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."
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
gratitude, 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 destitute 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 'circumstances.' 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 God.... Ah, Mr. H----, it is the _self-surrender_, a renunciation of
our will for God'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 GOD."
"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."
On a lovely April day, the windows of her room all open that she might
breathe freely, she looked up at one who entered, and said with a smile,
"What a beautiful day to go _home_!" Near the end, one at her side said
to another, in tears, "How much stronger she is than we are!" "I am so
much nearer the Source of strength," she whispered. Her suffering was
acute, but her thought and care were more for others than herself, to
the last. Much of the time she held in her hand that sacred note which
her husband had written to her when he thought himself dying, at a
distance. And precious, very precious, must have been to her those last,
parting words from one to whom she was now going. "Dear, dear Mary, if I
could, I would express all I owe to you. You have been an unspeakable,
an indescribable blessing. God reward you a thousand fold! Farewell,
_till we meet again_."
* * * * *
In the evening twilight of another balmy day,--GOOD FRIDAY,--that spent
frame was laid by the side of _his_, in the hallowed rest of Mount
Auburn. And as we turned away, we felt that another tie to earth was
broken, and heard another voice calling us to heaven.
* * * * *
With regret, rather than gladness, we lay down the pen which has
attempted to record the life of a humble Christian. Delightful has it
been to renew our communion, and extend our intimacy, with one whose
presence was always felt as a blessing. If we have transgressed the
bounds we set for ourselves in the beginning, and given expression to
feelings as well as facts, we can only say that we have repressed more
than we have disclosed of the recollections and emotions awakened by
this intercourse. A true portrait may seem to be praise, but less than
that would be injustice.
We draw no character, in the end, but only refer to the two facts which
seem most worthy of note. First, the amount of happiness enjoyed by one
whose life was passed in the midst of sickness and trial, and who for
six years felt that a fatal and distressing disease was consuming her
life,--yet could say of the whole, "It has been a beautiful experience."
"I have been so happy,--no one can tell how happy." And, next, the
illustration here seen of the large sphere, the vast power, and
imperishable work, of a woman who never left the domestic relations, nor
aspired to any thing that is not possible to every daughter, wife, and
mother. If this appear, it is enough,--that religion, with or without
rank, wealth, beauty, rare endowment, varied accomplishment, or any
singularity, can lift WOMAN to the highest distinction and confer the
most enduring glory,--that of filling well, not the narrow, but the wide
and divine realm of HOME.