"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!"