Strangely enough, one's first thought of Miss Ellis was never as an
invalid. She so ignored the poor, weak body that she made you forget it
too. She was always so _alive_, so full of interest and joy in her work.
With what delight would she say, "This new tract is exactly the thing to
send ----," or announce, "such a good letter from ----." Even during the
last months, when the ravages of disease could no longer be concealed,
she _would_ not be sick. She set aside your sympathy. She was always
"better," "only my limbs are so weak to-day," or "my breath is so
short," or "it always makes me cough to walk," as if these were mere
casual incidents quite unworthy of notice.
The last of her life, it was pitiful to see her still clinging to her
work, still persisting in caring for her own room, declining all offers
of help. She often rose at five o'clock Sundays, because obliged by
weakness to work slowly, that she might reach church early, to prepare
her Tract Table before the congregation arrived. When no longer able to
remain to the services, she still came and ministered to her own special
congregation at the Tract Table, though obliged by weakness to sit. When
she no longer had strength to arrange her hair, she quietly cut it off.
But she went on with her work. To one offering help she said, "When I
cannot do my work, I don't want to live." Again, she said, "There are
many who need me, and they keep me alive." To the last she declined
being considered an invalid,--did not wish any one to walk out with her,
although the family were very uneasy to have one so weak and so deaf on
the street alone. She walked out every day, until the last time she was
forced to lean against the door-post and gain breath and strength to
take the final step up into the house.
All this time she was writing letters of cheer and strength, seldom
intimating that all was not well with her. When finally obliged to keep
her bed, she faded away rapidly, only living about two weeks. The last
postal card to a correspondent was begun in bed, in a trembling hand,
ending abruptly, "Too sick to write," and it was finished for her.
Although at times she had a little of the consumptive's feeling that she
might possibly rally, and even recover strength to work again, yet she
perceived, as she said to her mother, that "the sands are running out
fast," and made all her preparations for death in the quiet spirit of
one merely going on a journey into a familiar country. One who watched
with her one of the last nights spoke of a beautiful prayer she offered
in the middle of the night. She was unable to turn herself in bed, and
said to this friend with a smile, "This body wants turning so." Poor
body! not much longer had she to endure its weaknesses. Her religion was
too habitual, too much a part of her very soul, for many outward words
or professions. It was her life, her self. Why should she talk about it?
Mr. Thayer had always given her a list of the hymns and the full order
of service, and the sermon to read. The Sunday before her death the
sermon was returned, with the message that Miss Ellis was unable to read
it, but had asked her mother to copy the text for her. A week before
her death a friend, finding that in her excessive conscientiousness she
was letting business details of the Women's Auxiliary Conference trouble
her lest she should forget some item, went over all the books, wrote
business letters, and settled accounts, at her dictation. Speaking of
her work, she expressed faith that "God will raise up some one to do
it." She said earnestly, "I have always wanted to do something for my
denomination." It had evidently been a little of a struggle for her to
leave the work she loved, just as it began to be so successful in many
places, to die and be forgotten. In her modesty, she had no foregleam of
the afterglow of praise and public testimony to her worth that was to
follow the setting of her sun. Speaking once, near the end, with great
pleasure, of Mrs. Paine's successful work in Newport and New York, she
added, sadly, "They must increase, but I must decrease." But at last she
was "ready not to do," able to give all up and repose in perfect peace
upon the Father.
She had always thought much of Christmas, always remembered her friends'
birthdays. Her skilful fingers and untiring industry made the slender
means go a long way in devising innumerable tasteful presents on these
days for a large circle of friends. She loved children, and loved to
make them happy, and her little friends were always remembered. This
year, a day or two before Christmas, when so weak that only by the
closest attention could the feeble, broken utterance be understood, she
directed Christmas gifts, prepared long before, sent to all her friends.
To one whom she knew needed it, went "Daily Strength for Daily Needs;"
to one, a teacher, the little "Seed Thoughts from Browning." "I thought
it might help her in her work, tell her." Even her washerwoman and her
little girl, and the postman,--"he has brought me a great many letters,"
she said,--were not forgotten.
A friend took her a Christmas card sent by a little girl. Her feeble
vision could barely discern the design. "Birds and flowers," she said;
"what could be more beautiful? It cheers me so. Yet I hardly need that.
I am very happy and cheerful. I feel that everything is right."
Afterwards she spoke of the "Happy, happy Christmas-tide," saying, "We
must try to make it bright for the young." To the last, her thoughts
were of others.
Having closed all her earthly affairs, she lay awaiting the end in great
peace. Sunday, Dec. 27, 1885, in the evening of the peaceful day she
always loved, just as her little clock was striking seven, she passed
gently away in sleep. Well may we believe that hers was a joyful
wakening into a bright New Year.
Her funeral was attended in the Unitarian Church, December 30,--a
service of rare beauty and appropriateness. A thoughtful friend had
covered the Tract Table in the vestibule with moss, ferns, and flowers,
among which were placed a few tracts. In the church, wreathed with
Christmas evergreens, a large concourse of friends assembled. To the
strains of the Beethoven Funeral March, the coffin, nearly concealed
beneath emblematic palm branches and lilies, was borne by the brothers
whose loving-kindness had brightened all the life now ended, to its
resting-place beneath the pulpit, close to the front seat where, for so
many years, Miss Ellis's familiar form had never been missing. The
choir, composed of young friends of hers in the church, sang the first
three verses of "Nearer, my God, to Thee," and Whittier's appropriate
hymn, "Another hand is beckoning us."
From the text, "She is not dead, but sleepeth," Rev. George A. Thayer
paid a just and beautiful tribute to the spirit passed from our midst.
To few, he said, could these words of Jesus be so fittingly applied.
Though seemingly dead, she would live in ever-increasing power in the
influence she had exerted over other lives. If, from cities and villages
far away, from lonely farm-houses, all could to-day be assembled within
these walls who had received help and strength from her, large indeed
would be the concourse. More truly of her than of most might it be said
that she had
"joined the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence."
It would be well could we all imitate her example in cultivating a love
of religious reading, and that habit of religious meditation and
communion which was the source of her strength. Her leading
characteristic was conscience, an all-dominating power of conscience.
Whatever she felt it her duty to do, that she did, at all costs. He
closed by reading Bryant's