to me the spring was never so charming; but perhaps it is that _I_ am more charming than usual!

Certain it is, that I have seldom been in so favorable a state to enjoy it, so free from the pressure of care and the sense of hurry, which has been the bane of my life. I am more willing to leave some things undone than I was. Is not this a great virtue in a housekeeper, whose spring-cleaning is not done, or likely to be these three months? Our school has not yet adjourned, and I shall not be quite settled until it has.... Thanks for your letter; I shall answer it, if I ever have a quiet hour that has no peremptory demand for other employment."

In those last words we see a trait which many have noticed in Mrs. Ware, and which one of her own s.e.x, who had seen her in many situations, thus describes: "I never knew any one who had a more just idea of the due proportion which various duties and interests should bear to each other.

She was never one-sided in her views, never lived for one idea alone, but took a comprehensive view of all her duties and of all her relations to her fellow-beings, and gave to each its due portion of time and attention." This habit is not uncommon, perhaps, in health and active life; but not every one attempts to maintain it in sickness and the approach of death. That Mrs. Ware was fully conscious of that approach, though yet in apparent health, appears from many circ.u.mstances. But she did not talk of it, and few knew it. She preferred not to communicate it even to her family until it was necessary, lest it should check the freedom or disturb the serenity of a happy household, preventing rather than promoting the performance of duties all the more imperative if the time were short. From a letter to an absent daughter, we take the following, so pleasantly written.

"_Milton, May 2, 1848._ Dear E----: Have not I got some pretty little paper upon which to indite my loving thoughts of thee?

It becomes me to have a fine pen, and to try and be rather refined than otherwise in my chirography! Alas for me, who have to write with quill-nibs without mending! But I have rather a fancy for these close lines, which remind me of the days of my youth, when I used to write as closely without lines. I am particularly reminded of those days, by having received to-day my own letters to Cousin Emma; and to decipher some of them would try better eyes than most people possessed in her days, so closely written, so crossed and recrossed are they. I read one of them, and have been living over again all day those singular Osmotherly experiences. I do sometimes wish that I could have had the leisure, while I had the power, to write out for the information of my children that page of my life. It was so powerful a lesson of faith and trust, that it could not fail of producing in them, in some degree, the same effect that it did upon me. In looking back upon it, I cannot but feel that it was a peculiar blessing to me, as preparatory to the trials which were to follow; without just such a teaching, it seems to me they would have overwhelmed me. I often wish I could convey to the minds of those who are coming upon the stage of life, the utter insignificance into which outward circ.u.mstances sink in retrospect, other than as the occasion for the cultivation of the inner being. One almost forgets whether outward things were agreeable or not. The spiritual, intellectual life is the most prominent; the progress of our own characters, the affection which met our affections, the satisfactions of the soul, are all that leave any lasting impression upon the memory."

By the middle of that summer, her strength had declined very perceptibly to herself, though not to common observers, and she felt that the time had come for an explicit communication. And never can we forget the perfect composure and natural cheerfulness with which she spoke of it to some of us who had little idea of the whole truth,--showing a paper that she had written to one of her children, and asking counsel in regard to it. The paper is of too private a character to be given here, except a few of the more general pa.s.sages. "I have not thought it worth while to trouble you, or any one else, with the knowledge of this, while I was well enough to go on as usual, and had no reason to expect change. The doctor has always said I might live, as many had, for years, and die from some other cause, before this became very troublesome; and it may yet be so. But within a few months the course of the thing has changed, and I cannot but feel that it may come to a crisis at any time, and I be suddenly prostrated. With these views, I wish not to hide from myself my danger; and I thank G.o.d for the influence which this consciousness has had upon my mind for a long time past. I have felt it good for my soul to know that I carried about with me a disease which must be fatal.

It has helped me more than any thing else to put the things of this life into their true relative position. And while it has not for a moment lessened my interest or my enjoyment of any thing around me, it has saved me from many painful moments and anxious cares, by showing me the insignificance of much that I once cared too much for. The only evil I have found in it is a sense of hurry; feeling that I may have but little time to work in, I am tempted to work hurriedly, and thus with less comfort. I cannot tell you the many thoughts I have of the future destiny of my children.... I need not tell you how inexpressibly nearer and dearer all the children are to me every day I live, or how earnestly I pray that they may be such as their father's children ought to be."

In the early autumn, she spent much of her time at the house of her son in Cambridgeport, in whose family there occurred a case of sickness and death, which engaged her deepest sympathies and tasked her strength.

Once more she became a nurse and laborious helper. After it, she sank for a time, but again rallied, and through the greater part of the winter continued strong in spirit, with great energy of will and action, interested in every thing, grateful for every thing, busily and happily occupied. Of the accounts given us by others, beside what we saw and heard of her whole bearing and conversation that winter, we can use little, lest it should seem like eulogy,--which we desire to avoid, particularly in connection with her death. But should this prevent all freedom of expression? If we may not speak from our own mind and heart, may we not from the testimony of those who were near enough to understand the whole, yet with no relation or interest to mislead them?

A lady writes: "It was my great privilege to pa.s.s a few weeks with her in the sanctuary of her own home, in the early progress of the malady which terminated her natural life. Words fail me to convey my impression of her at this period. Always serene and cheerful, there was yet a seriousness in her manner, and a depth of purpose in her words and acts, that were to me very impressive.... Every duty was to her always a religious duty; and hence we saw in her the same fidelity and perfectness in every household care, however humble or distasteful, as in employments of a more congenial character.... While her life was to me highly inspiring, it was also deeply humiliating. She seemed to me always sufficient to herself in her great resources, and I felt that I could be nothing to her. I once told her so; she smiled, and said, 'You don't know how weak I feel, and how I long to lean upon some one, and be caressed and petted like a child.'"

A near neighbor and privileged friend says: "When we learned that her days were numbered, as we did some months before her death, we of course looked upon every thing connected with her with a more subdued and chastened interest. She seldom, almost never, alluded to her condition. But there were little valedictory acts to be remembered when she was gone, that showed her thoughtfulness and love. The last time I saw her at church was on Thanksgiving day, the great family festival of New England. During most of the services she was in tears, doubtless thinking of those whom she was soon to join, and of those now with her who must spend their next Thanksgiving alone. But her tears were tears of endearment and tenderness, more than of sorrow.... Gradually her walks were given up. Some unusual calls on her sympathy and strength may possibly have shortened her sufferings. 'But if I had foreseen it all,'

she said, 'I should have done the same.' There was no shrinking from what lay before her, but that entire humility which neither presumes nor fears, and is content with what G.o.d appoints."

But we need not rely on others for a knowledge of Mrs. Ware's condition and temper at this time. Her own words still speak for her, and speak with the same clearness and calmness as ever. Letters and notes were written to all who had any claim, through the winter. The year was not suffered to close without one more "annual,"--the last seal to that firm friends.h.i.+p. Portions of these letters and notes will serve as the best index to the progress of her life,--for we cannot call it the decline.

"_December 26, 1848._ Dear John: You must wonder why I have not written to you in all this age of a week since you were here.

In truth. I have not been able to do so, for I had to give up and go to bed. I should have been wise had I done so when I first came home, I suppose; but I was so sure that I had no right to expect to feel better, that I could not think it worth while. I am better now, and am going to venture to town to-morrow. I have had but one hour yet for accounts, and as my arm is becoming more and more useless, I dare not put off doing what that arm alone can do. I desire so to arrange matters that I may have only tranquillity,--no hurry, no bustle, no irritation anywhere.... I have none but cheerful views for myself, and I desire to be spared anxiety about the outside to mar that cheerfulness.... I have promised to go into Mr.

B----'s, New Year's eve, and can do that with little fatigue.

Kiss Henry boy for his grandmother, and wish him a 'happy new year' for me when the time comes."

"_December 31, 1848._ Dear N----: Once more I will make an attempt to write to you, for I cannot let this season go without giving you some record of what is pa.s.sing,--as my reason tells me it is in all probability my last annual missive. Do not, my dear friend, shrink from this idea, as if it were some dreadful fact which you wished not to realize. I can write it, I trust I can bring it home as a truth, without the slightest quickening of the pulse, without a wish to decide my own fate. I would bless G.o.d, that in His tender love He has so gradually brought me to the consciousness of the great uncertainty of my own life, that all connected with that uncertainty has been familiar to me through the softening influence of distance, and my vision can now bear the strong light of the nearer presence without dismay. In recalling the various circ.u.mstances in which I have written my many annuals to you, I cannot remember one in which I have had less anxiety about the future. I feel strangely perplexed sometimes at this; I know that while it is _possible_ my life may be prolonged many years, yet they would be years of suffering, of comparative uselessness, and perhaps of great discomfort to those around me; and still more, that the more probable prospect is a rapid, if not sudden, annihilation of life. I have children for whose welfare I have lived, and cared only to live for the last five years; and of whose fate when I am gone I cannot even guess. I have felt that my life was important to them; and when the idea of being obliged to leave them first came to me, I thought I must be a great loss to them; but now I cannot make it seem so by any process of thought. Why is this?

how is this? I cannot tell. I do not love them less; on the contrary, my tenderness of feeling towards them increases every day. I never cared so much to have them with me, I never enjoyed their various powers more. Is it that I am under a delusion,--that death is not the reality to my mind which I conceived it to be? I confess I cannot answer satisfactorily. I seem to myself, as I did at sea in a dangerous storm, quiet, confiding, sure that no human help can aid, and not anxious to look beyond the present. But it may be that it is only because, while we are able to exercise both mental and physical powers in some way all the time, it is impossible to bring home the conviction that all may stop at any moment.

"One solution of the mystery comes to me sometimes. You know I have felt, ever since my husband's death, that it was the most inexplicable mystery that my children should have been left to my sole care instead of his, when I was so deficient in the power to do for them what a parent should. I could only satisfy myself by the fact, that the All-wise, All-powerful, could overrule my mistakes, and I had no right to ask why. This consciousness of inefficiency has never left me, and I cannot therefore feel that my withdrawal will be to them an essential evil. I have seen many instances of children left, as mine will be, to their own guidance, who have evidently made much stronger characters for that self-dependence. And though they may suffer, perhaps, as I did, from the loss of that affection which a parent only can give, we see so many suffering quite as much from the misdirection of that affection, where the tie is not thus broken, that we dare not say, in any given instance, which fate would be the best for a child. Of one thing we are certain; we are short-sighted, finite beings, our minds can fathom but part, 'one little part,' of the plan of Providence; and we cannot tell but what the most adverse circ.u.mstances may be made instrumental to the education of the soul, by that overruling Power which sees the end and the beginning. We understand so little of the true character of each individual mind, that we know not but that what seems most adverse is in reality best adapted to its wants. Why, then, can we not be content to give up our own desires, our own judgments, all anxieties, all plans, and trust that all will be ordered right?

Not certainly to sit down pa.s.sively and do nothing; but, carefully watching the indications of Providence, to exercise our best judgments in trying to further its designs, and be content with the issues."

"_January 21, 1849._ Dear Louisa: I send the above just as it has lain in my desk these three weeks, to show you that I have 'made an effort.' I devoted that last evening of the year to writing to you and N----, and began your letter first; but my arm was so painful that I soon found I could not accomplish both; and I laid aside yours, because I was reluctant to omit, for the first time in more than thirty years, my annual to her, feeling as I did that it would probably be my last. This you will pardon; but, in justice to myself, I must go back and tell you why I had not before even commenced an answer to you, because I consider the mere fact of _seeming_ neglect of such a letter ought to be fully explained, for the credit of human nature in general.... I have been greatly blessed in finding, that, as the reality of what lies before me has become more and more distinct to my consciousness, I have lost nothing of the tranquil faith which made me willing to acquiesce in it. My nervous system is not touched yet in a way to affect the firmness of my views of the future. My great study now is, how to do my part towards making this experience of most value to my children. While I wish not to withhold from them any benefit they may receive by free and full knowledge of my condition, I am sure it must be introduced with a judicious reference to their different casts of character. I am feeling my way, and earnestly pray to be guided aright.... As to my visiting you, I have not been a mile from home for many weeks,--can only ride a little in a very easy vehicle without suffering for days after it. But I am content to be quiet.

After such a life of activity, I enjoy the right to be still, more than I can tell; and I have home employment enough to fill all the time, if it prove ten times as long as I think it will.

I hope to see you here when the weather is warmer, if G.o.d should spare me until then. G.o.d bless you, dear L.! I love to have your letters, but cannot promise to answer them very punctually."

"_January 28, 1849, Sunday Evening._ My dear Lucy: Strange indeed must it seem to you, that your kind, sympathizing letter, written more than two months since, should not have received an answer long before this; and if you have not, through some of your mutual friends, heard something of the progress of things with us since then, you must think it perfectly unpardonable. But in truth, dear Lucy, I have thought much of you, and longed to write, and still more to see you; and nothing short of physical inability has prevented me from long ago reporting myself to you. It is not worth while now to go back to the various causes which at first prevented my writing.

"I have lost ground greatly in the last three months, and should I continue to do so for the next in the same proportion, I shall be a mere burden; but no one can form any calculation about it, and I desire not to attempt it. I have no wish to penetrate the future. I know all will be ordered as it had best be. What more can I need to know? I feel that I have special cause for grat.i.tude in the length of time given me to make the subject familiar to my mind; and not less so, that the disease so far does not disturb the perfect tranquillity of my mind, or take from me any of the advantages of this long preparation. My faith is strong that He who has been the Father of the fatherless, and the widows' G.o.d, will protect and guide the orphans I must leave behind me. It is not in vain that I have had an orphan's experience. HE guided me in safety through the many perils which beset the lonely one; I may surely trust Him for those to whom He has vouchsafed the aid of kindred so near and dear. My only care now is, how to do my part in giving them the full advantage of this discipline, and I earnestly pray to be guided aright.... I should love to see you, and hope to do so in the course of the winter or spring. I sit quietly at home, but have seldom a day without visitors, sometimes to weariness; but I love to see my friends, and they are many; I cannot say nay to them. I have not been to Cambridge since I first came home, and to Boston only twice for two months, and could not do it now. But perhaps, when I can take more air, I may gain a little more strength, and stay a little longer than seems probable now. Of this you may rest a.s.sured, that, come when it may, I can say with perfect truth, 'Not as I will, but as Thou wilt.'"

"_February 3, 1849._ Dear Friend: I know you will be glad to have a word directly from us of our welfare, and I therefore gladly avail myself of a kind offer to take a note to you, though I have time only for a short one. I have had my ups and downs since you were here, but on the whole do not think there is any material change;--some days of great suffering, and then again days and nights of perfect ease. So I have had much for which to be grateful in the alternation, for the days of suffering made the seasons of relief more delightful, and the rest enables me the better to bear the suffering. Much indeed have I to be grateful for. Never was kindness bestowed upon mortal, I believe, such as is every day showered upon me, and nothing yet has come to disturb the serenity of my mind. I find myself as free to enjoy all that is pa.s.sing as ever, and the 'daily duty,' small though it be to me now, interests and satisfies me.... I have an almost incessant influx of visitors, which sometimes wearies me; but then I love to see them, and I enjoy the occasional quiet hour all the more. My wakeful hours at night are the most precious, being happily free from all nervous restlessness; and often do I wish I had some other wakeful spirit at my side with whom I could commune of the pa.s.sing visions. But enough of self."

"Dear Maria: I did not like, in your short visit, to occupy any time with self; but I should love to tell you of the blessed peace which is given me in relation to the trial which lies before me, and of the faith and hope which shed their tranquil light upon the future, even in respect to that most trying point, What will become of my children?... For while I feel that every day which is spared me makes them all more and more dear to me, I realize more and more that I _cannot_ be separated from them."

The friend to whom those last words were written, then a wife and mother herself, and once a cherished paris.h.i.+oner of Mr. and Mrs. Ware, has since joined their communion above. And her part of this correspondence shows how beautiful had been the influence of the life whose close she now witnessed. Indeed, the fact itself should be stated, if nothing more, as belonging to the actual character of Mary Ware, that the many letters and notes which came to her in these declining days, from friends near and friends abroad, are filled, not with empty praise, nor yet useless and distressing grief, but with expressions of grateful joy for the power of her faith in the present struggle, and its power upon _them_, in the past and always. If ever there was evidence of the reality and influence of the Christian faith in itself, or of a peculiar form of it, it might be shown here. The believer and sufferer thought less of any peculiarities, than of the essential spirit and power. But all that she had held, she retained, and found sufficient,--unfailingly, abundantly sufficient. And it was a blessing to her in her last days, to know that others of the same faith felt its sustaining power, and shared with her in its peace and joy. The friend to whom we have just referred writes: "Scarcely an hour pa.s.ses in the day, that I do not think of you with so much tenderness and sympathy as I have no words to convey to you. The thought of you does me good. I know what is pa.s.sing in the depth of your soul, and it gives me strength to go on. Will you pray for me, that while I live I may do what is right, cheerfully and submissively, if not joyfully?" She begs Mrs. Ware to write down, or let another write, some pa.s.sages of her life. "Your experience has so blessed me, that I long to spread its influence. I can never thank you for what you and our sainted friend, with whom you seem now more than ever 'one,' have done for my soul." Another, who was herself the widowed wife of one of the best of men, writes to Mrs. Ware of their former intercourse and communion: "There has been no alloy mingled in this cup of blessing; we can carry it all with us to our Father's house. With my whole heart I rejoice that you are able to act out your highest convictions, that your disease so gently looses the bonds to earth, as to leave your spirit free to bear its testimony to the last to the power of your faith in the goodness of G.o.d, and the reality of everlasting life. 'He that liveth and believeth shall never see death.' With you and me death has lost its sting. Are we not willing to go where those we have loved so truly are gone? Shall we not gladly make their home our home? It is not the fear of death that ever presses upon me, but the fear of not being worthy of the unutterable happiness of a reunion with those that have gone before me; so I welcome pain, hoping it may purge me of my sins, and make me more fit for heaven. Sometimes, when the idea is very clear and strong in my mind of eternal life with the good and great souls that I have known here, I gasp for breath, and, like the disciples, 'cannot believe for joy.' And surely, dear Mary, the love that has been perfect love cannot be quenched or turned from us in the land of spirits to which we are tending,--in which you seem to me now to be living."

These sentiments are the reflection of her mind, who had done so much to form or invigorate them. They were some of the blessed fruits of the faith that she and her husband had cherished,--the faith that still bound her to him, and to all whom she loved. As such, she welcomed them.

But the moment the partiality of friends carried them beyond this, and implied the least merit or power of her own, she was pained. "I thank you for this note; yet--shall I say it?--it pained me. I do not like to feel that my friends are attributing to _my_ efforts that which I feel is the direct action of a higher power. Knowing as I do how great are my deficiencies, how far I fall short of the 'perfect stature,' I cannot but feel humbled by such expressions.... Please thank Mrs. ---- most gratefully for her kind offers of aid. I seem to be so overwhelmed with comforts, that I have nothing to ask for myself. O, how great is the goodness of G.o.d towards me!"

It is a touching incident, that one letter came from England just too late. It was from 'little Jamie,' the motherless boy, now a man, whose life Mary Pickard had been instrumental in saving, during the dreadful sickness at Osmotherly. She had never heard from him. But he now wrote a long and grateful letter, thanking her for her kindness to his dying parents and to himself, of which he had heard so much, as well as for her continued remembrance of his aged grandmother as long as she lived.

Had the letter come a few days sooner, it would have rendered still more fervent the thankfulness which filled and animated that deathless heart.

We offer nothing more from Mrs. Ware's pen. She used it as long as she had strength, forgetting no friend, keeping her personal and domestic accounts, and leaving nothing to others that she could do herself.

Attention to things temporal was with her not even secondary, but part of religion, all of which was primary and essential. Essential also, in her view, was the duty of cheerfulness, and of making others happy.

Thoughtfulness for others, and a partic.i.p.ation in all their joys, were among the latest manifestations, as prevailing in sickness as in full health. She wished no household duty to stop for her, no happy face of youth or manhood to lose its brightness. The song of the birds, and the song of the children, were glad notes even to her decaying sense. "Never did a sick-room have less of the odor of sickness than that," says one of her children. "It was the brightest spot on earth. Nothing was shut out from it, but the door stood wide for all the joys and hopes of all, even to the last."

In this connection it deserves to be mentioned, that Mrs. Ware found a true and most devoted friend in her physician. She knew the worth of such a friend; and it was one of her last acts of thoughtfulness and grat.i.tude, to beg her children to remember the kindness of the Doctor.[6]

[Footnote 6: Dr. C. C. Holmes, of Milton.]

The last letter that Mrs. Ware wrote, or rather dictated, was in behalf of an aged and dest.i.tute clergyman, whose family she had often taken to her home, and for whose benefit the provision made by some generous friends, partly as a solace to her own departing spirit, shed upon that spirit a serener and brighter radiance. To him who told her of it, she said, joyfully, "I hope to have some spiritual ministry given to me; I have been able to do little here, but I hope to do more."

With great clearness, and in words that were retained, she had defined to a friend and clergyman, a short time before, her views of the world to which she was drawing near. "I find myself thinking very little of the future world as to its 'circ.u.mstances.' I mean, I am surprised to find how little _curiosity_ I feel about it. I trust myself with my Father, both now and hereafter. Whatever is best for me then, as now, I feel sure will be ordained.... If we suffer here, it is by a Father's hand, it is in wisdom and mercy. If we suffer there, it must be no less so. No, I desire to suffer in the coming world, as in this, if He pleases, if He will that I should. I have a perfect trust and confidence in G.o.d.... Ah, Mr. H----, it is the _self-surrender_, a renunciation of our will for G.o.d's, which is the thing. If we can only do this truly, it is all. But how much it means! It has relation to the whole of life. It in eludes action as well as endurance. It is a perpetual act. At times we feel strong to do it,--to do it in one great act. But in the details of life we come sadly short.... There are some who seem to think of self-surrender as implying and inducing a certain weakness of the spirit, a giving up of power, a lessening of the soul's activity. But it is not so. Far from it. It implies no lessening of activity, of energy or power of character. It is that these are out of _self_, and in and for G.o.d."

"The afternoon of the day before she died," writes her pastor, "I was told that she had expressed a desire to see me. As I entered the room, her face was perfectly radiant. She knew that her hour had come, and she would say a few last words of kindness to us all. 'I wish to thank you,'

she said, 'for all that you have done,--every thing. And it is all here,' placing her hand on her breast, 'it is all here. This peace, this peace! it is all here.' 'Yes,' I replied, 'if we seek we shall find it.'

'I have not sought it,' she said quickly. 'It came. It was sent.' ...

'Come with a _smile_,' she said to one whom she had called to bid her farewell. And her chamber then seemed to us more as a forecourt of heaven, than a painful approach to the tomb."