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?"]