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E.Howland re d. Edward Strange 3 Mar 1872
[Sherwood, N.Y.? ] March 3rd 9 1/2
[Transcribed & edited for Margaret Sims May by Mrs M.J.Bursleigh]
Our dear one is nearly over the Silent Sea; his breath intermits & stops longer & longer. Still he is conscious, opens his eyes when I speak to him, & moves his head in reply. I went to him once to speak & he shrugged & said "I feel stupid". When I asked if he suffered he shook his head. I told him I thought he was going. x x x He does not swallow or has not for some hours, nor expectorated. The Dr sits here now; he thinks it is wonderful E. has lasted so long. He has lasted beyond what I ever witnessed.
I have just said, "Teddy, I am writing to Margaret." He nodded his head. "Thy love"?" Another nod which is undoubtedly the last message thee will receive from him. I had hoped we might get one letter in reply to those sent since we knew the end so near; I should have liked him to get thy farewell. Now I feel willing to see the poor chest heave no more. The night he seemed more like death than ever since, I could not feel ready for him to go. It has been as he said, "The Lord would not let him go yet."
He is the most quiet sick person I ever saw. He has lain in the bed in the same position since 4th day morning before light. Last night he said he must get into the chair. The clerk [M.J.B.'s note: that is her [E.H.'s] father's clerk, Sylvanus Marriage, who is from Canada, & knows Theodore] came to lift him. His flesh is very tender on the side he has lain on for so long, so he dreads to be touched. He worked his feet off the bed & with my help stood on them, but sunk back on the bed saying he'd not get into the chair & not be lifted. x x x Then he & I adjusted the cushions, & he put the linen spread with lard on his hip-sore, lifted himself while I slipped the rubber cushion into place, & raised on his elbow while I beat up the pillows. Then we both went to sleep, I in the big chair. He thought he slept very well, though he talked incoherently a good deal, & groaned.
Have we not both been wonderfully sustained? He with bodily strength to balance my small stock, so that I have never lifted him at all. If it had been necessary to lift him I should have had to give up the care of him. This would have been a trial to him, especially if his caretaker had to be a man. I have a dread of having the house disturbed at night by unaccustomed feet; & the sick tormented by strange hands that don't know the sore places.
I have just moistened his lips with water. x x x I told him the hour; he answered "So time goes. The Lord will do with me as He wills; go or stay." "Thee wishes Him to?" "Just as He wills." he replied.
I have just been out of the room & returned; he opened his eyes & said "Emily, I want thee to be quite quiet, it is first day." I thought some memory of childhood crossed him. He has liked silence & dreaded noise for a long while. I often told him it seemed a haven of peace & rest & warmth in the room. x x x x x x
1.P.M. Teddy brightens a little. when I asked what he wanted, he said "Tea"; of which he has swallowed a little. He just said these words, "Writing to Margaret?" Yes; what shall I tell her?" "My very dear love."
Note: You perceive he has recently slipped into the habit of the Quaker form of speech, such as he hears all the time, & such as he was accustomed to in childhood. This seems quite natural, but as late as last November he did not use it.
He has assured us that he was content. I never knew such a death bed. x x
Is it the pliability of his nature, making him yield entirely - alas! not only to the will of God but to the traps the world sets? It appears now in the most beautiful resignation, patience, calmness, unvarying sweetness even under acute pain.
He has sharp pain in the bowels frequently. When he thinks he has spoken hastily he asks to be excused.
Second day (4th) 3 1/2 AM
The Silent Sea is crossed. Our precious sufferer breathed his last 15 minutes before midnight. As night came on his breathing became very heavy. He could not get his head in an easy position. This was his only apparent restlessness. perfectly conscious, probably until his last breath for he spoke not five minutes before. Many things he tried to say I could not understand. Very shortly before his death he said, "Happy, peaceful." At 11 he asked to have his watch wound, saying "I like to have it wound. Force of habit." He called me, at last, in sheer distress, from the big chair which was my night quarters. I sat by him to the end. Hannah lay on the lounge.
When he was gone, we sent for two of the neighbours to lay him out.
He lies on the blue lounge in the parlour, so sweet & fair! I wish thee could see the beautiful face.
As soon as morning comes we shall telegraph thee & Ed.Dorland as you wished. The funeral will be 4th day, 11 A M. One of his requests was that I should not have him buried soon after his death. He will lie in the burial place of my fathers, near my mother.
I cannot think - he, my care, my thought, needs me no more forever.
It must be nearly six months since he came. Well, his memory is sweet, & only sweet to me. He has been not only my care, but my companion, friend, confidant in many things; & my instructor too.
March 5th. Thine of the 2nd are just received. Too late as thou knows for him to listen to the words he would have prized so much. I have felt deeply the inconvenient length of time it takes to tell thee what we wanted thee to know immediately; especially when I knew there were precious messages on their way to him, which every hour endangered his not hearing.
Now they come, thine & Mary Grew's, & find only poor lone me to greet them. x x x
He was so afraid he should wear me out. He has not tired me, he was so pleasant. I often told him he was my sunshine. x x x
The weather these two days has been cold & more fiercely tempestuous than any we have had this winter, mercury 9o below zero this morning. The wind raved fearfully all day, & still continues at 9.P M. I hope it may subside tonight; if tomorrow is as cold; and what is worse than cold, so stormy; how we shall ever get the poor form laid in the cold, hard earth I don't see. All winter when thinking of this event, I have hoped we might be spared such weather as this when the sad time came. Here it is making all far sadder. Last week was beautiful. If we could have had one of those days ! x x x x x
(M.J.B.'s note: We had in Philadelphia the same exceptionally cold, clear, windy weather, mercury at zero, after Spring-like days.)
Now I feel, what I forgot when he was with us, sorrow that so much loveliness of character should have failed of its destiny. Some great mistake made somewhere, as Hannah says. Why do I talk of failure? There is none with the Infinite, but my sight is so short!
His faith & trust in God were the most unvarying that I ever knew. In his greatest distress he always answered "Happy, peaceful" or "as He wills". During the last laboured breathing, I said "Oh, if I could do something!" He answered "I must bear it." Once he said, "If I had died a year ago, I should not have felt as I do now."
Wed. noon. It is even as I feared last night. The storm rages more wildly. It is not quite so cold, thermometer zero, but the wind is terrible. Nothing like it has visited this winter.
At 9 AM. the undertaker arrived here from Union Springs, nine miles.
We put the body in the coffin & pondered what to do. Finally we decided to defer the funeral until Friday thinking the storm must abate by that time.
Our burial place is three miles away, & Dr Pearl who rides on that road a great deal thought we might find a part of it blocked with snow & that it would be safer to allow one day for the storm to subside. so we have decided.
I am glad for Teddy he is anchored safe from all storms.
Friday 8th 4 1/2 PM. All the ministrations of earth are finished. The day has been cloudless, the snow glittering & pure below the arch of sky faultlessly blue - a bright, cold, winter day. We went in carriages [M.J.B.'s note: i.e. not in a sleigh] (the snow being piled at the sides of the road) twelve or fifteen in number, to the Meeting house where quite a good sized meeting assembled, Edward Dorland spoke fitly; unusually so, because his heart was full. He began by a hint at the kindness Edward had elicited, spoke of his being a "stranger in a strange land", said it was pleasant to see so many had come to pay a tribute of respect to one who was worthy of it. Then he briefly alluded to his happy close. Something much more finished might have been said, but nothing more fitting than most of his remarks.
A dull, prolix person who I had hoped would not be there, followed, repeating himself an hour or more. The meeting lasted about two hours.
The graveyard is 2 miles distant. There we left his body; not in the precise spot where I wanted it, but he rests well. I came home quiet & comforted. x x x
Ed.Dorland came to Union Springs from his home on that dreadful Tuesday doing the exposing ride after dark, with a hired horse from Cayuga Bridge.
(M.J.B.'s note: Both Seneca & Cayuga Lake lie between Palmyra & Sherwood.)
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few animosities which clung to him tenaciously, One by one they passed away, dissolved by the Divine Love which permeated his soul.
For my own part - and I have been accustomed to read his mind very closely - I am not disturbed by a single doubt upon the subject. I believe that his feet were set in the right path, that he was willing to take all "hardness as a good soldier" & that he commenced here a progress upward, to be continued, it may be, thro' ages unnumbered.
I have written so much, not that it suited my inclination to do so, but because that you, my dear friend, or some of yours, might wish me to give my view of the last stage of the course I have watched so long, so carefully, so anxiously, sometimes with a feeling akin to despair. My inclination is to say nothing on the subject, while silently rejoicing in the depths of my soul with reverent thankfulness over blessings so much greater than we expected to behold.
Great & marvellous are thy works, O Lord of Hosts!
Dear Edward! - my poor boy, as I called him out of a sorrowful heart a year ago; my dear boy, as I have said since he avowed himself too abundantly rich for the former epithet - I never did regret that I had known him; that he was set down beside me & I was just as much compelled to look after him as if the commanding voice had said, "Feed my lamb;" & now that the bright sunset has come, flinging back its refulgence upon the drear day, I think I shall be the happier for him. I trust also more humble; more deeply sympathetic with the unfortunate & the sinful; more ready to trust the latent goodness of the nature which God gave us & Jesus shared with us; more willing to follow the footsteps of the Master when they lead us into dreary places.
If, even in small measure, this be the result, can I ever be other than thankful for my relationship with Edward Strange?