Chapter XXVII: Introduction (15)

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."

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 passed 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 passing 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
passed 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 association."

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 anticipated, 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 destitute 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 sex, 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 circumstances. 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 circumstances 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 passages. "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 God 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 pass 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 God 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 friendship. 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 passing,--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 God, 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 circumstances 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 circumstances 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 passively 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 God
should spare me until then. God 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 gratitude 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' God, 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 assured, 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 passing 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
passing 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 parishioner 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 passes 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 passing 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 passages 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 God, 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 God 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 participation 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."