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A Brief Memoir with Portions of the Diary, Letters, and Other Remains, by Eliza Southall

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the Lord thy habitation, there shall no evil befall thee."

I write my wishes for us both; may it be thus with
thee and me, and when it is well with thee, think of
one who longs sometimes to know these things for herself.
But how well it is that our safety is in other
hands than ours! how often, had it depended even on
our continued desire for that which is good, had all been
over with us!

"Thy parents' arms, and not thy own,
Were those that held thee fast."

_11th Mo. 4th_. "Hunted with thoughts," as J.
Crook so truly describes it, "up and down like a
partridge on the mountains," often feeling in meeting
as if nothing could be compared with the joy
of _resting_ in Jesus, a rest to which I am still much
a stranger; no more able to command the mob of
unquiet thoughts than to hush the winds. At other
times, as this evening in my chamber, a sort of
strained anguish of soul, wherein my desire has been
that my eyes might he ever toward the Lord, that
He, in His own time, may pluck my feet out of the
net. The mental pain I have passed through makes
_some_ escape seem most desirable. If to lay down
the body were all I needed to escape, and I were fit
for it, how willingly would I accept such an invitation!
But I dare not ask it, nor any other thing,
but only that He who alone can, may make me in
His own time what He would have me to be; and
this evening I have been thinking that the painful
feelings I suffered might be the means appointed for
freeing me from the bondage of the worldly mind,
and from those tormenting, hurrying thoughts. Oh,
be it so; whether by means utterly incomprehensible
to me, or not, be the needful work done. I trust the
comprehension is not needed; and that the simplicity
and submission which _are_ needed may be granted
me; and that still [if] my enemies be expelled, as I
hope they will be by "His own arm," (as dear J.T.
said,) their presence will not be laid to my charge.
Alas, that I am so often guilty of dallying with
them! What wonder that the wilderness is so long
and tortuous, when I reckon the molten calves, the
murmurings, the fleshly desires?

_1st Mo. 17th_, 1850. Letter to M.B.

* * * Canst thou feel any sympathy or compassion
for one who pleads guilty to the folly of a flurried
mind, "wasting its strength in strenuous idleness," and
that, too, with open eyes, seeing its own weakness and
despising it? One of the worst things such a folly includes
is that it allows no leisure to the mind; whereas,
I believe well-ordered minds, however much care may
be placed upon them, can throw this aside, when not
necessarily engaged, and repose in the true dignity of
self-command. This is, I believe, some people's natural
gift; but it surely ought, by supernatural means, to be
within every one's reach if only the government were
on the shoulders of the "Prince of Peace." Oh, how
much that means! What "delectable mountains!"
What "green pastures!" What "still waters!" What
"gardens enclosed!" What "south lands," and "springs
of water," are pictured in that _beau-ideal_ "on earth as
it is in heaven"! Well my second page has spoken of a
land very far off from the haunted region described in
the first; but to "turn over a new leaf" is easier in a
letter than in a life. Thy idea of the next ten years
altering us less than the last will perhaps prove true;
but, oh, the painful doubts that force themselves on me,
whether the present channel is such that we can peacefully
anticipate it only as deepening, and not as having
an utter change of direction! How much harder to live
in the world and not be of it than to forsake it altogether!
So lazy self says; and, in turning from present duty,
tries to justify itself by the excuse that it would willingly
leave this world for another.

_2d Mo. 4th. First-day evening_. Little as I have
felt inclined to put pen to paper of late, I thought
this evening that some small memento might be left,
as it were, at this point of the valley, just to say,
Here were the footsteps of a weary halting pilgrim at
such a time--one that brought no store of food or
raiment, no supply of wisdom or subtlety, no provision
for the way, nothing but wounds and weaknesses,
household images, secret sins; but by favor
of unspeakable long-suffering, continuing unto this
day--and, as she would fain hope, not deserted. A.
troop of thoughts doth grievously overcome her, and
faint is her hope that she shall overcome at the last;
yet does she desire to set up the Ebenezer, if not of
rejoicing, which as yet cannot be, yet of humble hope,
in a cloudy and dark day, that He who has said,
"Light and gladness are sown for the upright in:
heart," will yet verify His promise in the day-spring
of the light of His countenance, if any measure of
integrity remain within. Oh, that He may keep, as
the apple of His eye, that which a troop of robbers
are watching to spoil, and may provide it with a
hiding-place in His pavilion of love! And for one
thing is my earnest wish directed to Him, that, unable
as I am to direct my own steps aright, He would
provide a leader for me, and a willing heart within
me, and grant me _enough_ of His guidance to keep
me in the way, and enough of a willingness to walk
therein and not stumble.

_3d Mo. 7th_, Letter to M.B.

* * * I know well that impatience will sometimes
put on the pretence of something much better, and that
we shall never run to good purpose unless we "run with
patience." Unhappily, a slow gradual progress is sadly
opposed to my inconstant nature, and after one of the
many interruptions it meets with, how prone am I to
wish for some flying leap to make up for the past! It
seems so hard a thing to get transformed, and therefore--strange
inconsistency indeed--one would be translated.
But truly it might be said, "Ye know not what ye ask."
* * * I have been interested with reading the early
part of "No Cross, no Crown," and especially the chapter
on lawful self, where the receiving back again, as
Abraham did Isaac, the lawful pleasures which had been
resigned to the Divine will, is so nicely spoken of; and I
do believe it explains the cause of half the gloom of
would-be Christians. They do not quite refuse, nor
quite resign their hearts, and so they are kept, not only
without true peace, but without the enjoyment of those
earthly goods which have been called for, not to deprive
their owners of them, but to be restored in _this life_ "an
hundredfold." How is it to be wished that these half
measures were abandoned, and that if we have put our
hand to the plough, we might not look back, as we so
often have done, to the unfitting ourselves for that kingdom
which is not only righteousness, but peace and joy.
"That your joy may be full," is plainly the purpose of
our Saviour towards His children; and yet how many,
as Macaulay says, "have just enough religion to make
them unhappy when they do wrong, and yet not enough
to induce them to do right."

_5th Mo. 28th_. It is an unspeakable blessing to be
permitted and enabled to pray. How can I be sufficiently
thankful that it has been mine? Last night
my heart was fervently engaged towards my God;
and this evening, though the sense of my utter destitution
and weakness was very painful, was it not a
blessing if it led me to Him? I have thought of the
test, "In quietness and confidence shall be your
strength." There is danger in fleshly confidence;
yet there is no strength, but a new danger in fleshly
fear. Oh, I would be stripped of _all_ fleshly dispositions
of whatever kind, or however specious: they
war against the soul; but because mine enemy has
not quite triumphed over me, may I not believe that
_He_ favoreth me in whose favor is life, and whose is
a faithful love? Oh for its perfect dominion in me!
His will is my sanctification, my perfection. It is
His "good pleasure to give me the kingdom"--even
to me. Amazing grace! What in me but my greatest
foe could hinder the full adoption of the prayer,
"Thy will be done"?

_6th Mo. 3d_. The little measure of faith I have is
not worn out, but rather purified and strengthened;
but, oh, when I think of the reality, the momentous
import, of the change of nature from sin to holiness,
which has to be effected, what a baptism may I not
have yet to be baptized with, and what perils to pass
through! Oh, if it might please my heavenly Father
to shorten and hasten the process, and deliver me
from earth and its dangers into a changeless state of
safety and peace in His dear presence! But I do
believe He would rather be glorified by living Christians
than by only dying penitents. A watchful,
holy life is His delight. Oh that this high calling
may not be slighted or cast away! The near approach
of my birthday has led me to look back over
the brief notes of twelve months. The interesting
details we have received of the Yearly Meeting
remind me of what I felt at the conclusion of the
last. The Lord has again been with the Church's
gathering, faithful as of old, and, where seats were
vacant, hath filled His people with joy.

_6th Mo. 5th_. I wish simply to record how last
night, when in bed, I was favored with a calm, watchful
frame, and lay enjoying the mental repose till
long after my usual hour of sleep. This morning at
breakfast-time it was renewed, with a sweet sense of
the willingness of our heavenly Father to enable His
children to serve Him. He made them for that end:
it is His will that they should do so. It cannot be
that He will refuse them the indispensable assistance.
How sweet was this feeling! but hurry, and too much
care about little things, sadly dissipated me in the
day. This evening I have had a gracious gift of
some of those _Sabbath_ feelings again, after reading
the seventeenth chapter of Jeremiah. The verses
referring to the Sabbath-day, and bearing no burden
therein, were solemnly instructive. The utter inability
of my natural heart to attain or retain such a
state shows me the necessity of all being done for
me through faith in Divine power, "His name,
through faith in His name." Oh for watchfulness
unto prayer continually, and that the cumber of
earth may be cast away! "Take heed that your
flight be not in the winter," has been my watchword,
though how imperfectly obeyed! and if, through
infinite mercy, the season be changing, if He who
has faithfully kept me from utter death there-through
is beginning to give me more of rest, oh,
let me never forget the solemn addition, "neither on
the Sabbath day."

_6th Mo. 13th_. * * * I wish now to record
the very solemn and encouraging visit of James
Jones from America to our meeting this day. How
wondrously did he speak of trials and afflictions, and
the necessity of entire resignation through all!
Though oceans of discouragement and mountains of
difficulty loom up before thee, thou wilt be brought
through the depths dry-shod, and be enabled to
adopt the language, "What ailed thee, O thou sea,
that thou fleddest, and ye mountains, that ye skipped
like rams?" Thou wilt be "led through green pastures,
and beside still waters," speaking of the call
to service in the Church, which he believed was to
some in an especial manner in the early stages of
life. I heard all; but such was my dejection that I
seemed to _receive_ little, though I could not but feel
the power. I seemed incapable of taking either
hope or instruction to myself. J.J. left us after
dinner, and, on taking leave, took my hand in a very
solemn manner, and, after a few minutes silence,
said, tenderly, but authoritatively, "If the mantle
falls on thee, wear;" words which will long live
in my heart. Would that the power which sent
them may fulfil them! None other can.

_7th Mo. 1st_. Last week at Plymouth Quarterly
Meeting. An interesting time. I trust that which
silenced and solemnized my spirit was something
better than myself. What could I do but endeavor
to lie down in passiveness under it, and crave that
nothing might interfere to mar the work of the
Lord? Much was said to encourage the hope that
those who truly love the Lord will at length be
brought into more peace and liberty in Him; that
He will qualify them to fill just that place He designs
for them in His house. Oh, how I long to
become that, and that only, which pleases Him, that
neither height nor depth might separate me from
His love! And when I think of the deceitfulness of
my heart, the danger of being lifted up seems so
appalling that the former deliverance seems yet
greater than the latter.

_7th Mo. 23d_. I have been glad to be released
from some of my charges and cares, as well as to
share the loving interests of home with all my dear
sisters, and trust it is not all laziness which makes
me shrink from engaging in new though useful
objects. I seem to have much need of quiet, and
have enjoyed many hours with dear F.'s precious
children. Often, as now, I am very destitute, and
sometimes very sad; but sometimes, though rarely,
"all is peace." Long shall I remember a moonlight
half-hour, on Sixth-day, in the fields and garden,
where I sat down to enjoy the cool of the day, and
for a time all sorrow was far away, and the very
"Prince of Peace" did seem to reign. Then did I
feel I had not followed "a cunningly-devised fable,"
and the precious words did comfort me, "If children,
then heirs." But, oh, how otherwise I often am!
how utterly destitute! This day we have had a
sweet little visit from ----. His encouragement to
the tribulated children saluted my best life, overborne
as it felt with the burden of unregenerate
nature--ready to say, "Who shall deliver me from
the body of this death?" and, amid many a giving
way to the worryings of earthly thoughts, struggling
to say, "Lord, I believe: help thou mine unbelief."
Often have I remembered dear Sarah Tuckett's
encouraging words, "But through all, and underneath
all, will be the everlasting Arms." Amen, and
amen.

_8th Mo. 4th._ Still, still amen, says my poor weak
spirit, in the remembrance of "goodness tried so
long," of the faithful love of my heavenly Father,
which melted my spirit on the morning of Fifth-day
week, with the blessed hope that I had not followed
"a cunningly-devised fable" in seeking a nearer
union with my Saviour. I little thought what was
awaiting me that day--a very important proposal
from ----, put into my hands by my father. After
glancing at the contents, I laid it aside, to seek for
a little calmness before reading it, and needed all
that morning's manna to strengthen my conviction,
"Thou art my Father." Into _His_ hands I have
sought to commit myself and my all, trusting that a
covenant with everlasting love will not be marred by
aught beneath the skies. Some precious feelings
have I since enjoyed; "And one of them shall not
fall to the ground without your Father," "Ye are of
more value than many sparrows," have been almost
daily in my heart. On Sixth-day, after spending
the afternoon in the country with a cheerful party,
before going to bed, such a blessed sense of my
heavenly Father's presence and love was vouchsafed
me, that every uneasy thought was swallowed up
in-the precious conviction, "I know in whom I
have believed." This love did indeed appear the
"pearl of great price," and all else as "dust in the
balance."

_8th Mo. 20th_. Last week I was once or twice
favored with a precious feeling of Divine love. At
one time my earnest sense of need and desire to seek
Him to whom I could appeal amid many a recollection
of past transgressions, in the words, "Thou
knowest that I love thee," was most sweetly followed
by the remembrance of the words, "I remember
thee, the kindness of thy youth, the love of thine
espousals; when thou wentest after me in the wilderness,
in a land that was not sown." At another
time the precious promise, "Because thou hast made
the Lord thy habitation, there shall no evil befall
thee," came livingly before me, and then I felt how
far short of the terms I had fallen. Oh, how preciously
did I feel the worth of an atonement! how
my Saviour's pardon did not only remove the burden
of guilt, but really reinstate me in the privileges
which my backslidings had forfeited, so that the
promise of safety was still mine! * * *

_9th. Mo. 20th_. [Alluding to a visit from some
friends.] How precious are these marks of our Father's
love! His eye is surely on us, and His hand
too, for good. May we never, may _I_ never, do any
thing to frustrate His merciful designs! Very various
has been my state--so dead and earthly, sometimes,
that I may indeed feel that in me "dwelleth no
good thing," but now and then so filled with desires
after God, that I feel assured that they come from
Himself.

_9th Mo. 26th_. This afternoon, in a lonely walk,
my sorrow was stirred, and I hope I prayed for
mercy; but it has been hard to keep any hold of
the anchor. But what! shall I leave my only Helper
because of my evil case--my only Physician because
of my desperate disease? I can take comfort in the
thought that He knows the worst, and that He has
sworn eternal enmity to sin. Then, if He loves me,
a sinner, He must be willing and able to save me;
and Jesus Christ is the mediator between God and
man, that He may be the perfect divider between
the sinner and his sin. Oh, what a work is this--which
none but Omnipotent grace can do! Oh, be
it done for me.

_11th Mo. 20th_. Letter to M.B. [Alluding to
her prospect of marriage.]

* * * How does such an occasion teach one the
weakness of human nature, and our utter dependence
on our heavenly Father's preserving care, who "knows
our frame and remembers that we are but dust." And
if we can in truth say, "If Thy presence go not with
me, carry me not up hence," and endeavor to decide in
His fear. I hope we may trust, that if it be not of Him,
something will be provided for our rescue, and that if
it be, He will remember His ancient promise, "My presence
shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest."

_1st Mo. 4th_, 1851. So very much has happened
since I made my record here, that I scarcely know
where to begin. Never did a year end thus with
me. I had almost called it the most important of
my life; and certainly it is so as regards time, and
also a very important one as regards eternity. Now
I find my hopes, my interests, my anticipations, my
every feeling and affection, have a strong reference to
another than myself--one whom I believe the
Providence of a merciful, heavenly Father has led
me to regard with esteem and love, as a sharer in the
future portion of the path, of life.

Surely it has been a serious thing, much as I have
fallen short in the duties of my present favored and
sheltered lot, to consent to undertake responsibilities
so weighty and untried; and yet I have cause to
hope in the mercy of Him who has helped me
hitherto, whose covenant is an everlasting covenant,
even a covenant of peace, that shall never be removed
by any earthly change. Oh that it may never
be forsaken by me! Oh that every breach may be
forgiven me! Oh that the wisdom that is from
above may be my safeguard and director! How has
it comforted me, in thinking of leaving such dearly-loved
ones behind, to feel that one Friend above
all others, whose love has been the most precious
joy of my life, will go with me, and be with me
forever, and, I trust, bind in that bond of heavenly
love, even more and more closely, the spirits He, I
trust, has brought together, and make us one another's
joy in Him!

Now that we are at home in the quiet round of
duties and employments which have filled so many
(outwardly at least) peaceful years, and that perhaps
my continuance among them reckons but by months,
oh for a truly obedient, affectionate, filial spirit,
both to my heavenly Father and the precious guardians
of my childhood! I have strongly felt that my
highest duty towards him with whom my future lot
may be linked, as well as my own highest interest,
is to live in the love and fear of God. Many deficiencies
I shall doubtless be conscious of! but if I
may live, and we may be united in the love and fear
of God, all, all will be well. Oh, then, to be watchful
and prayerful!

_1st Mo. 25th_. Letter to M.B.

* * * There is much, very much, connected with
any experience in these matters calculated to teach us
that this is not our rest; and often have I thought, when
pondering the uncertain future, that but for the small
degree in which the hope of things beyond, steadfast
and eternal, keeps its hold, I should be ready to sink;
and then I think of kind rich promises on which I try
to lay hold, "Thy shoes shall be iron and brass," and
"As thy day, so shall thy strength be." And so, dear
M., I trust it will be with us all, if our trust be but
rightly placed; and in this I fear I have sometimes, perhaps
often, been mistaken. I am sure it is well to have
this sifted and searched into, and none of the pains
which must attend such a process are in vain. When
we have learned more fully what and how frail we are,
then we can better appreciate the help that is offered,
and the abundant blessing of peace when it does come.
The depth of our own capacity for suffering is known to
few of us; and when we have made a little discovery of
it, some short acquaintance with the dark cold caverns
of hopeless woe into which it is possible to fall, even
when all externally is bright and apparently prosperous,
how thankful then should we feel for the daylight of
hope!

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, but _may_ be 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, _there_ is our safety, and
_there_ is 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 that _to live_, and _to be as_ and
_what_ we 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 we _neglect_ (not only _reject_) 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?) _alliance_ with 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
can _do_ is so important as what I _am_, 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 that _self_ is 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.
_Then_ all 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 in _me_."

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
with _this_ to 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_, then _He_ will
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.

MY DEAR L.:--

* * * 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 land
Beyond 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.

MY DEAR MOTHER:--

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 mountain _Pikes_, "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,

ELIZA.

To her Sister.

LODORE INN, 5th of 9th Month, 1851.

MY BELOVED M.:--

* * * 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, and _such_ a 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,

E.S.

To her Father.

SCALE HILL HOTEL, 8th of 9th Month, 1851.

MY BELOVED FATHER:--

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.

MY BELOVED L.:--

* * * 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 meadow
The 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.

MY BELOVED M.:--

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.

MY BELOVED L.:--

* * * 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 cross
That 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,

ELIZA.

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 do _hope_
in 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, but _no 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 am _so glad_ to
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 its
close, "Farewell--my best farewell! now I have nothing more to say.
Farewell!" And a little after, turning to her sister, "Now, my dear
R., 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 pleasant
The 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 cloy
Which God hath deign'd to bless?"]

THE END.

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