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.