"I rest my soul on Jesus,— This weary soul of mine."

There may I ever be, O Lord.

5th Mo. 13th. First-day evening. Oh that here I might once more set up my Ebenezer, and say, "Hitherto Thou hast helped me, O Lord." "My Father's arms, and not my own, were those that held me fast." Ah! my own hold in the last fortnight has often relaxed, though many a heart-tendering evidence have I had that "He is faithful that hath promised." Yesterday morning when I awoke, dead as ever in myself, some sweet whisper of goodness at hand saluted my ear, and, oh, it was but a sound of the abundance of heavenly rain that soon made my heart overflow.

8th Mo. 4th. Letter to ——

* * * At our Monthly Meeting, only a few words from ——, advising young ones to be patient and submissive. And surely we may well be thankful to learn so wholesome a lesson, seeing how many sorrows we have often brought upon ourselves by the contrary disposition, and how faithful is the promise that "the meek He will guide in judgment and teach His way." How contemptible, as well as sinful, that rebellious spirit sometimes appears (when we honestly weigh it) that wants to make in its own special favor exceptions to the wise management of our kind and gracious heavenly Father! Oh, why should we prolong our woes by such perversity, when we feel at times as if it would be our highest joy to be what He would have us to be, and our very meat and drink to do His will?

8th Mo. 13th. This evening we had a precious meeting indeed. A solemn silence, in which much had been felt, was followed by a fervent prayer from ——. Truly my heart's response was, "Let thine own work praise thee." Do I write too much if I record the blessing of ability to crave for myself this evening an increased knowledge of and obedience to the Shepherd's voice, and that no disguise of Satan may ever impose on me for this?

9th Mo. 7th. Letter to M.B.

* * * I often wonder at the attractions so many find in merely following the multitude in their recreations. * * * Do we not sometimes find, if our honest wish is to refresh ourselves for duty, and not to escape from it, that even our rest and recreation is owned by a blessing to which one would not for all the world be strangers? How kind was He who had welcomed back his faithful twelve from their labors for others, when He said, "Come ye yourselves apart into a desert place, and rest a while; for there were many coming and going, and they had no leisure so much as to eat." But even then they were to learn no selfish indolence, and rest was quickly laid aside to share their morsels with thousands. If we were always His companions, did "all our hopes of happiness stay calmly at His side," how would our sitting down to rest and rising up to toil be alike blessed! And then, when the scene is changed, and sorrow and care become our portion, the same who was our joy in prosperity will be our refuge in adversity; and "because thou hast made 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.