"Boston, May, 1843. My dear child: Father continued very much as you left him, yesterday. He does not suffer as much as he did, but his disease is a very tedious one, and it may be many weeks before he is able to get home, if it pleases God still to restore him to health. Let us pray to Him to look in mercy upon us, and spare him to us yet longer. The circumstances of our lot in life are just now very trying, and no doubt are arranged for us in order to our improvement. It is a great trial to father and me to be separated from our children so long; and to you all, this separation brings the greater responsibility to watch over yourselves, that you do in all things right,—not what is most pleasant, not what we wish, but what is right to do, without regard to self. Next to my anxiety about father, now, is my anxiety about you; because I feel that you are at an age when the habits are formed, and the principles of action settled for life; that your whole future, for time and for eternity, may depend upon these years. And I cannot feel happy unless I see you gaining from day to day more and more of that self-discipline and self-control, which can alone, by the grace of God, make you what you ought to be."
Mr. Ware was able to return to Framingham in June, and afterward took several short journeys among friends, one as far as Plymouth, and thence to Fall River (where his son was then settled in the ministry), and home by Providence,—his last visit to those places. In August, another and still more violent attack upon the brain prostrated him completely; and the remaining five or six weeks of his life seemed only a vacillation between earth and heaven,—yielding transporting glimpses of the latter, but constantly drawing him back to the former,—and creating altogether as hard a trial for the sufferer, and those around him, as can easily be conceived.
"August 17. We feel, in father's case, 'how vain is the help of man.' His system is so delicate, that he cannot bear the administration of any potent means. Our reliance must be upon our Heavenly Parent, in whose hand are the issues of life and death. Let us pray to Him, that, if it be consistent with his wisdom, this cup may pass from us; but let us be ready to say, and feel in our inmost hearts, 'Not my will, but thine, O Lord, be done'!... We do not feel it to be impossible that dear father should recover from this illness; but we know that his repeated sicknesses must have weakened his power of reaction, and we strive, therefore, to be prepared for any result. The very uncertainty is appointed for our good; let us use it, my dear child, for our spiritual advancement.... God bless you! be submissive, be patient, be grateful, if it so please God that dear father should be released from the burden of his earthly house, to be transported to his heavenly home, where there is no more pain."
"August 21. It is all in the hands of Infinite Love and Wisdom. God will order all well; let us be willing and be thankful to place our trust in Him. What a mercy it is to us, that He has not given us the power of foreknowledge! But whatever may be the event, let us not lose the benefit of this discipline to our souls; let us strive to increase our faith in God's goodness, our trust in his love.... I cannot write much, for I cannot leave father many minutes at a time,—and all the time I can get, I am bound to devote to sleep."
"August 23. ... Thus you see we are vibrating between hope and fear. But it is a question whether we have a right to allow either; for we know not what is best for him or for ourselves."
"August 29. My dear Emma: I must say a few words to you, to thank you for your most welcome letter received yesterday. How much I have longed for some intercourse with you, during the last two months, you can judge better by your own experience now, than by any words of mine. I have wished, as you do now, to know all that was passing within the deep fountains of your spiritual life, and nothing but the absolute necessity of the case has kept me away from you. Now, I say, come, whenever you can; you will be most welcome to us all, and to me your presence will be a real benediction. I feel at times as if I should be overpowered by the tumult of feelings to which I dare not give utterance here, where the composure of all around me depends so much upon my calmness. This last fortnight has shaken to its very foundation the whole fabric of my spiritual being,—thank God! not to displace a single fibre of the fabric. But there has been such a heaving up of all that was hidden in the depths of past experience, as has wellnigh conquered at times my self-control, and I have felt that I must utter myself, or be lost; yet to no one have I dared to speak. John's sickness here has made composure with him peculiarly important.... Happily, we cannot lift the veil of the future; we can only be ready for whatever may be in store for us, and this I trust we are.... I have been prevented from writing in the daytime, and now, at eleven o'clock, I am compelled by weariness to shut my eyes, and rest."
"August 30. My dear Lucy: I should indeed rejoice if you were able to be here, for I long for some communion with one who could so enter into all my views and feelings at this time as I know you would. But I bow in submission to all the discipline which God appoints for me.... In some respects the bitterness of the stroke has passed. I felt that the real separation came with the conviction, that that mind with which my spirit had so long communed in the truest sympathy was clouded for the remainder of its sojourn in the body. The sense of solitude, of isolation, I had almost said desolation, was for a time nearly overpowering; and there are moments when life looks so like a blank, that it is not easy to restrain the wish to go too. But the necessity of calmness for the children's sake, feeling that their state of mind would inevitably be influenced by the tone I should give it, has aided me in preserving a quiet exterior; and so we have had the great comfort of peace and entire freedom from agitation and excitement. God give us strength to preserve it! But this weary waiting from day to day, alternately hoping and feeling that there is no reason to hope, wears upon the nerves,—the days seem interminable, and the nights ages.... Long as I have looked forward to this change, it seems like a dream from which I must awake,—as if it could not be! No wonder;—for fifteen years, his health, he indeed, has been the first, almost the sole, object of my life. It will be long before I can turn even to my children, with the consciousness that they can now be attended to without neglecting him."
The struggle was over. Henry Ware died, at Framingham, on Friday morning, September 22. A Sunday intervened before the body was removed for burial, and that day Mrs. Ware went, with her children, morning and afternoon, to their accustomed place of worship; desiring it for their own sacred communion, and believing it most in accordance with his feelings. To her faith, with her habitual view of duty and death, this was probably no effort. To many it would be impossible, even with the same faith; for, unhappily, association and custom are allowed to check our highest aspirations in the holiest seasons, so that many would consider such an effort unnatural and strange. Is it not more strange, that it should ever seem unnatural for a Christian mourner to go to the house of God, in the most solemn hours of life,—especially when that house is completely identified with the life and image of the departed? Mrs. Ware was grateful also for the power of associating the idea of Death, in the minds of her children, not with restraint and gloom, but with the place of prayer and praise, and the cheerful presence of devout worshippers. It was a beautiful exemplification of her high trust, in harmony with her whole character. We honor the principle, and thank her for the act.