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For nearly two weeks he labored, till the work was done, his city's honor and fair fame secure; then he went home literally to die, departing this life, November 27, 1839.
Julia was with him when he died, his hand in hers.
The beauty of his countenance in death was such that Anne Hall, the well-known miniature painter, begged permission to paint it, and his descendants may still gaze on the majestic features in their serene repose.
Our mother writes of this time: “I cannot, even now, bear to dwell upon the desolate hush which fell upon our house when its stately head lay, silent and cold, in the midst of weeping friends and children.”
1
Her love for her father was to cease only with her life.
She never failed to record his birthday in her diary, with some word of tender remembrance.
Shortly before Mr. Ward's death, Sam and his wife had moved to a house of their own. The five unmarried children would have been desolate, indeed, if left to themselves in the great house: but to the joy and comfort of all, their bachelor uncle, John Ward, left his own house and came to live with them.
From this time until his death in 1866, he was a second father to them.
Uncle John! The words call up memories of our own childhood.
We see a tall, stalwart figure, clad in loosefitting garments; a noble head crowned by a small brown scratch wig; a countenance beaming with kindliness and humor.
A Manila cheroot is between his lips -the fragrance of one never fails to call up his image -and he caresses an unamiable little dog which he
1 Reminiscences, p. 58.
Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston and New York. 1916.
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