Perhaps I am using strong language. I would not use it to every one, but I think thou knowest that words are feeble rather than strong to express what may be the real portion of one whom spectators look on as very happy; and I do feel sure that not a grief that can befall us even in this hidden world of ours, butmaybe the stepping-stone to a joy with which also a stranger doth not intermeddle; and how shall we sooner find it than by "casting all our care on Him who careth for us"? "He knoweth our frame, and remembereth that we are dust, and is touched with a feeling of our infirmities."
3d Mo. 14th.—Letter to M.B.
* * * I am abundantly convinced that if we can find the right place and keep it, and endeavor to fulfil its duties, whatever they may be,thereis our safety, andthereis our greatest peace; and what a blessing to know in any degree where the knowledge and the power are both to be obtained! * * *
6th Mo. 21st. After a fortnight's visit to my dear aunts, I followed Louisa to Tottenham. Many an occasion of deep instruction was offered to us at the Yearly Meeting; and yet from all this what remains? A solemn inquiry for all; and how much so for me, now that every principle of the heart and mind must prepare to encounter unwonted exercise and trial, now that I daily need all that I can have in a peculiar manner, and now that the future, amid the hopeful calm which it sometimes assumes, will sometimes almost frown upon me with lowerings of fear? Fear it is, not of others, but of myself, and fear of the ignorance or precipitancy of my yet but very partially regulated mind. Oh for that other fear which only "is a fountain of life, preserving from the snares of death!" Oh for that love which casteth out the slavish fear, and maketh one with what it loves—first with that God from whom it comes, and then with those in whom it dwells! Dwell, oh, that it may, in our two hearts, their best, their first, their strongest, dearest bond, and dwell, too, in the hearts of those I leave behind, and cause that still and henceforth we may be "together though apart"!
The responsibility of having so important an office to fulfil towards any fellow-being as that of sharing in, influencing, and being influenced by all his wishes, actions, and tendencies, has felt very serious. * * * * Never before had I so strong a sense of the identity of our highest duty towards ourselves and towards each other; and thatto live, andto be asandwhatwe ought, in the best sense, is the chief requisite for influencing one another for good.
6th Mo. 24th. Though I have this morning been helped and comforted, I must confess much unsubdued evil has manifested itself even within these few days. The bitter waters within, the tendency to what is evil, the corrupt root, have sadly appeared.—Oh, there is the one cause, not minding enough the good part which shall not be taken away, and so disquieted at the loss or disturbance of lower things. "How shall we escape if weneglect(not onlyreject) such great salvation?" I was made mercifully sensible, last night and this morning, that such is our Father's love, that His aim is chiefly to bestow, our duty to receive, that He calls and invites; but it is not that we may work a performance of our own, but receive His own good things. Oh, the folly, the ingratitude, of being inattentive to such a blessing! Oh, the rebellious pride of choosing our own self-will, and our own way, when the privilege may be ours of becoming the obedient and loving children of God—of receiving from Him the willing and the obedient heart which we may offer up to Him again, and which He will accept!
6th Mo. 30th. Letter to M.B. [Alluding to various engagements.]
* * * These "fill the past, present, and future" of these last months at home with many and various occupations and meditations. It is a blessing not to be more disturbed within, if it be but a safe calmness. Oh, that is a large condition; but how unsafe is all calmness resulting from shutting our eyes from the truth of our worst side! Yet I think when we can really be glad at the thought that our worst side is seen and known, there is some hope of remedy and of peace, and (may I not say?)alliancewith the Physician who has all power and skill. Then only can we welcome any thing, however trying, which we can believe comes from His hand, or may tend to make us any nearer the pattern we strive for, or any more likely to fulfil rightly the serious part we have to take in life.
7th Mo. 16th. I hope I do sincerely desire to seek for strength to cast my many burdens on Him who careth for me; and, oh, if I did but live in the spirit, and walk in the spirit, more faithfully, surely I should know more of what it is to "be careful for nothing," but in every thing to make known my requests unto God. Quiet is most congenial. Oh that the few weeks remaining to me here, may all be given to Him who alone can bless! But this desperate heart—might it not well be despaired of? I trust I have got to this point, "God be merciful to me a sinner." "Let me fall now into the hands of the Lord, for His mercies are great," and not into-human hands, nay,not my own. I thought I saw some sweetness in the words, "By His stripes ye are healed."
7th Mo. 17th. Why do I not feel that nothing I candois so important as what Iam, and that things without had better be ever so much neglected, than things within set wrong for their sake?
7th Mo. 21st. Had very comfortable feelings yesterday in meeting. Oh, it was joyful to believe that God was near to bless and to forgive. This evening, I have longed to commit my soul and its keeping into my Father's hands. Oh for a little more faith in His infinite, everlasting mercy! To come even boldly to the throne of grace, is the high calling even of those most in need of mercy.
7th Mo 26th. Letter to C.B.C.
* * * I hope that so far I have been favored with a measure of real help and good hope, though often sensible of multiplied difficulties and dangers, amid the desire to maintain such a state of mind and feeling as I ought. Perhaps the strong light in which I have often perceived how the best earthly hope may be blighted or blasted, even when all seems outwardly favorable, is a true blessing; and would that it might lead me oftener where all our wants can be best and only supplied! I know thatselfis the foe to be dreaded most, and that is so ever near, sticks so close, that there can be no remedy effectual that is not applied with the penetrating power and all-wise discretion which are no attributes of ours. And yet how often do we vainly try to help ourselves!
Two days after this, she wrote to her friend M.B. and alluded very feelingly to the prospect of leaving her old home and its associations. Ever taking a humble view of herself and of her fitness for the duties she was expecting to assume, she writes of
"feeling increasingly my deep unfitness and lack of qualification for so very responsible an undertaking as sharing in and influencing and being influenced by all that concerns another. May I be permitted the privilege of which thou hast spoken, that the Lord's presence may go with us, and give us rest, and be to us a little sanctuary wheresoever we may come.Thenall will be right. * * * So thou seest just where I am,—in need of faith and hope, and sometimes wanting all things, even amid circumstances which I can find no fault with. Farewell, dear M.; and if thou nearest that I get on well, or am in any way made happy or useful, one conclusion will be very safe, respecting thy unworthy friend,—that it is not inme."
This closes a correspondence which appears to have been attended with much comfort and profit to the two friends.
8th Mo. 11th. The time flies, and then the place that has known me will know me no more, except as a sojourner and pilgrim to my father's hearth; and yet I cannot realize it: could I, how should I bear it? This day, much as before, weak in body, death-like in mind; but this evening had such a desire for retirement—so undesired before—and such precious feelings then. Oh, I could go through much withthisto sustain me, but I cannot command it for one instant; and, oh, how I felt that He alone can keep my soul alive, whose is every breath, natural and spiritual! Oh, what a joy to feel His Spirit near, the thick, heavy wall of separation melted away. Would that the way could, be kept thus clear to God—my life, my strength, my joy, my all!
Much that is very interesting has passed,—chiefly a visit from T.E. and his wife, of Philadelphia. The day they left us, we sat in silence round the dinner-table, till he said that words seemed hardly needful to express the precious feeling of union that prevailed. * * * It was very sad to lose them; and yet I never felt before so strongly how the individual blessing to each soul is not a merely being present, and recognizing, and rejoicing in such times as these. How the words of one that hath a heavenly spirit and a pleasant voice may be heard in vain!
8th Mo. 20th. How can I describe these eventful days? One lesson may they teach me, that God is love, and that whatever good thing I am blessed with is not in me. He has been so kind, so gracious, and I so very perverse, frequently so distrustful, so easily wounded; but He, as if He will not take offence, again and again has pity on me. How was I met and saluted with the words, "By Myself have I sworn," as part of some promise! Then I felt and rejoiced in His faithfulness to all in me and in all the universe that is His.By Himself, thenHewill never fail; and I hope I shall be preserved by Him.
8th Mo. 21st. I was so grievously stupid last week, so unable to realize any thing—feared when I should come to myself that it would be terrible; but no, it is not so: I have love for all, and I hope it will grow for all and take in all. It is not that one love swallows up another, as one sorrow does: yet I am very weak, and need daily help. Oh that it may not be withheld!
With this record her Journal concludes; and, in reflecting upon it as a whole, the reader can scarcely fail to observe the evidence it gives of progress in the Divine life, of growth, as it were, from the blade to the full corn in the ear, now early ripened for the heavenly garner; and perhaps in nothing is this progress more discernible than in the manner in which through many fluctuations she was enabled to look away from the suggestions of unresting self, which were so painful to her sensitive and conscientious spirit, and to stay her mind on her Saviour, entering into that rest which the apostle says is the portion of those who believe,—"a rest which remaineth for the people of God," and which they only realize in its fulness who have accepted Christ as all sufficient for every need of the soul, not only pardon of past sins, but also of daily recurring transgressions, and whose trials and provings of spirit have led to the blessed result of increased oneness with their heavenly Father.
8th Mo. 21th. To her sister F.T. she writes, the day before her marriage,—
"I am still a wonder to myself,—so thankful for dear mother's cheerfulness, and for the kindness and love of all around. I have taken leave of nearly all. Last evening we had a nice walk. Then for the first time I felt as if the claims of past, present, and future were perfectly and peacefully adjusted, to my great comfort."
The walk to which this allusion refers is very fresh in the remembrance of her sister and of her (intended) husband, who accompanied her. Her manner was strikingly calm and affectionate; and as they returned home, after a pause in the conversation, she said, taking a hand of each,—
"I have heard of some people when they are dying feeling no struggle on going from one world to the other; and I was thinking that I felt the same between you. I don't know how it may be at last."
Strangely impressive were these words at the time; and when we remember that she never saw that sister again after the morrow, can we doubt that this preparation was permitted to soften the bitterness of the time, so near at hand, when this should have proved to be the final parting on earth?
In looking back to this time, there is a sweet conviction of the peace which was then granted her, which did seem something like a foretaste of the joys of the better home which was even then opening before her and upon which her pure spirit had so loved to dwell.
She was married, at Liskeard, to William Southall, Jr., on the 28th of 8th month, 1851. She was anxious that the wedding-day should be cheerful; and her own countenance wore a sweet expression of quiet satisfaction and seriousness; and the depth of feeling which prevailed in the whole party during that day was afterwards remembered with satisfaction, as being in harmony with what followed.
In a tenderly affectionate note, written from Teignmouth the same evening, she says, "I can look back without any other pang than the necessary one of having stretched, I must not say broken, our family bond;" and then she adds the sincere desire for herself and her husband, "Oh that we may be more humble and watchful than ever before, and that my daily care may be to remember those sweet lines which helped me so this morning,—
"When thou art nothing in thyself,Then thou art close to me."
A fortnight spent among the lakes of Westmoreland and Cumberland was a time of much happiness. It was her first introduction to mountain scenery; and her letters to the home circle she had just left, contain animated descriptions of the beauties around her. A few extracts from these, showing the healthy enjoyment she experienced, and the cheerful and comfortable state of her mind, particulars which acquire an interest from the solemn circumstances so soon to follow, may not be unsuitably inserted:—
BOWNESS, 9th Month, 1st, 1851.
* * * We had a lovely ride and ferrying over Windermere to Colthouse meeting on First-day. * * * I am almost well, and able to enter into these beauties. Will you be satisfied with seven sketches, such as they are, for this day?
I thought, as we passed Doves' Nest, and read in the guide-book F. Hemans's description of her dwelling there for twelve months, and how many sad hearts, beside hers, had come thither for a refuge from sorrow, what cause we had to be thankful for (so far) another lot; and yet, dear L., with all I see around me, my heart is very often with you, and turns
From glassy lakes, and mountains grand,And green reposeful isles,To that one corner of the landBeyond the rest that smiles.
Beyond the rest it smiles for me,Thither my thoughts will roam—The home beloved of infancy,My childhood's precious home!
And yet somehow it is not with a reproachful smile that it looks on me, nor with a regretful heart that I think upon it. It is delightful to think of dear father and mother's coming to Birmingham so soon, and of meeting R. this day fortnight.
To her Mother.
GRASMERE, 3d of 9th Month, 1851.
We have had a lovely day, and I scarcely know where or how to begin the tale of beauty. If there be any shadow of truth in the notion that "a thing of beauty is a joy forever," we must have been laying in a store of delight which may cheer many a busy and many a lonely hour. Truly, as we have gazed upon the glorious mountains; looked down from the summit of Silver How, on the green vale of Grasmere, and the far-off Windermere; looked with almost awful feelings on the black shadowy rocks that encompass Easdale Tarn, (all that yesterday,) and to-day, passed from waterfall to waterfall, through the solemn and desolate Langdales, under the twin mountainPikes, "throned among the hills," dived into the awful recess of Dungeon Ghyll, where the rock, with scarcely a crack to part it, stands high on each side of the foaming torrent, which dashes perpendicularly down the gorge, then out upon the sunny vale, and home through the brotherhood of mountains to our quiet dwelling of Grasmere; surely all this, and much, much more, has made the days very precious for present enjoyment and for future recollections. The moon is bright as ever I saw it, and we have lately returned from the smooth, still Grasmere, where there was hardly ripple enough to multiply its image; and where we could have sat for hours, nourishing the calm and solemn thoughts we had just brought from the quiet corner of the churchyard where we had sat by Wordsworth's grave. It was growing dark, but we could just read on the plain slate head-stone the sole inscription, "William Wordsworth."
* * * But I cannot make you fully imagine these scenes, so varied, so picturesque. How little pleasure I had in anticipating this journey, while those formidable things lay between! The thought of the mountains seemed not worth a straw, and now looking back to only this day week is wonderful. Home still smiles upon me like a lake that catches a sunbeam; and sometimes I feel truly thankful that the way that I knew not has led me here. * * *
The thought of seeing you is bright indeed.
Thy loving daughter,
To her Sister.
LODORE INN, 5th of 9th Month, 1851.
* * * I am glad to say that we still have very fine weather. At Keswick we were planning how we could see Frederick Myers, but that evening his widow was returning to the parsonage with her three fatherless children, and we could only look on the family vault in the lovely churchyard, the school-room, library, etc., and think of his anticipations, now no doubt so happily realized, of the "'well done,' which it will be heaven to hear." A fine black storm hung over Skiddaw and Saddleback, andsucha rainbow spanned it. The western sky was full of the sunset, and the lake lay in lovely repose beneath. Of the clouds we really cannot say more than that they are often very beautiful, and sometimes dress up the mountains in grandeur not their own; but I have seen none that might not be Cornish clouds.
I am quite well. * * * For my sake be cheerful and happy.
Thy very loving sister,
To her Father.
SCALE HILL HOTEL, 8th of 9th Month, 1851.
On Seventh-day, after breakfast at Lodore, we set off for a treat indeed—a canter up Borrowdale. The morning splendid. Keswick Lake sparkling behind us. The crags of Borrowdale in the blue misty sunshine of morning overhung by not less beautiful shades. We were quite glad to get to this sort of mountain scenery again, which we had so enjoyed at Grasmere, and leave smooth, bare, pyramidal Skiddaw and its "ancient" fellows behind. We at last ascended the steep zigzag which begins Sty Head Pass, confirming our resolution now and then by admiring the plodding industry of our mountain horses. It was indeed pleasant when the last gate was opened and we were safe within the wall of rough stones which headed the steep ascent, and we could wind more at leisure beside the foaming "beck" which runs out of Sty Head Tarn. This desolate mountain lake was soon reached, and the noble dark Scawfell Pikes—the highest mountain in England, (3166 feet)—were its majestic background. But that we had been gradually inured to such scenes, this would indeed have been the most impressive we have beheld. On we rode till deep shady Wastdale opened below us, and we found ourselves at the head of the Pass.
I have enjoyed this journey very much more than I expected, and the weather, on the whole, has been favorable. I think of you all with double affection, which accept very warmly from
Thy affectionate daughter,
E.S.To her Sister.
PATTERDALE, 11th of 9th Month, 1851.
* * * This delightful morning, Ulleswater, which we admired as much, if not more than any lake which we have seen, was of the brightest blue, and the valley behind as rich in loveliness, when we set off for Helvellyn. The top is just five miles from the Inn. At last the pony was tied to a stake, and we wound up the Swirrel Edge. The rocks are almost perpendicular, and strangely shivered, and we looked down on the Red Tarn sparkling in the sun with, as it were, thousands of stars. At last we reached the top, a bare smooth summit, whence the wide misty landscape stretched all around us. Six lakes should have been visible; but we were obliged to be content with the whole stretch of Ulleswater, eight miles behind us, Bassenthwaite to the north, and perhaps a bit of Keswick; but I would not have missed the scene for any reasonable consideration. Scott, of course, stood on the top of the hill looking down on the Tarn, with Striding Edge on his right. Alas! no "eagles" are ever "yelling" on the mountain, nor "brown mountain heather" is in sight—only common mountain grass.
On the top of Helvellyn she wrote the following lines in a sketch-book:—
How softly the winds of the mountains are saying,"No chamber of death is Helvellyn's dark brow;"On the "rough rocky edge" are the fleecy flocks straying,And "Red Tarn" gleams bright with a thousand stars now.
The "huge nameless rook" has no gloom in its shadow;It catches the sun, it has found it a name;And the mountain grass covers like the turf of the meadowThe arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecan.
There is not on earth a dark city's enclosure,Or vast mountain waste, where the traveller may roam,That peace may not soothe with its balmy composure,And love may not bless with the joy of a home!
To her sister.
ULVERSTON, 15th of 9th Month, 1851.
Thy very welcome letter yesterday met me soon, after returning from Swarthmore, where, of course, we had a very different assembly from yours.
It was very interesting, having been at Pardsey Crags last week, where the thousands had listened to George Fox's preaching, now to see Swarthmore and remember how things used to be when he "left the north fresh and green;" but G. Fox never saw the meeting-house. It was built, I believe, after his death, though the inscription "Ex dono G.F." is over the porch. His black-oak chairs stand in the meeting-room, and his two bed-posts are at each side of the foot of the stairs. Swarthmore Hall is an ancient-looking, high farm-house, with stone window-frames, as we have seen it drawn. The Hall, where the meetings used to be held, looks very antique: black-oak panels remain in parts. Judge Fell's study is just inside, and his desk in the window, whence he could hear what passed, though he never went to the meetings. The house is in sad repair. It seems strange to lay aside our daily companions, the map and the guide-book, and tarn our backs wholly on the mountain land, for the level and busy plains of England, with their "daily round and common task." But I know that the bright and beautiful mountain-scenes will often come again before the mental eye—"long-vanished" beauty that "refines and paints in brighter hues;" and I hope the pleasure will long be gratefully remembered.
The new home was reached on the 16th, from whence she writes,—
To her sister.
EDGBASTON, 20th of 9th Month, 1851.
* * * I do not like to end this eventful week without trying to send you a few lines. * * * Please tell mother, with my dear, dear love, how very acceptable her note was, and how much I hope that her kind good wishes may be realized, and how frequent a thought of pleasure it has been while we have been setting things in order, that before long I may enjoy to show our little territory to her and father,—to have her kind advice and opinion about my little household. * * * I yet feel as strongly as ever a daughter's love to the home of my childhood. When I think of you, I can fully share in the illusion thou spoke of, fancying that before long I shall be among you just as before. * * *
To her sister, P. Tregolles.
YEW-TREE ROAD, 9th Month, 1851.
* * * I could not have thought I should have felt so easy amongst so many, lately, such strangers; but every day I feel more strongly that on one nail "fastened in a sure place" many things may hang easily; and truly all treat us with such kindness, that I should be ungrateful not to value highly my connection for its own sake, whilst that on which it hangs grows firmer too. * * *
The remembrance of the cheerfulness with which Eliza Southall entered into the duties and cares of her new position in her adopted home has afforded cause for much gratitude on the part of those dear relatives who welcomed her there. Newly made acquainted with some of them, she won their love and esteem by her unaffected simplicity and the geniality of her sympathies; but, whilst she showed true conjugal solicitude in her plans for domestic comfort and social enjoyment, it was evidently her first desire to have her heart and her treasure in heaven. It was designed in the ordering of Divine providence that a cloud should very soon overshadow the bright promises of her arrival; and the following account of the illness which so speedily terminated her life will, it is hoped, convey a correct impression of the peacefulness of its close. It is compiled from memoranda made very soon after her decease, but is of necessity imperfect; the attention of those who contributed from memory portions of her conversation being so much absorbed by their interest in the conflict between life and death, and by the overwhelming feelings of an hour of such moment to some of them. Whilst it is hoped that nothing inserted may appear to go beyond the simplicity of the truth, it may be added that it seems impossible to convey in words a full and faithful idea of the holy serenity of her last hours, which showed that the work of religion had not been in vain in her heart.
With the exception of a slight cold, which soon left her, she appeared to be in her usual health and spirits. But it was so for only two weeks, and on Third-day, the 30th of 9th Month, on returning from a visit at Woodfield, she complained of not feeling well. The next day she was more poorly, and medical advice was obtained. The following morning she suffered much pain, but the remedies used soon relieved her; and, though she was not able to leave her bed, the symptoms did not continue such as to excite much uneasiness. She enjoyed hearing another read, and not unfrequently Isaac Pennington's letters, or some other book, was in her own hand, and during occasional pain and uneasiness she would request to have some chapter in the Bible read, or a hymn of comfort. There was always an air of cheerfulness in her chamber, and the affectionate greeting with which each relative who visited her was welcomed was very precious. Few words passed of a religious nature, or such as to induce the supposition that in four more days earth would be exchanged for heaven, except one short remark to her husband in the evening: "I have been thinking of the text, 'Then whose shall these things be which thou hast provided?' they may not be mine much longer." This was touching to his feelings, but was viewed as her wonted cautious manner of speaking of temporal things. There was nothing further in her remarks which showed that she regarded her case as a critical one.
On Sixth and Seventh days she seemed decidedly better—entering into the varied interests around her. The evening of the latter day was particularly bright and cheering, when she conversed cheerfully with her husband and sister and spoke of her plans for the future. She also listened with pleasure to some pieces of poetry which were read, and amongst them appeared to derive comfort from the hymn beginning,—
"Nearer, my God, to Thee—Nearer to Thee!E'en though it be a crossThat raiseth me;Still all my song would be,Nearer, my God, to Thee—Nearer to Thee!"
Early on First-day morning she seemed rather depressed, and requested her sister to repeat the hymn, "'Tis a point I long to know," [Olney Hymns.] In the course of the morning she wrote a touching note to her beloved mother: it was her last effort of the kind:—
5th of 10th Month, 1851.
My beloved Mother:—
I have got permission to use a pencil in thanking thee for thy kind sweet lines which this morning's post brought me. I am thankful for being so remembered by my own precious mother now so far away. * * *
It is a new experience to me to lie here so long; but, now that I am much better, and what pain I have is transient and easy to be borne for the most part, it is my own fault if the days are profitless. I quite hope, by the time father comes, to be able to enjoy his visit—and so I could now; but then it could only be in this chamber, already become quite familiar. * * *
We are so thankful to hear of thy amendment to this hopeful stage! I trust nothing will prevent thy being able to leave home with father; and then how soon we shall rejoice to see thee here!
Thy ever loving, and trying to be submissive,
Her medical attendant still took an encouraging view of her case, and she was so nicely in the afternoon that her husband left her to go to meeting. The evening was passed pleasantly, and the family retired to rest as usual. She continued very comfortable till about mid-night, when a very sudden attack of violent pain came on, which continued without intermission for about three hours.
Very affecting, during this time, were her earnest cries for patience and strength. "Oh that I had been more faithful! It is because I have been so unfaithful!" She was reminded that these sufferings ought not to be regarded in the light of punishment, but that "whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth." Some texts were read at her request. "They are very nice," she said, "but I cannot receive them all now." Truly this was a time when all human help was felt to be unavailing, and when none but the Ruler of the waves Himself could speak a calm; and, if we may judge from the subsequent altered and tranquil expression of her countenance, her petitions were mercifully granted. "Do not cry, my dear," she said; and then, "Oh, how kind to speak cheerfully!" adding, "I hope this illness may be made a blessing to us all in time to come." When the doctor, who was hastily called, arrived, she said, "I hope I shall be able to bear the pain: I will try to bear it." Whilst in much suffering, she requested to have the forty-sixth Psalm read, which had always been a peculiar favorite with her. On her mother S. entering the room, she greeted her with the words, "Dear mother!" saying, "What a comfort it is to have some one to call mother!"
The remedies resorted to, afforded temporary relief; and great was her thankfulness for the alleviation from what she described as anguish—anguish—anguish! But her strength was greatly prostrated, and for some hours she dozed—being only occasionally conscious. About nine or ten o'clock on the morning of Second-day, the pale and exhausted expression of her countenance convinced us that the time for letting go our hold of this very precious treasure was not far distant. Overwhelming as was this feeling, the belief that she was unconscious of her state added to our anxiety. We longed to be permitted an evidence from her own lips that she felt accepted through Christ her Saviour; though her humble walk with God through life would have assured us, had there been no such expression. Our desires were, however, mercifully granted, to our humbling admiration of that grace which had made her what she was.
About noon she roused a little, and, one of the medical men having stated that a few hours would probably produce a great change for better or for worse, her beloved husband concluded it best to inform her that she was not likely to continue long amongst us. She replied, with striking earnestness, "What! will it be heaven?" He asked if she could feel comfortable in the prospect, and she replied, "I must wait a while." A few minutes of solemn silence followed, in which it is impossible to convey in words the earnest prayerful expression of her countenance and uplifted eyes, when it seemed as if, regardless of any thing around her, she held immediate communion with her God. She then said, "I feel a hope, but not assurance." Her husband said, "Trust in thy Saviour, my dear." "Yes," she replied.
Soon after this, being asked if she would like her medical attendants to come into the room, she answered, "Oh, any one who wishes. I could speak to the queen." After acknowledging their kindness to her, she addressed them in an earnest manner on the importance of devoting all their talents to the glory of God, so that their chief aim in their profession might be to serve Him. She alluded to the insufficiency of human skill and the emptiness of earthly attainments at such a time as this; adding, "But above all things serve the Lord." They were deeply impressed with her great calmness and resignation.
She spoke to those around her in a striking manner on the unsatisfying nature of all things here. "Oh, they are nothing—less than nothing and vanity—nothing to me now;" earnestly encouraging all to prepare for heaven—to serve the Lord; quoting very fervently and beautifully our Saviour's words, "'I ascend unto my Father and your Father, unto my God and your God.' * * Upwards! upwards! upwards!—I hope we may all meet in glory."
A short time afterwards, appearing a little discouraged, she asked, "Do you feel assured for me? can you trust for me?" And on being told that we felt no doubt, her diffident mind seemed comforted; "but," she added, "I want assurance: I hope; but I don't feel sure—I dohopein Christ." The text was repeated, "'Lord, I believe: help thou mine unbelief.'" She was reminded that He died for all. She rejoined, "Then for me; but I have nothing of my own—not a thing to trust in, only in the mercy of God. I don't feel any burden of sin—only of neglect. I hope it is not a false peace. Do you think it is?" Her aunt repeated, "'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.'" "Oh, precious!" she exclaimed: "though He hideth His face, yet will I trust in the Lord; I will trust in the Lord, for He is faithful—faithful—faithful! I have a humble trust, butno rapture. But I don't feel sure that I shall die now; I cannot see how it may be." Again and again were her eyes turned to heaven in earnest prayer, "If I die, oh, receive me to Thyself."
Throughout her illness a holy feeling of serenity and love pervaded the sick-chamber: she affectionately acknowledged every little attention, and frequently expressed a fear of giving trouble, saying, one night, "What won't any one do for love?"
No expression of regret escaped her lips at leaving her earthly prospects. Her possessions in this world were loosely held, and therefore easily relinquished for those enduring treasures which had long had the highest place in her heart.
Her heart overflowed with love to all around her, saying, "All is love;" and many were the messages she sent to her absent relatives and friends. "Give my dear love to father and mother: tell them how glad I should have been to have seen them; but how glad I am mother was not here! I know she could not have borne it. Tell them how thankful I am they brought me up for heaven. Tell them, not raptures, but peace. Tell them not to grieve, not to grieve, not to grieve! Tell them how happy I have been here; that I wanted for nothing." To her sisters, "All love—nothing but love;" adding that she might have had much more to say, had she been able, "but I must not; I must be quiet."
As the different members of her husband's family surrounded her bed, she addressed each with a few appropriate words. Taking her mother S.'s hand, she said, "Thou hast been a kind mother to me: I can never repay thee. * * *" To her father S., who was absent, she sent her love. He, however, returned in time to see her. From his having left her so much better on Seventh-day, she feared he might be alarmed at the change, anxiously inquiring whether he was aware of it, and affectionately greeted him when he came, saying, "I amso gladto see thee!" To one she said, "Dear ——, seek the Lord; seek Him and serve Him with a perfect heart.
'Why should we fear youth's draught of joy.'[3]
Tell her that verse from me. * * * " She inquired for J.H.; and, on his coming into the room, being rather overcome with her exertions, she said, "I am too weak to speak now;" but, waving her hand, she pointed her finger towards heaven with an almost angelic smile.
After a short pause, she renewed her leave-taking, adding, at itsclose, "Farewell—my best farewell! now I have nothing more to say.Farewell!" And a little after, turning to her sister, "Now, my dearR., there seems nothing to say—nothing but love—all love!"
She then asked for a few minutes alone with her dear husband, and took a calm and tender leave of him also.
Difficulty of breathing now became very trying to her; but again and again she tried to cheer us by the assurance that she had no pain—"only oppression: don't think it pain." The lines being repeated
"Though painful at present,'Twill cease before long;And then, oh, how pleasantThe conqueror's song!"
she responded with a sweet smile, and exclaimed, "Oh, glorious!" She dwelt with comfort on the text, "Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth," and once, commencing to repeat it herself, asked her sister to finish it.
No cloud now appeared to remain before her. "I don't see any thing in the way," she said. Her sister reminded her that the everlasting arms were underneath and above her, waiting to receive her. "Dear R.," she replied, "she can trust for me." * * She spoke at intervals until a few minutes before her departure, but not always intelligibly. On her dear husband's asking her if she felt peaceful, she assented with a beaming smile, and soon after, resting in his arms, she ceased to breathe.
She died on Second-day evening, the 6th of 10th month, 1851. Thus, at the age of about twenty-eight years, and within six weeks after the happy consummation of a marriage union which promised much true enjoyment, was this precious plant suddenly removed, to bloom forever, as we humbly trust, through redeeming love and mercy, in a celestial paradise. The funeral took place at Friends' burial-ground at Birmingham, on the following First-day; being only three weeks from the time she had first attended that Meeting as a bride. It was a deeply solemn time; but, amidst their grief, the hearts of many responded to the words expressed at the grave-side: "Now, unto Him who hath loved her, and washed her from her sins in His own blood, unto Him be glory and dominion, for ever and ever, Amen."
[Footnote 3:"Why should we fear youth's draught of joy,If pure, would sparkle less?Why should the cup the sooner cloyWhich God hath deign'd to bless?"]