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."