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]
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.