TRIBUTES.
IN MEMORIAM.
It is a beautiful custom common to all civilized nations, Pagan as well as Christian,—the attempt to preserve a memorial of the virtues and character of the loved and lost who have gone before us to the spirit land; and whether we resort for this purpose to the inscribed and votive tablet, or attempt, so to speak, to embalm the record in letters, the effort seems to spring from a common instinct of the human heart, which prompts us all to treasure up the memory of our departed friends, and to find some outlet for the grief which oppresses our hearts.
I saw in your last week's issue a poetical tribute to the memory of the late Mrs. Rice, wife of Samuel Rice, Esq., of Boston, and I thought it would be becoming and appropriate to insert in your paper, of which she was an occasional contributor and correspondent, an obituary notice of the deceased.
It seems peculiarly appropriate to select the "Journal," as it is published near "the play places of her youth," and where a large portion of her early life was passed.
Mrs. Rice, for years, had been occasionally subject to attacks of a most severe and painful nature, from which she had always, heretofore, been apparently restored to her usual health.
But only a short time since, from what was to her a state of high health—for she had just written to a physician in the country, who in July last had attended and carried her through a most severe and somewhat protracted illness, "that she was as well as she ever was in her life"——she was suddenly and unexpectedly stricken down, never again to recover. Her death was entirely unexpected, not only to her friends, but also to the eminent physicians in attendance. So sudden, indeed, was it, that many of her most intimate friends were not aware of her illness.
Mrs. Rice possessed more than the usual personal attractions which fall to the lot of her sex. If personal beauty is to woman one of the greatest of the gifts which come from the great and good God, Mrs. Rice had certainly reason to be grateful for the portion allotted to herself. She possessed an intellect keen, quick, and appreciative, a disposition sweet and genial, in combination with a controlling will, and always in health, and sometimes in illness, a never ceasing flow of spirits, which seemed to well up and sparkle as from a fountain of perpetual joy. Few, even of her own sex, ever possessed more power to create an atmosphere of cheerfulness and happiness wherever she moved. She bound her friends to her by cords which nothing but death could sever. When she had once deliberately formed a friendship it was for life, but in the selection of her friends she adopted the advice of Polonius in Shakespeare, of whom she was a constant student:—
Grapple them to, thy soul with hooks of steel:
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new hatched, unfledged comrade."
Her natural tendencies were always to a "fit audience find, though few," rather than to mingle with the crowd.
Marrying as she did in very early life, to a great extent Mrs. Rice was a self-taught woman. In a quiet and unobtrusive manner she devoted much of her time to literary cultivation, but it was all done without the least affectation or parade. She occasionally wrote poetry, some of which would pass under the head of what is called Vers de Société, but occasionally, in moments of great distress or sorrow, she would strike a deeper chord, which would vibrate to some of the highest and most sacred feelings of the human soul. Without intending to institute any comparison between any of her poetry and that of Moore or Byron, still, in one respect there is a resemblance, for in the opinion of the writer their best poetry is their "Sacred Melodies," as her best efforts were those which touched upon the soul and the life to come. Some of her poetry has been set to music by a German gentleman of cultivation and taste. One piece is called the "Lake of Melrose," on the beautiful borders of which she once resided, but where she always thought she contracted a disease which haunted her till her death.
The other is just published, called "Christmas Bells," and was intended as a surprise and a present at Christmas to the eminent young physician and surgeon who carried her successfully through the terrible sickness of last summer above alluded to at Hanover, N. H., and to whom it is dedicated. When some of us at the coming Christmas may be listening to her own sweet "Christmas Bells," she will be listening to a far higher, and sweeter, and nobler strain.
In domestic life Mrs. Rice was an admired wife, a kind and tender mother, a generous friend. Born, I believe, in the Portsmouth Navy Yard, and having been brought up by an uncle, who was an officer on the old Constitution,—a beautiful model of which, made by her uncle on board the old "Ironsides," she always kept in her room,—she seemed to regulate her household, as it were, by naval, or military regulations. In all her household arrangements there was the same spirit of order, of quiet, of subordination, and obedience. And yet with all this strictness, it was the law of love. For her servants loved her and never left her, living with her continuously for years, and nothing ever taking them away but their marriage. It was delightful, in these days of domestic insubordination, to be in a household where the lady of the house, and not the servants, was the mistress.
To her friends, Mrs. Rice was always ready to dispense a quiet and elegant hospitality. To the poor, she was always a generous and sympathizing friend, giving to them not only of her worldly goods, but what in many cases was a still higher and better charity, advice and sympathy, and her best exertions to put them in a way to help themselves.
But there was a still higher character which our departed friend possessed, that of the true and sincere Christian. Without a particle of cant, or bigotry, or uncharitableness, she was a believer in Christianity; and it was not a dreamy, uncertain, hazy belief, like much of what is called Christianity at the present day, but with mind, heart, and soul, she believed in a personal God; she believed in God's revelation; she believed in the Son of God, who came to redeem us from our sins; she believed in the Holy Spirit, the glorious and blessed Trinity, the holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, and the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.
Mrs. Rice had been, for a long time, a communicant in the Episcopal church.
Few women who have led lives as quiet and unobtrusive as hers, have ever touched life at so many points. This was strikingly exemplified at her funeral, where were seen sad, and sorrowing, and weeping friends from all classes in life,—the young and the old, the rich and the poor, the uncultivated as well as the highly cultured,—all classes from her own sex, from the humble seamstress to the gay and fashionable woman of society. There came, too, to take their last look of her, representatives from all classes and creeds in the community,—the Rev. Father of the Roman Catholic Church, the Baptist clergyman, the Orthodox, and the Unitarian, as well as the clergy of her own communion, the Episcopal.
The funeral services were celebrated at the Church of the Messiah, on Florence St., on Thursday last, by the Rev. Mr. Knight; and at the grave by the rector of the church, the Rev. Mr. Williams.
I need not speak of the beautiful and touching burial service of the Church—rendered more impressive by the shock produced by her sudden and unexpected death, and more beautiful by all the means and appliances which affection, and love, and art could devise to take away the gloom of the grave.
Mrs. Rice has herself, at times, anticipated death in some of her terrible attacks. Not long since, when apparently in good health, she said to an intimate lady friend, "When I die, I care not what dress you put upon me, but cover me with flowers"—for which, like all true and beautiful souls, she had a passionate love.
Her request was carried out to the letter, and in most beautiful taste. In addition to the casket, which was covered and filled with them, the chancel of the church was lined on each side with a profusion of beautiful plants and flowers, while a wreath followed the outlines of the chancel front to the roof, and between each arch of the church was suspended a basket of flowers by a line so delicate as to escape observation, so that they really seemed to be poised and suspended in the air by some invisible power. The whole church was redolent of their perfume.
The writer of this sketch has never seen any floral arrangement, on such an occasion, which ever began to approach it in beauty; and no funeral services could be more beautiful and impressive than those of our departed friend. A large congregation were in attendance at the church, and a host of friends followed her to her last resting-place—the wardens and vestry-men of the church assisting as pall-bearers.
On a bright and beautiful day we took all that remained to us of our departed friend, and laid her down in the beautiful cemetery of "Forest Hills," there to rest till the graves are opened, and the dead shall rise to life everlasting.
Mrs. Rice was, by descent, partly of Spanish blood, her father having been born, I think, on the Spanish Peninsula. She showed something of the Spanish blood in her brunette complexion, and in the beauty and brilliancy of her eyes. She had also some of the best traits of the Spanish character, in her entire self-poise and reliance, and, when among strangers, in her retiring and dignified demeanor.
She showed it also in another tendency, common to all the Latin races, a love for the services and the worship of the Roman Catholic Church. It was not unusual for her to attend vespers at the Church of the Immaculate Conception, and she went there not as a spectator—not to assist, as it were, at a splendid and imposing ceremonial or a gorgeous spectacle, but to listen to penitential psalms of David chanted to the music of the great masters of the art, and to worship, in spirit and in truth, the great Father of us all.
To those who did not know Mrs. Rice, all this may seem like extravagant eulogy, but there are many of her lady friends—and to make and retain friendships among her own sex is the true test of a true woman—who, to use the language of Ames in regard to Hamilton, will truly say, that when they think of her their hearts grow liquid as they think, and they could pour them out like water.
I would not say of Mrs. Rice, as Leigh Hunt, I think, said of some beautiful character, "To have known her and to have loved her was equal to a liberal education," but certainly no one could know Mrs. Rice well without being made better by the acquaintance, or without being lifted to higher and better aspirations.—Portsmouth Journal.
OBITUARY.
IN memory of Maria Theresa Rice, wife of Samuel Rice, Esq., of Boston, who died on the morning of the 30th of November, 1868.
Those who have never seen the face, or heard the voice, or shared in the hospitalities of her home, beneath the shelter of her love, will feel no more than a momentary grief when reading a brief tribute of tried affection for the memory of this genial, generous, and gifted woman. But alas! there are many who will never cease to forget or fail to appreciate what a beautiful treasure of energy, of life and hope and love, of warmth of affection and grace, now lies buried in her new- made grave. To the latter class, friends and acquaintances not a few, who knew her inward heart and enjoyed her sympathies and affections, the writer would hope to place on record for their benefit a sincere and faithful portraiture of her virtues, her attractions, and varied accomplishments.
Mrs. Rice was a lady of no ordinary endowments of mind. With a genius undeveloped, she gave evidence of much culture and mental training. Her tastes were pure, simple, and refined. She had read much, and her judgment was strengthened by a clear and well-defined appreciation of real merit. She loved nature with an intense passion, 'and from her sweet communion with all of nature's works, she was able to throw off into sparkling verse, striking and beautiful sentiments worthy the genius of a true Christian poetess.
The broad, rich landscape, with its diversified hill and dale, stimulated the purer aspirations of her heart; and the wild flowers springing from the mould in the clefts of the rocks, created in her deep and sublime religious thoughts. She loved flowers in sunshine and in shade, "in camp and festival, before the altar and beside the hearth." If before she died the angel of death had asked her where she wished to be buried, whether in the tomb or under the shade of cathedral domes, she would have replied in unaffected simplicity, "O, no! no! Bury me—
For I love the drip of the wetted trees;
I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze
To freshen the turf; put no tombstone there,
But green sods decked with daisies fair.'"
The religious element in the character of Mrs. Rice was beautifully developed in her strong Christian faith. Her earlier and later reading, her silent meditations and fellowship with sacred books and church music were in complete harmony with the quiet and unobtrusive conduct of her daily life. In her domestic relations she was cheerful, hopeful, and of tender sympathies; as wife, mother, and friend, she was dutiful, affectionate, devoted, and kind. To the bereaved family her death came suddenly and without warning, but it was serene and tranquil. After a long, long night of suffering and pain, she quietly passed away,—
O'er the earth and sea and air."
Sheltered in tropic heats from frost and wind,—
Sweet tuberoses and camellias cold,
To faith's pure emblems for her bier entwined;
All blossoms that she loved strew lightly there;
And let great lilies in their beakers hold
Fresh knots of violets, with dew-drops lined.
Ere the dear mistress must for aye depart;
Garland the arches of the sacred dome,
And hang bright baskets, trembling in the start
Of organ-thunder, and the chanted prayer:
Thus will we bear her to her final home,
Smothered in flowers, as wished her poet-heart.
Heaped o'er her breast, as softly as our tears;
Cold is the sunshine as we homeward turn,
In silence, pondering the coming years,
And this great loss that fills them all with gloom;
Then o'er the past our loving fancies yearn,
And, clearly mirrored, every scene appears.
With ox-eyed daisies, while the sun goes down,
We tread, enraptured, toward the golden haze
Whose molten glory fuses spire and town;
Or, hand in hand, we pace the crowded street,
As merry as the birds, that spend their days
Singing to skies that know not how to frown.
And fond, content us; but when wild with glee
Our thoughts are bounding, and the tides of life
Flow on exultant,—where then may we see
In wit's gay tournament a lance so keen
To shiver ours, in quick, responsive play?
Where seek the mood to mate our rhapsody?
That glad, low laugh, those bright impulsive ways,
And silvery accents, eager to impart
Their spoken music, while before our gaze
Droop the soft lids that quiver with their mirth?
The earth is empty since that fervid heart
Sleeps underneath it, silent while we praise.
She shared in pity, and our sorrows bore;
Now, billowy seas of agony may roll
And her warm sympathy can cheer no more,
Feeling all woes as keenly as her own:
Throned in her breast there dwelt a royal soul,
Kin to that empress whose proud name she wore.
Sharp be the air, and bright;that we may hear
The music of her own glad Christmas Bells,
Through frozen sunshine, ringing sweet and clear;
Then shall we fancy that she lists their play,
Afar, at morn, in fields of asphodels,
And smiles to think that still we hold her dear.
Boston Transcript, December, 1868.
Just silently gone from my vision forever;
But sweet are the thoughts that my sorrow attend,
For her life of serene and sublimest endeavor;
For her pride at each lofty and well-acted part
In the pathways that lead to humanity's glory,
And her zest for the soul-sent achievements of art,
In the annals of Genius and classical story;
Abroad in the universe, wisdom unfolding;
For devotion to duty, wherever the lines
Of precept and reason her hands were upholding;
For her aim at the prize that rewardeth the just,
Her days and her years as a joyful believer,
And her triumph o'er all of despair and distrust,
Till the angel of Constancy came to receive her.
By the marge of a lake with its lily-crowned water,
Where the charms of her home found a daily increase
In the gentle control of this raven-haired daughter.
She ministered sweetly, and wisely, and well,
In her sylvan retreat of contentment and leisure,
And over the place hung the passionless spell
Of gladness and peace, of endearment and pleasure.
In garden, and trellis, and bowery places,
And studied their hues and partook their perfumes,
As they bowed to the breezes their sun-loving faces:
"Sweet Eden of beauty! O, exquisite sight!"
She said, as she watched them luxuriantly growing;
"Ye give to my senses unwonted delight,
Life's perishing emblems of Nature's bestowing.
And fall as the leaves do, in autumn descending;
And when they shall lay me away in the shade,
Whatever the state on my body attending,
Let flowers be brought from the sunlight and air,
By delicate fingers to strew o'er my sleeping,
And exhalingly lie in their loveliness there,
While the friends of my youth their last vigils are keeping
Bring them with nectar of Nature's distilling;
Bring them at noon, while their odors are new,
And the wild birds are warbling their melodies thrilling,
And weave them in garlands, while fragrant and gay,
And drop them about me in vestal profusion;
Then leave us together, while passing away,
Like a bright but an often-remembered illusion."
Thy funeral garlands are gathered and braided;
And Friendship has paid thee the rites of a bride,
Adorned for the couch by the cypresses shaded.
And over the pathway that led to thy bourn,
And over the sod where thy form is reposing,
The blossoms of virtue unfading return,
And daily thy life is its perfume disclosing.
San Francisco, July 25, 1869.