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oAi* Vt ' 

i, 1 

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@^rium^l^ in %thi. 









-/. . ...../6. ^ ^■- .. 

** For an example of suffering affliction and of patience.** 




%) I -J \!^ ^ ^ • r^^ // 


Note.-— Since the aj^earance of this Memodal in the 
** Boston Recorder/* numerous requests have been made for 
its publication in a different form. Some persons also have 
desired its enlargement. A memoir was not intended, but 
simply a memorial. And the author believes, that, without 
any enlargement, the purpose of its preparation will be 
fully accomplished. Beside other reasons, a small volume, 
which can be easily held in the hand of an invalid or suf- 
ferer, will probably be more acceptable, and equally useful 
to the m^ority of purchasers and readers. 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, 


In the Qerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 





Nativity of the Sufferer — Personal Appearance — 
Education— General Characteristics — ^New Life, 11-19 


Failing Health — Sore Bereavement — Severe Sick- 
nesses — Last Attendance at Pnblic Worship— 
Auto-biographical Joumal^Bapid Progress of 
Spinal Disease, 20-37 


Heroic Besolution — Cauterizing— Hope— Disappoint- 
ment — Submission — Change of Pastors — Divers 
Experiences — Review of Sufferings — Sources of 
Effectual Comfort, 88-63 


The Cheerful Room of the Sufferer— Her Life the 
Joy of Many — ^Views of Sickness and Health — 
Correspondence — A Remarkable Prayer, . . 64-71 


Habitual Gratitude — Employments — Sabbath-School 
Membership— Correspondence — Testimony to her 
Pastor— The Last Night of the Year, . . . 12-87 


Physicians — The Refining Process — The Night- 
Blooming Cerens — Winter's Jubilee — New Trials 
and Triumphs — Enjoyment of Life — The Closing 
Scenee. 88-106 


The inspired memorials of martyrdom are as 
graphic and suggestive, as they are brief and un- 
impassioned. Thousands of pages might have 
been written, and not the half have been told of 
"all the righteous blood shed upon the earth, 
from the blood of righteous Abel unto the blood 
of Zacharias." The monumental chapter of the 
epistle to the Hebrews has volumes in a verse. 

The prophets, preeminently, were martyrs. 
And as " the Spirit of Christ was in the prophets, 
when it testified beforehand the sufferings of 
Christ and the glory that should follow," no ex- 
hortation to the persecuted Christians, among 
" the twelve tribes," could have been more appro- 
priate than that of the devoted James : " Take, 
my brethren, the prophets who have spoken in 
the name of the Lord, for an example of suffering 
affliction, and of patience." The exhortation has 
never ceased to be applicable. 

Not indeed in our own country, nor in any 
other, where one may felicitate himself like Cow- 
per — 

" That Chatham's language was his mother's toi^gue," 

is there the least exposure to persecutions, like 
those suffered by some of the prophets ancl other 
holy witnesses of the ancient Church of God, or 
in the primitive ages of the Glad Tidings. But 
if in the nineteenth century, there have been no 
kings like Ahab, or emperors like Nero, it is cer- 
tain that the Jezebel of Samaria has had her 
rival in the Jezebel of Madagascar. Even where 
there is the greatest civil and religious freedom, 
it is true as ever, — " all that will live godly in 
Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution." No one 
can now " take up the cross," and reasonably ex- 
pect to escape " the reproach of Christ," if he is 
uniformly consistent and faithful to the end. 
And the example of those who steadfastly with- 
stand " the course and fashion of the world " was 
never more needful, or to human view more 
worthy of 

" a starry crown." 

But it is not from " persecution for the cross 
of Christ," in any sense, that Christians of our 
land and time are so much in danger, as from 

other modes of suffering, by which they may be 
none the less tempted to dishonor the Saviour's 
name. In common with all of our fallen race, 
they have grievous disappointments of natural 
desires, distressing privations, infirmities, sick- 
nesses, and bereavements. Some of them have 
such protracted severity of disease, such compli- 
cated and excruciating bodily pain and anguish, 
that no stronger faith, or more enduring patience 
would seem to be demanded, if they were doomed 
to bum at the stake. The writer has often been 
a witness of sufferings, which have reminded him 
most vividly of what has been testified of the 
fires of Smithfield, and the fiendish tortures of the 
Inquisition. He has also seen a firmness, a re- 
signation, and an endurance, which have made it 
impossible for him ever to doubt the entire verity 
of the literal record of the trials and the triumphs 
of " the noble army of the martyrs." 

The bravest on the battle-field, it is well known, 
may be filled with terrors at the approach of 
death in their peaceful homes. It is not when a 
man feels himself to be " the observed of all ob- 
servers," that he can show the firmest resolution 
and the most undaunted courage. The Christian 
martyrs of history are not to be excepted. 


" The better fortitude 
Of patience and heroic martyrdom 

may be found in the unfrequented chamber of 
hopeless sickness, where the world's celebrities 
have not been wont to win their laurels; and 
there too in 

" No man of iron mould, * * * * 
But one of tender spirit and delicate frame. 
Gentlest in mien and mind, 
Of gentle woman-kind." 

It has pleased " God only wise " to lay the 
heaviest burden of pain and sorrow upon the 
weaker sex, so called. With this burden there 
has also been imparted a compensation in the 
moral power of endurance. Wherever the chil- 
dren of Adam share " a great trial of affliction," 
in as equal apportionment as would seem possi- 
ble, woman has confessedly borne the palm of 
fortitude and patience. But it is not with all 
alike. As some men are far inferior to others 
in the capabilities of submissive suffering, so 
there are daughters of men, who have been sadly 
wanting in the days of tribulation. And in either 
sex the number is small, who have not been, or 
who may not be comforted and strengthened, by 
a new and truly reliable " example " of the man- 


ner in which it becomes all to " suffer affliction," 
and of the " patience " which has " endured as 
seeing Him who is invisible." 

One such example was under the personal eye 
of the writer, for nearly twenty-six years. In 
the opinion of those most competent to judge, 
it should not be permitted to " sleep in the dust 
of the earth " with the mortal remains, either of 
the released sufferer herself, or of her surviving 
relatives and friends, when they shall have been 
gathered 1o their burial, — numerous as they are, 
and sacredly as her memory is cherished in their 
hearts. The materials for an extended biogra- 
phy are abundant But it is deemed advisable, 
for several reasons, — not least, the known wishes 
of the departed, — to attempt no more than may 
be accomplished by some compendious narrative 
or descriptive sketches and reminiscences, with 
selections from her own writings. These last 
are the more a treasure, because in no one of 
them is there a sentence, or a sentiment, which 
could have had any of its form or complexion 
from any probable or possible publicity. 

It must have been noticed by many, that the 
religious press has of late years issued a large 
number of volumes, chiefly of moderate size, but 
comprehensive and rich, designed particularly 


for the afflicted. Perhaps nothing more in a 
didactic form is at present needed by any class 
of sufferers. Experience has proved, however, 
that fresh examples of eminent Christian faith 
and hope, from whatever walks of life, are espe- 
cially welcome and grateful to those who have 
read the most of what has been published in 
other forms, for their counsel and consolation. 
If this Memorial shall contribute to the comfort 
of any living sufferer, the labor of its preparation 
will be abundantly rewarded. 


Nativity of the Sufferer— Personal Appearance — Education 
— General Characteristics — New Life. 

Sarah Smith Mugford was bom in Salem, Jan. 
26, 1807. Her father and mother were each 
connected with families of good character and 
social position. 

In form and comeliness, she was naturally 
favored. She had a well-proportioned cast of 
head and features. Her soft and shining auburn 
hair disposed of itself spontaneously in circlets 
and ringlets. Her dark hazel eyes easily kin- 
dled and sparkled. Hence, with a heart kindly- 
affectioned, and an understanding which delight- 
ed in knowledge, the common expression of her 
countenance was very pleasant, if not striking. 
Those who knew her as a little girl, speak of 
her as being then considered both beautiful and 

In her maturer life, the lines of her face were 
much modified by her sufferings, but not at all 


unfavorably. There was much less of the nat- 
ural effect of disease and debility than would 
have been expected, during all the extraordinary 
scenes of her protracted trial. The controlling 
elements of her character had an outward wit- 
ness in modes of moral beauty, variously signi- 
ficant, and not seldom radiant There were 
times when a sensitive and sympathizing stran- 
ger, like the lamented Rev. William M. Rogers, 
of Boston, could not find words for his emotions. 
After a short interview, walking away with his 
attendant, he exclaimed, — "Is there not some- 
thing supernatural in that face? There is a 
touch of the angelic in that eye. I never in my 
life saw such an expression. I shall never for- 
get it." 

This may seem the language of enthusiasm. 
But it certainly is moderate to say of her who 
was the subject of remark, that when lying upon 
her raised pillow, and able to converse in her 
wonted manner, she was constantly revealing no 
common qualities and charms of mental and 
moral attractiveness. And this was particularly 
observable, when she was visited by the friends 
whom she always loved to see, or by persons of 
high repute for intelligence and Christian worth, 
whom she had never seen before. Her tones 


of voice, also, harmonizing perfectly with her 
features and character, contributed a full share 
to the effect of her thoughtful and impressive 
utterances. . 

In her childhood she was habitually reflective, 
and somewhat retiring and reserved. Hour after 
hour she would employ herself contentedly with 
her book or her needle, by the side of a much 
older person, when others of her age would pre- 
fer to be at their plays or pastimes. In advanc- 
ing years she was a great favorite of those 
younger, always making herself agreeable, and 
often displaying her ingenuity and taste in pretty 
devices for their pleasure and benefit. And 
from her very earliest youth, it now appears, 
she was unfolding the germs of that exquisite 
neatness and skill, in every variety of needle- 
work, which the refined and accomplished lady 
friends of her full age so much admired and 

In the transition from childhood to youth, her 
thoughtfulness seems to have had a pensive 
tinge; owing, perhaps, to her being separated 
much of the time from her parents, whose pe- 
cuniary means were not always adequate to the 
wants of a large family. Their much loved 
Sarah was thus never favored with any but very 



restricted privileges of instruction in the schools. 
But she had a watchful eye and ear, a discrimi- 
nating perception and judgment, a retentive 
memory, and an ardent love for the beautiful 
in the objects of nature and art From such 
sources of knowledge and culture, therefore, as 
she did enjoy, she gave proof of exemplary pro- 

Capable of deep feeling and strong attachments ; 
conscientious and keenly sensitive to violations 
of rectitude and propriety ; alive to the ludicrous, 
and both relishing and reciprocating the pleasan- 
tries of wit and humor; amiable, modest, and 
mild, though not a little unyielding and deter- 
mined in her honest convictions and purposes ; 
lovingly obedient to parents and reverencing the 
aged ; carefully attentive to her person and man- 
ners, but without any offensiveness of vanity, or 
envy, or jealousy ; imitative with rare tact, eager 
to learn from others, and ready, but not forwai'd, 
to communicate, — she was good company for the 
younger or the older, as with one voice is now 
attested by her relatives and most intimate ac- 
quaintances. Some of these, however, were 
taken by surprise, when, at a late period, they 
saw such evidence of strength of mind, useful in- 
telligence, sound judgment, and excellent good 


sense. Far beyond their anticipations were the 
developments of her majuritj ; and particularly, 
after a few years of confinement to her sick- 
room and her sick-bed. She became one of the 
kindest and safest of advisers. There are those 
of superior native gifts and highly educated, who 
frequently visited her as their confidant and coun- 
sellor. In her death they mourned, as feeling 
that they had each sustained an irreparable loss. 

Limited as were her opportunities of literary 
training, her style of conversation was not defi- 
cient in any notable point of correctness or agree- 
ableness. And though in her writings to her. 
friends, as in those for her own eye alone, there 
are obvious marks of imperfect culture ; yet, as 
a whole, they will well compare with productions 
of the same order, from many who have had the 
most ample means of finished education. 

During the last fifteen or twenty years of her 
life, she read much at intervals, in very select 
and elegantly illustrated works of taste. Her 
affluent friends knew that she was pleased to look 
these over, even when much too feeble for an 
effort of careful and consecutive reading. She 
was constantly remembered in the gift or loan 
of some book of literature, or of fhe fine arts, 
which, when taken up occasionally for a few 


minutes, or longer, would effectually divert her 
thoughts from herself, and thus greatly alleviate 
her sufferings. The refining and elevating in- 
fluence was also apparent, from year to year. 

But her improvement from such sources, and 
her consequent attractiveness was of small ac- 
count, compared with her progress and attain- 
ments as a humble learner of the Saviour's worth. 
Without the instruction and the discipline which 
she received from the Word, the Spirit, and the 
providential dealings of Him, in whom " are hid 
all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge," she 
could never have begun to be what she was, 
even if her privileges of social and literary culture 
had been a hundred fold greater than they were. 

Her Christian life commenced, as she believed, 
in her seventeenth year. Previously she was not 
aware of any decided conviction of personal sin- 
fulness, or of any marked solicitude respecting 
her salvation. Her moral character had been 
unblemished. But however much she may have 
regarded her mother's pious instructions, or those 
of a very devout and exemplary sister ; whatever 
good impressions she had received from any other 
instrumentality or means, public or private, slio 
was no stranger to the exercises of the natural 
and unregenerate heart, in resistance to the sov- 


ereignty of God, and in neglect of the essential 
conditions of forgiveness and eternal blessedness. 
Some of her intimate young friends had been 
awakened from their dreams of worldliness and 
felse security. If there was reason for them, why 
not for her, to " flee for refuge to lay hold upon 
the hope set before us in the Gospel ?" Examin- 
ing her heart and life, she saw as never before, 
that she was indeed a sinner, ^ without hope and 
without God in the world." Her amiableness and 
morality afforded her no relief; they were neither 
the fruits nor the germs of the " love," which " is 
the fulfilling of the law." It was a hard struggle 
between her selfish affections and the reproving 
power of the Spirit of holiness. Some weeks 
had passed, almost in utter despair, when she 
found in an hour never forgotten, that, 

"In wonder, love, and praise," 

she could pour out her melted heart like water. 
Profoundly and most gratefully she adored the 
sovereignty and mercy of "a just God and a 
Saviour." With a peace and "joy unspeakable" 
she consecrated herself to the blessed Redeemer, 
as her all in all, in the bonds and " through the 
blood of the everlasting covenant" 



The change to herself was sudden and decisive. 
To others, and those best acquainted, it was hard- 
ly less manifest and indubitable. As she began, 
so she continued, through more than twice the 
period which she had then lived, to exhibit the 
marks of an unfeigned Christian character. How- 
ever fearful or self-abasing the warfare between 
** the flesh and the Spirit," she never for one mo- 
ment could have regretted the vows of her conse- 
cration to the Lord, her Righteousness. 

In 1824, she made a public profession of her 
faith and hope, — uniting with the Tabernacle 
Church, of which Rev. Elias Cornelius was then 
the pastor. Of her cherished remembrances of 
the day, a note to a much loved friend, sev«[iteen 
years afterwards, may be cited as one of numer- 
ous illustrations. 

^Dec. 31, 1841. I felt this morning, when 
reading our meditation for the day, that nothing 
could be more soothing to my feelings than Dod- 
dridge's beautiful hymn (151st Watts and Select). 
It was read by Mr. Cornelius, the day I made a 
profession of religion ; and though I had read the 
hymn many times, I never felt the ftill force of 
every word, as I did on that day. He read it at 
the c<»nmunion service. And as I sat and lis- 
tened to the words as they fell like sweet music 


upon my ear, from the lips of my beloved pastor, 
I felt that I could indeed say, — 

* happy day that fixed my choice.* 

Often, since that day, have I had reason to re- 
joice in Grody my Saviour. 

" I have thought much of the last verse of the 
hynm, and I have cause for deep sorrow, when I 
remember how often I have been unmindftil of 
the vows I then made. Would that I could see 
that they had been renewed daily." 

That " last verse "I Has it not been too often 
forgotten ? 

** High heaven, that heard the solemn vow, 
That vow renewed shall daily hear; 

TiU m life's latest hoar I bow, 
And bless in death a bond so dear." 


Failing Health^Sore Bereavement — Severe Sicknesses — 
Last Attendance at Public Worship — Auto-biographical 
Journal — ^Bapid Progress of Spinal Disease. 

At the time of publicly confessing Christ, Miss 
Mugford's health was quite delicate. In the 
employment of dress-making, she had probably 
been too closely engaged, and perhaps was not 
sufficiently careful of her posture. She was 
often very weary at the close of her daily toil 
and confinement. There were tokens also of 
weakness or tenderness in the lower part of her 
spine. But it was six years later, before her in- 
flammatory and incurable disease in that locality 
revealed a decided character. 

About the middle of the year 1830, a fire 
broke out in the house in Boston where she was 
then living. For some time she stood in deep 
water, passing buckets from a lower to an upper 
room. A violent cold occasioned her return to 
Salem. And scarcely had she recovered from 


the fever which followed, so as to be able to leave 
her room, before she was suddenly summoned to 
Boston, to witness "the last of earth" in the 
friend to whom she had been betrothed for nearly 
three years, and whom she then found to be, as 
she said, " the idol of her heart" 

The afliictive death of Mr. N. K, was the more 
distressing, from being caused by a casualty which 
wholly deprived him of speech and apparently of 
consciousness, until he expired. The immediate 
effect was crushing to the chief mourner, although 
not a murmuring word was known to have es- 
caped her lips. Except to a very few, she was 
not free to speak of this sorrow, even by the 
slightest allusion. But to the end of her life, the 
23d day of November was a day of darkness and 

The lines which follow, entitled " The Mourn- 
er," were found among her papers, written in 
pencil, and dated Nov. 24, 1830. From what- 
ever unknown authorship, they may be safely in- 
terpreteii as a true expression of the feelings of 
her heart in her overwhelming afliiction : — 

" I saw thee when death hovered nigh, 

And set his seal upon thy brow; 
I heard thy struggling groan and sigh, 

Which e*en in mem'ry haunts me now. 


** I saw the lips, all pale and chill, 
Where words of love were wont to dwell, 

And felt a pang my bosom thrill, 
That words can never, never tell. 

" And when the fearful strife was o'er, 
When life was fled and hope was gone, 

I gazed on thy dear face once more. 
That face which still I gaze upon. 

" I thought how soon the cold, dark grave. 
Would hide thee from my tearful eye. 

And frighted, shrank from life to crave 
In that chill tomb with thee to lie. 

" I called thee by fond names of love. 
Names that were wont to charm thine ear, 

Bat naught that ear of death could move, 
And heedless fell each burning tear. 

" Tears fell in streams upon thy brow, 
As my pale lips to thine were pressed; 

But ah ! those lava showers had now 
No power to break thy marble rest. 

" Within the coflin's narrow bound 
Thy cold remains too soon were laid. 

Ah ! worse than death, was the harsh sound 
The closing of that coffin made. 

" Why did I live beyond that hour 
When * all the life of Ufe is fled ' ? 

Existence, fearful is thy power. 
Who lingerest still when hope is dead !'* 


In a very short time after the bereavement, 
which in these lines have a portrayal so appo- 
site and touching, the heart-struck mourner was 
again prostrated by a fever, which confined her 
to the house for three or four months. Never 
aft^erwards did she know what it was to feel her- 
self to be really well. 

In April, 1831, reviewing the scenes of the few 
previous months, she wrote to one, whom she 
loved as if an own sister : — 

"I hare been very sick. But the Lord, in 
mercy to my friends, has in some degree restored 
me to health ; but as yet I am very feeble, and 
too weak to walk or ride but a very short dis- 
tance. ♦ * * * I viewed myself near the grave, 
and soon to enter upon an eternal state. I felt 
weaned from all earthly enjoyments, and, I think, 
entirely resigned to the sovereign will of God. 
I even felt reluctant to the idea of staying longer 
in this vain world. My desire was to be holy 
like God, and forever to dwell with him. 

" But God has determined otherwise. I am 
spared awhile, and O that the remainder of my 
life may be spent in communing and walking 
with God. In my affliction I can see the hand 
of God. In justice he has afflicted me. My 
heart had wandered far from God. I had too 
much given my affections to the world, and with 
shame do I confess it, I expected to find happi- 
ness from the world. 


"The Lord in kindness gave me my dear 
friend, that I might love him, and endeavor to 
make him happy. But O, how entirely did I 
give my affection to him ! Yes, I robbed God, 
and he took my friend from me. And shall I 
murmur at his will? No. I deserved it all. 
I loved the world too much, and expected too 
much from its objects. I built up a fabric of 
mortal hope, that was sinking and cinimbling 
before my eyes. And ought a Christian to seek 
his portion here below ? Yes, I deserve every- 
thing I have suffered, and every whisper of com- 
plaint shall be hushed to everlasting repose. * * * 
When I think that the universal Conqueror has 
snatched from me my best-loved and nearest 
earthly friend, heart-rending as it is, I will say, — 
* Not my will, but thy will, O God, be done ; and 
the cup which my Father has given me, shall I 
not drink?"' 

Early in 1832, she was able to walk out in 
good weather. She occasionally attended public 
worship and the Sabbath-schooL After much 
physical exertion, particularly after riding, she 
was subject to chills and tremulousness, somewhat 
as of fever and ague. But instead of yielding to 
the symptoms, which so plainly foretokened the 
entire failure of power to walk, she persisted 
resolutely in unaided efforts to regain, if possible, 
what she had lost, or at least to preserve what 
she was fast losing. 


Such was her enjoyraent of the services of the 
sanctuary and of the Sabbath-school, that she 
made the utmost exertion to be " in the good old 
Tabernacle " on the Lord's Day. This she did, 
when other persons, much less enfeebled, would 
not have considered it their duty to appear in the 
house of God. Her last attendance was on com- 
munion Sabbath, July 1, 1832. And before the 
day closed, she was compelled to acknowledge to 
herself, that it was indeed her last 

" Jw/y 1, 1832. I have been permitted to at- 
tend church all day. But I feel that I cannot 
with safety attempt to walk so far again, while 
I remain so feeble. My limbs are getting to be 
more and more helpless, and the effort I am 
obliged to make in walking is very painful. 
I must give up 1 I will no longer shrink from 
the truth! I shall go no more to the house 
of God ! My sick-room must be my sanctuary ! 
Plere I must learn to be content ! O Father in 
heaven, help me to submit In the school of 
affliction I must learn to do thy will. I feel that 
I need divine strength. I know not what dis- 
ease is taking down this earthly house of clay, 
but I will fear no evil. I can cheerfully say 
farewell to all that has hitherto made life sweet 
I feel willing to submit I feel that God will be 
with me to comfort and strengthen me. I have 
suffered much, very much, for more than three 
years past ; I have been enabled to endure all 


with patience. God doth not afflict willingly. 
My trust shall be in him. He will give me 
strength sufficient for all my trials. God has 
ever dealt kindly with me. In time of deep af- 
fliction, I have been enabled to rest on his prom- 
ises. ' Hold thou me up, and I shall be safe.' 

" My heavenly Father has seen fit to deprive 
me of health, but I can trust in him. I can feel 
willing to suffer his will, whatever it may be. 
He has taken from me my dearest earthly frieiul, 
and made me to weep the bitter tears of disap- 
pointment. My heart was made to feel in early 
life the uncertainty of earthly things ; but even 
in that dark hour, when weeping over the cold 
clay of my departed friend, I was enabled to 
say,—* Tliy will, O God, be done.' *Tlie Lord 
gave, the Lord hath taken away ; blessed be the 
name of the Lord.' I will drink of the ciij) thy 
hand has prepared, though it be filled with the 
bitter dregs of disappointment. 'Though He 
slay me, yet will I trust in him.' The bitterness 
of grief has passed, and memory can recall tiie 
sad and painful event with a calm resignation. 
*It is good for me that I have been aiilicted.* 
I will not distrust God's goodness. He Avill not 
forsake me when I most need divine strength. 
I will calmly submit to privations, and cheer- 
fully suffer pain and sickness. I shall not be 
alone. * God is my salvation and my glory ; 
the rock of my strength, and my refuge is in 
God.' I will trust in him at all times. He 
shall direct my ways." 


This affecting record was the beginning of a 
journal, strictly private, and intended for no eye 
but the sufferer's own. It was written at inter- 
vals, generally of weeks or months, from July, 
1832, to November, 1836. Other journals or 
notes were kept in years following ; but none so 
fuU and so valuable, or rather, so invaluable, for 
its auto-biographical descriptions and observa- 
tions. In an endorsement upon the manuscript, 
under date, November 1, 1836, she says : — 

" These pages were written at times of great 
suffering. My object in writing them was, that 
I might be able to compare past with present 
feelings. My wish is that they may be destroyed, 
with other papers belonging to me, when I shall 
have passed away. And as the requests of de- 
parted friends ai*e always considered sacred, I 
shall feel safe in leaving my papers." 

In the journal itself, she wrote : — 

" March 6, 1835. This morning I was look- 
ing over this manuscript, and could I have got 
to the fire, it would very soon have been demol- 
ished. But after a moment's reflection, I said 
to myself, Why should I destroy it? No one 
will ever see it. No one knows I have written 
it ; and when I am gone, no one will take the 
trouble to read it. And as it is an amusement 
for me to write, I will add more to its pages. 


But like all I have written, they will be a repe- 
tition of sickness and pain." 

In 1837 she confided this journal, with some 
other papers, to the hands and discretion of the 
writer of this Memorial ; in compliance with an 
earnest request for some statements from her 
own lips, relative to those first years of her af- 
fliction, in wliich he had not been an eye-witness 
of her suffering and her example. As she was 
expected to live but a short time longer, Jie do- 
sired, as her pastor, to be prepared to talvc some 
appropriate notice of her life and character, wlien- 
ever her days should be finished. Tliis desire he 
carefully concealed, well knowing tliat a private 
funeral would be her choice, and us brief an 
obituary as was ever printed. 

Being unable to converse much, she deferred 
an answer to his request. Some days after- 
wards, she handed him the papei*s saying, — 
**A8 to what you asked me about, i)erhaps if 
you will read these, you may find that they will 
answer your questions better than I now am able 
to do." Much more was found than he liad 
anticipated. A new request was then made, 
viz., that she would permit him to retain the 
papers ; and in case of her decease, allow him 


to make such use of them as, according to his 
best judgment, might, in some humble manner, 
be promotive of the cause and glory of the Re- 
deemer, whose transcendent love and fsuthful- 
ness she had so signally experienced. The re- 
sult was her consent that he should retain the 
whole, until she should call for them. ^ You can 
do what you think best" 

Little did he imagine, that twenty-three years 
more of her ^ example of suffering affliction and 
of patience,** were yet to be numbered. Dur- 
ing all this time, no one else ever saw what 
was committed to his trust ; nor until the entire 
scene had closed, was the existence of any such 
manuscripts known to but a very few persons. 
They are not extended or detailed, and such 
selections as will be offered to the reader will 
need very little or no editorial interpretation or 

^^AtigustS, 1832. I have not' been able to 
use my pen until to-day for more than a month. 
I was taken severely sick of a fever, the second 
day of July. I had felt for some time that I 
should be obliged to give up, on account of my 
extreme feebleness. I think I must have ex- 
erted myself more than I ought to have done, 
the last time I was out But I do feel glad 
when I think the last effort I made to walk out 


was in going to the house of Grod. My dear 
pastor, [Rev. Dr. J. P. Cleaveland,] kindly in- 
vited me to spend the intermission at noon, at 
his house, that I might rest me, and be able to 
attend the afternoon service as I often had done. 
I do feel grateful to him and his wife for their 
kind attention to me. 

'^August 27. To-day I have sat up ten min- 
utes, the first time for eight weeks. I am very 
feeble, and the pain in my back is almost in- 
sufferable. What dreadful disease can it be? 
The fever has left me, and my physician had 
strong hopes if I lived through it, I should get 
rid of many complaints that have for a long time 
troubled me. But now his looks and woi5s are 
doubtful. I am unable to use my limbs. They 
are entirely helpless, and feel more like dead 
weights attached to my body, than any thing I 
can think of. There is not the least appearance 
of life in them, and I think the flesh could be cut 
or burnt, without my feeling the least sensation 
of pain. Can it be that I am never to walk? 
Am I to be a helplass invalid through life ? Will 
the warm blood that once circulated through 
these veins, and imparted warmth and vigor, 
ever return to them again ? 

" Heavenly Father, hear my prayer, and if it 
be consistent with thy holy will, restore these 
dead limbs to life again. I would not murmur. 
I desire to be resigned to the will of my heav- 
enly Father, whatever it may be. Thou, Lord, 
dost encourage thy children to call upon thee in 
time of trouble. No earthly friend can give re- 


lief; my hope is in thee. Into thy hands I 
commit body and soul. And if it is best that 
I should never recover the use of my limbs; 
if my sufferings are to be continued for a long 
time ; or if they are soon to terminate in death, 
I will not fear. My trust is in God, my Re- 
deemer. I will rejoice in the midst of affliction. 

* The Lord is good, a strong hold in the day of 
trouble, and he knoweth them that trust in him.' 

* Fear not, for I am with thee ; be not dismayed, 
for I am thy God.' Let thy mercy, O God, be 
always over me, and thy grace always attend me. 
Let thy hand always protect me, and wilt thou 
lead me to that blessed land where * the inhab- 
itant shall not say, I am sick.' " 

* Not sick! shall throbbing brows no more, 

With nameless anguish start! 
No more the ebbing life-blood pour 

Cold currents through the heart? 
No tortured nerve with racking paia 

To sudden madness thrill, 
Nor strive the powerless limbs in vain 

Their office to fulfil ! 

* Oh, glorious world ! from ills of time, 

From fear and changes free, 
Why should we shrink to see that clime, 
TTiough death our passport be.' 

^ September 20. The extreme pain I contin- 
ually suffer in my back, and the dreadful sinking, 
dying feeling I have in my stomach, is beyond 
description. My physician thinks my spine is 
diseased. He has applied leeches, and blisters, 
but I have received no benefit from them. My 


limbs remain useless, and I see no reason to 
think they will ever be otherwise. I think the 
disease is gaining ground every day. 

" Is there no remedy ? Can nothing be thought 
of to alleviate this dreadful suflTering? The 
strongest opiates have ceased to lull the pain. 
I have willingly applied everything my physician 
has recommended. I can do no more. Vain 
is the help of man. Father of mercy, be thou 
my physician. Pity and relieve thy suffering 
child. * Speak but the word and thy servant 
shall be heieded.' 

**But Gk)d is just; I will be silent He 
knows best what trials I need. He knows just 
how long it will be for my soul's good to con- 
tinue them. He knows that this sinful heart 
is prone to wander, and give too much of its 
affections to earthly objects, and forget that its 
treasures should be in heaven. God will not 
forsake me, though I forsake him. He kindly 
withdraws my affections from earth, by taking 
fi'om me those things I was most attached to, 
and I can now say, * Whom have I in heaven 
but Thee ? and there is none upon earth that I 
desire besides Thee.' 

* Let worldly minds the world pursue, 

It has no charms for me ; 
Once I admired its trifles too, 

But grace has set me free.* 

" February 1, 1833. Once more I resume my 
pen, after an interval of four months. What in- 
tense suffering I have been called to pass through. 


since I last wrote. O, my heavenly Father, thou 
alone canst know, and no hand but thine can give 
relief. Make me willing to suffer all thy right- 
eous will. I ask no other blessing to help me 
through this vale of tears, but the presence of my 
God. ' For he maketh sore, and bindeth up : he 
woundeth, and his hands make whole. He shall 
deliver thee in six troubles : yea, in seven there 
shall no evil touch thee.' 

'^February 4. My physician has been in to 
see me this morning, and he thinks he can do 
no more for me. It is now eight months since 

I walked. Dr. C spoke kindly to me, and 

regretted that it was not in his power to alle- 
viate my sufferings. He knows not what treat- 
ment to prescribe, as he never had a case of the 
kind before mine. He thinks if I can go to the 
hospital, possibly I may get some help. Can I 
go to the hospital .»* I shrink from the thought 
I have no fear about the treatment I shall bo 
obliged to submit ta I can suffer pain, and feel 
it my duty to use all the means in my power 
to alleviate the disease ; but the thought of be- 
ing exposed to the gaze of twenty or thirty stu- 
dents is dreadfid. I am confident if I go to the 
hospital, the physicians there will think it neces- 
sary to operate on my back. If it could be done 
at home, how gladly would I consent to any 
remedy. I hope I do not indulge a wrong spirit. 
I will try to think calmly about it. I shall be 
with strangers, but my heavenly Father will 
be with me. I know I shall miss many home 
comforts. But I will try to think that this trial 


is sent, as an opportunity for me to practise self^ 
denial. My prayer is, that I may be directed in 
the right way. I will be submissive. Strength- 
en me, O Lord ! I can do nothing. I am a frail, 
sinful worm of the dust * Create in me a clean 
heart, O Grod, and renew a right spirit within 
me. Cast me not away from thy presence : and 
take not thy Holy Spirit fix)m me.' 

^^ February 5. Dr. C thinks I am too 

feeble to be carried to the hospital, and he will 
consult with Dr. J. G. Treadwell, and see what 
can be done. I must wait patiently until they 
decide. I feel willing to leave all to the direc- 
tion of Infinite Wisdom. I do not feel anxious 
to know how or when this disease is to termi- 

^February 6. After a painful and sleepless 
night, I am once more permitted to behold the 
light of another day. Thanks to the Giver 
of all my blessings that he has enabled me to 
trust in lum. Though I am called to suffer long 
and severely, I can cheerfully acquiesce. I will 
know no other will but the will of my heavenly 

^Afiemoony Fehruary 6. Dr. Treadwell has 
been in this morning to see me. He questioned 
me very closely, and I know by his looks he 
thinks my case to be a very bad one. He thinks 
the hospital will be no place for me ; and thinks 
it is fit only for those who have no home or 
friends to take care of them. . I could not speak 
my thanks ; but I think I looked grateful. He 
has relieved my heart of a heavy burden. 


Dr. Treadwell recommended my taking a new. 
medicine, and in a week he will call again with 
Dr. C. 

^^ February 12. I think, since I began to 
take my new medicine, I have felt less of the 
iaintness and distress at my stomach. My ap- 
petite is better than it has been since my con- 
finement I feel thankful that the medicine has 
had so good an effect The pain in my back is 
beyond description. The least exertion causes 
the most violent spasms. I have cold chills, 
and have had them more or less for more than 
two years. They often continue an hour or two, 
and convulse my whole frame. My friends are 
often obliged to leave me, it is so painful to their 
feelings to witness the dreadful suffering I am in, 
while the chills continue. 

** I sit in my chair an hour or two in the day, 
but suffer continually, and all the sleep I get is 
created by very strong opiates. But there will 
be rest for this weary body. It will not always 
suffer, I feel that soon, very soon, I shall be 
called to resign it to the cold and silent grave. 
There it will quietly rest, free from all disease. 
It will decay, and return to dust, and it may lie 
for ages to come ; but it will not be forgotten. 
€rod will take care of this clay. 

'*But the soul, the never dying soul, shall 
that find rest? Shall my immortal spirit be 
admitted to the mansions of eternal peace? 
Shall it be made fit to dwell with the spirits of 
the just, and be employed in praising God, its 
Redeemer? Lord, purify me from all sin. Make 


me humble and prayerful. Let thy Holy Spirit 
comfort and support me through this life. * Make 
me to go in the path of thy commandments, 
for therein do I delight.' *Lord, be merciful 
unto me ; heal my soul ; for I have sinned 
against thee.' 

''March 20, 1833. Dr. Treadwell and his 
father have examined my back. They found 
the spine very much diseased. It is so very 
soi'e that the least pressure causes the most ex- 
cruciating pain. After the examination of my 
back, he said to me, * Sarah, you will think me 
very cruel in what I shall recommend. But 
it has been tried in similar cases, and some- 
times pjiven relief. Your case is rather a bad 
one. However, I think it best to try the rem- 
edy. It will be to burn the back with a hot 
iron. I shall be obliged to bum into the flesh, 
very near the back bone. It will take but a 
moment to perform the operation. It will be 
very painful. If the first operation gives any 
reason for hope, I may think it necessary to re- 
peat it the second time. I will give you a day 
or two to think about it ; and if you are willing 
to try, you may possibly get relief. But you 
will not get well in a minute. You must per- 
severe. The bum will not heal for several 
months. My object will be to keep it open to 
carry off the matter that would be likely to col- 
lect into an abscess, that would give you much 
trouble, and in your present feeble state would 
very soon destroy life. I have told you plainly 


what I think, and will do the best I can for 

" I do feel grateful to Dr. Treadwell for his 
telling me plainly about my disease. I view it 
as a mark of kindness. He has raised my hopes, 
just enough to stimulate me to try the remedy, 
without being liable to be disappointed, if it 
should fml to give the desired relief." 


Heroic Hesolution — Cauterizing— Hope— Disappointment- 
Submission — Change of ' Pastors— Divers Experiences — 
Beview of Sufferings— Sources of Effectual Comfort 

''March 24, 1833. Where can the afflicted 
find comfort, and where can the weary find 
rest ? How wretched would be my lot, if I had 
no other refuge than this world can give, no 
comfort but the fleeting things of time ! Grod is 
my refuge. ' Cast thy burden upon the Lord, 
and he shall sustain thee.' My mind is decided. 
I will try the remedy and leave the event. ' All 
my friends have tried to dissuade me from trying 
the painful remedy. I know they feel for me, 
but they cannot help me. They know not what 
it is to be brought to the last remedy, after hav- 
ing tried almost every other. 

''March 26. To-morrow, if I live, I shall 
have my back cauterized. How strange it is, 
that I have not the least feeling of fear or dread, 
in the anticipation of the event! It cannot be 
my own strength that enables me to submit 
calmly and cheerfully to what I know will be 
extremely painful. Nor do I look upon it with 


the feelings of the Stoic I am not insensihle. 
I feel my situation. None but my heavenly 
Father can ever know the struggle I have made, 
to subdue the rising of my own wilL * The Lord 
is my strength and song, and he has become my 
salvation.' ' What time I am afraid, I will trust 
in thee.' 

" April 10. I was enabled to endure the ap- 
plication of the cauter-iron on my back, without 
a struggle or a groan. I could even look upon 
the red-hot insti*ument without fear. The pain 
I suffered during the operation can better be con- 
ceived than described. It is a fortnight since it 
was done, and the pain I suffer from the disease, 
and the soreness of the bum, obliges me to keep 
in the same position, day and night I do not 
regret what has been done, whether it help me 
or not I feel a satisfaction in knowing all has 
been done that could be, to relieve the dreadful 
disease. How comforting to feel that Gk)d will 
do all things well. 

* Sweet on his faithfulness to rest, 

Whose love can never end, 
Sweet on his covenant of grace, 
For all things to depend. 

* Sweet in the confidence of faith. 

To trust his firai decrees ; 
Sweet to lie passive in his hands. 
And know no will but his.' 

A few weeks after the burning, she described 
her sensations to a friend, — with a composure 
and cheerfulness, truly astonishing to the list- 


ener. " And a cloud of smoke" she smilingly 
said, ^ rose up from my back, and filled all the 
room!" She was doubtless greatly supported 
by the presence of her equally firm and heroic 
mother, who sat at her side and held her hand, 
while she looked upon all the preparations of the 
medical gentlemen, and then endured the terri- 
ble application of the cauter-iron. With stream- 
ing eyes the senior Dr. T , never known to 

be "given to the melting mood," — turned away 
from a sight, the very thought of which is quite 
sufficient for the fortitude of most persons. 

" April 24. I have felt to-day a pain in my 
foot It is the first feeling I have had in my 
lower extremities, for more than ten months. 
Can it be that life is once more to return to 
these dead limbs? My physician thinks it a 
favorable symptom ; and if the pain should con- 
tinue, he shall be encouraged to try the cauter- 
iron again." 

" May 1. The pain in my lower limbs con- 
tinues, and at times they are more painful than 
any suffering I have ever experienced. How 
strange that these limbs, which have so long 
been cold and apparently dead, are now con- 
vulsed with pain ! And still more strange, that 
this feeble body can be made to endure so much 
suffering. But what are my sufferings, when 
compared with those of my Saviour? When 


this body is almost weary with pain, I turn my 
thoughts from self, and fix them on the cross. 
There I behold agony even to the sweating of 
blood, and I am silent. When wearied nature 
seeks in yain for sleep, and the spirit is sor- 
rowful, I look to the garden of Grethsemane, 
and there behold sorrow even unto death ; and 
I, even I, a sinful worm of the dust, am per- 
mitted to say : " Father, all things are possible 
unto thee ; take away this cup from me, never- 
theless, not what I will, but what thou wilt.' 
I do i*ejoice, that * we have not an high priest 
which cannot be touched with the feeling of our 
infirmities ; but in all points was tempted like as 
we are, yet without sin.' I can go to God, my 
Saviour, with all my sorrows, and find comfort 
He will lead me through all trials, and I trust 
purify me from all sin. 

* Gently, Lord, gently lead me, 

Through this gloomy vale of tears, 
Through- the changes thou'st decreed me, 
Till my last great change appears. 

* In the hour of pain and anguish. 

In the hour wnen death draws near. 
Suffer not my heart to languish. 
Suffer not my soul to fear/ 

^^ Sept. 23. This feeble, trembling hand is 
once more permitted to guide my pen. Could it 
recount the sufierings I have passed through, 
since I last wrote, it would be a sad picture of 
the frailty of this earthly tenement Month after 
month, has this frail body been prostrated upon 



a bed of sickness and pain. Often have I felt, 
when my kind friends have watched over me, 
day and night, that I should need their kind 
attentions but a few hours longer. But I was 
calm. I felt no terrors at the approach of 
death. This body had become to me a minor 
object. I could view in imagination the cold 
clay, after the spirit had departed from it I 
could think of the last offices to be performed, 
and follow it to its dark and silent abode. But 
it did not distress me. My Saviour had passed 
through the grave and blessed it, and he is the 

" Heavenly Father, sanctify this sickness, and 
make it the means of much good. Enable me to 
endure all with Christian submission. Let not a 
wish arise in my heart, contrary to thy holy will. 
Make me faithful unto death ; and then, O Lord, 
wilt thou give me a crown of life. 

* Then, Saviour, then, my soul receive, 
Transported from this vale to live 

And reign with thee above ; 
Where faith is sweetly lost in siojht, 
And hope, in full, supreme delight, 

And everlasting love/ 

"In looking back upon the time that has 
elapsed since I wrote in my journal, I can re- 
call to mind many painful events. The first of 
last June, my back was cauterized the second 
time. But I was enabled to submit to the opera- 
tion with as good courage as I did the first time, 
though I was much more feeble. My physicians 
evidently felt much for me. Their expressions 


of sympathy, and their endeavors to jnake every- 
thing as pleasant as possible, will ever be remem- 
bered by me with feelings of sincere gratitude. 
My dear mother sat by me at the time of the 
operation ; and painful as it must have been to 
her feelings, was very calm. How much cause I 
have fo'r gratitude. I feel that it would be sinful 
in me to complain. There is not an hour passes, 
but I am called to acknowledge some act of kind- 
ness, some blessing bestowed. 

" My physicians have been unwearied in their 
endeavors to alleviate my sufferings; but alas, 
one of them has paid the last debt of nature 
before me. The hand that has for many years 
administered remedies to alleviate the diseases 
of his fellow-mortals, needed none to administer 
to his. He was called from this to the eternal 
world, without a moment's warning. It has been 
a sad trial to me. Little did I think, the day he 
assisted his son in burning my back, that in six 
days from that time his body would be a life- 
less lump of clay. Little did I think, when he 
came in to see me, the day but one before his 
death, and kindly encouraged me to persevere, 
that it would be his last visit to me. How short- 
sighted we are. We know not how soon we 
may be called. Every day we are admonished, 
but how little we regard the admonitions. Many 
that are expecting, from day to day, to hear of 
my death, may themselves be called to resign 
their tenements of clay; and I may remain a 
sufferer for many years, or I^ay be restored to 
health, and they may be laid ol a bed of sickness. 


God's ways are not as our ways. How impor- 
tant that we should at all times be prepared for 
death. * Blessed are those servants, whom the 
Lord when he cometh shall find watching.' 

" I have of late suffered very much from pain 
in my lower extremities, and in one of the limbs 
the cords have become so contracted, that I 
have been pbliged to bandage and splinter it 
in order to get it straight I find the remedy 
very uncomfortable, and when the bandage is 
tightened, the pain it causes is as severe as the 
extracting of a tooth. Though it gives me much 
pain, I feel encouraged to persevei-e. The limb 
is more pliable than it was a month since ; and I 
think that, in a few weeks, it will be as straight 
as the other. 

« 1834. Thursday, May 1. This has been a 
sad day to me. My dear minister made me his 
farewell visit, this morning. It is very trying to 
part with a kind minister. I shall miss him. It 
has always been a source of comfort to me, to 
feel that I had a kind minister to sympathize 
with me in many trials. But I have none now. 
Gk)d has placed him over another people. His 
place among us will be .for another to occupy, 
and perhaps by one who will take no interest in 
me. But why do I anticipate ? Grod will do all 
things right. Ere another takes his place, this 
weary body may be at rest, and this spirit will 
need no spiritual guide to comfort and encourage 
it through its weary pilgrimage. 

** I am daily admonished not to set my affec- 
tions on earthly objects. I tremble when I think 


how prone I am to give my affection to the per- 
ishing things of earth. But I do feel that my 
love toward my dear minister has been of that 
kind, which unites the heart in Christian bonds, 
and though it causes much sorrow to part, yet 
the bond that binds us cannot be broken. Even 
death has not the power to sever the tie which 
binds hearts united in true Christian love. It is 
a comfort to feel that our spirits can meet at the 
same throne and hold sweet communion with the 
same Almighty Father. And at his throne, if 
we are faithful unto death, we shall all meet, to 
part no more. This is the Christian's joy, the 
Christian's hope. ^ God shall wipe away all tears 
from their eyes; and there shall be no more 
death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall 
there be any more pain ; for the former things 
are passed .away. And he that sat upon the 
throne said, Behold, 1 make all things new.' 

^May 27. Three months ago, I had good 
reason to hope that I should recover the use of 
my limbs. I had got so much better, that the 
doctor used to stand me on my feet, and by his 
holding me up, I was able to move them, though 
not without much pain. Had I continued to gain 
strength, I have no doubt that I should ere this 
have been able to walk. But Infinite Wisdom 
saw fit to disappoint me, and I was again pros- 
trated on a bed of suffering. 

" The latter part of March, I was taken sick 
of a rheumatic fever. From the very feeble 
state I was in at the time, and the extreme pain 
attending the fever, I was brought very low ; and 


it was thought for many weeks I could not sur- 
vive. But my sufferings were not then to end. 
The fever left me, but more feeble and helpless 
than I ever have been. I am so very weak, 
that I faint whenever my head is lifted from the 
pillow. I have no appetite, and my pulse is 
seldom less than a hundred a minute. I have 
some chronic complaints that have become very 
painful. My only relief is by the constant use 
of anodynes. 

" But amidst all my severe and protracted suf- 
ferings, I have much, very much, to be thankful 
for. God has bestowed unnumbered blessings 
upon me. He has permitted me to enjoy much 
of his presence ; and, though to others my suffer- 
ings have been thought to be beyond endurance, 
I have ever felt that they might have been worse. 
Heavenly Father, I plead no merits pf my own. 
Thy grace alone has sustained me. And wilt 
thou ever give me faith to believe that all things, 
however dark they may be to me, are ordered by 
thee in wisdom and in love. 

^^ Sept 7. Four months past, I have been 
able to sit up in my chair an hour or two every 
day. I do not know that I am essentially better. 
The same complaints remain, though the pain at 
times is less acute. It is Sabbath day. How I 
long to go to the hous6 of God. The bells are 
now ringing, to assemble the people together. 
At such times, I feel how sad it is to be a help- 
less invalid. But I will not repine. It is best 
that I should be deprived of the privileges I once 
enjoyed, or this affliction would not be; and 


though confined by sickness and suffering, I am 
not forsaken. I can hold sweet communion with 
my Grod. I have the blessed Bible to teach the 
things he would have me to do. There I find 
sweet promises, a soothing balm for every pain 
and privation. 

* Thine earthly Sabbaths, Lord ! we love, 
But there's a nobler rest above ; 
that we might that rest attain, 
From sin, from sorrow, and from pain.* 

^^ Nov. 26. We are once more to have a min- 
ister. One week from to-day his installation will 
take place. I never heard him preach ; and I 
think he would be amused, could he know how 
earnest I am in my inquiries to find out who he 
is like. But none can find a comparison. I ask, 
is he like his father ? No. Is he like Mr. Cor- 
nelius ? No. Is he like Mr. Cleaveland ? No. 
And so I am left to draw a picture in my own 
mind of what I shall like my minister to be. 
I hope he is kind and affable, and I shall soon 
learn to love him. Give liim, O Lord, a double 
portion of thy Spirit Make him a faithful min- 
ister to the people over whom thou art about to 
place him. 

" jDcc. 6. I have seen Mr. Worcester. He 
came in to see me, last evening. I was sitting 
up in my chair when he came. I was much 
pleased with his visit. But I fear he thought 
me rather impudent, I fixed my eyes so earnestly 
upon him. I said to myself, is this my minister ? 
Will he love to visit the sick and afflicted ? Or 


will he feel it to be a painful duty ? I felt sad 
to think I might never hear him preach, and 
tears came to my eyes, when I thought of my 
helplessness. How Httle we know how to value 
blessings, until we are deprived of them. 

"Mr. Worcester, after conversing with me, 
offered a short prayer. It was the first visit I 
had received from a minister, for eight months. 

I shall long remember Mr. W *s first visit Uy 

me, he is so different fix)m what I had pictured 
him in my imagination. ♦ ♦ ♦ I soon forgot that 
he was a stranger to me. 

" March 6, 1835. I have again been sick of a 
rheumatic fever, and as before, my life was des- 
paired of for many weeks. During my severe 
suffering, I received much comfort from the kind 
and affectionate sympathy which my minister be- 
stowed upon me. I was taken sick of the fever, 
about a week after his first visit to me. I have 
reason to thank my heavenly Father, for giving 
me so kind a friend. I do not deserve so many 
blessings. I oft«n fear that my blessings will be 
so numerous, I shall be unmindful of them. 

" June 28. I am now able to sit up in my 
chair, several hours every day; and my phy- 
sician thought it would be for my benefit to ride 
out I have been out to ride twice. But the 
lifting me out and in, and the motion of the car- 
riage, caused the most violent pain, and I was 
obliged to give up all thoughts of trying it again. 

^' Sept. 16. I have been entirely confined to 
my bed, since last July. Amidst all my other 
trials, I suffer much from soreness of the lungs, 


and a very troublesome cough, which weakens 
me very much. For more than two years, I 
have almost continually suffered from one of the 
most painful diseases I ever knew. [It was 
strangury.] At times I am in agony. Many 
days and nights I have passed, without one mo- 
ment's ease. None but those that have suffered 
from the disease, can imagine anything about it 

** But I have ever found it easy to submit to 
the most severe pain. I know, if I trust to my 
own strength, I should faint under so many trials. 
But God has strengthened me, and by his grace 
I feel tliat I can do all things. I have faith to 
believe tliat God will bless the means used, just 
so far as will be for my good and his glory ; and 
though some tilings are dark to me now, I have 
not the least doubt, that hereafter I shall see why 
I was made to suffer. I often feel ashamed, 
i^dien I am asked by my friends how I feel, that 
I sliould so often tell them, I suffer very much ; 
without telling them how many comforts I have, 
to cheer and help me on my way. Teach me, 

Lord, to be grateful. 

'^Nov. 23, 1836. It is now sixteen months, 
since I sat up only long enough to have my bed 
made. The same chronic complaints continue to 
trouble me. The disease has been mostly in the 
bowels. For a year or two, I have been obliged, 
almost every week, to take the most powerful 
cathartics. My appetite is very poor, and I think 

1 have very little prospect, if any, of ever being 
Any better. I have thought, could any read the 
^ages I have written, they would think it impos- 



sible that I could have lived through so many 
diseases. But I could tell them, that the one 
half cannot be told. / cannot imagine how a 
person feels in good health, I can truly say I 
have not known what it is to feel well, for the 
last six years. But I have no reason to com- 
plain. I have never suffered one pain too many. 
God ever has done, and ever will do right 

'It is the Lord, shall I resist 

Or contradict his will. 
Who cannot do bnt what is just 

And must be righteous still.' 

"Yes, the Lord is righteous. My faith is 
strong in his promises. *The Lord is my 
strength.' Therefore, O my soul, * despise not 
the chastening of the Lord; neither be weary 
of his correction ; for whom the Lord loveth he 
correcteth ; even as a father the son in whom he 

" Jan, 1, 1837. Another year has closed, and 
a new one commenced, and this poor feeble body 
has still a, living spirit within it ! How wonderful 
the power of God, that I am so long an inhabi- 
tant of so frail a dwelling ! The past year has 
been to me one of more than common suffering. 
Often has the spirit been ready to bid farewell to 
earth and all its trials, and to welcome death as a 
kind messenger. Again and again has the spirit 
been permitted to rejoice, that its trials from sin 
and suffering were very soon to end. No earthly 
tie could allure me back to earth. All was joy 
and peace. Yes, when every nerve has been 


tortured with pain, when every remedy my kind 
physician could apply, or the kind hand of friend- 
ship bestow, has failed to relieve, I was calm, 
and could say amidst it all, 'The will of the 
Lord be done.' 

** The blessed assurance that God did not af- 
flict willingly, and a strong faith in his promise, 
that he would never leave nor forsake me, and 
that he would give me strength sufficient for all 
trials, enabled me to endure all my sufferings 
witli patienw;, knowing that they were all sent 
for my souFs good, by a kind and merciful Father. 
My never-failing confidence that God will do all 
things right, has made the spirit wilhng, when so 
near homo, to (iome back to its prison of clay, 
and to sufTor patiently and cheerfully to wait 
God's own time lo take me to himself. How 
comtbrting the thought that this is not our home. 
That there is a rest lor Aveary souls, when this 
short jitate of earthly discipline shall end. 

^ I do feel thankful, tliat when this spirit shall 
be called ujxiu to resign its house of clay, there 
will be no regret in the separation. I have been 
made to value and honor this body as the habita- 
tion of my never-dying soul to dwell in while on 
earth. I can now look upon the decay of this 
feeble body with pleasure, when I think that 
death is to free it from all suffering and corrup- 
tion ; and when this immortal spirit shall again 
iniiabit it, it will be free from all sin. And O, 
my heavenly Father, in the reunion of the spirit 
wit!) the body, when both shall become immortal, 
may it be found among that 'great multitude 


which no man could number, before the throne, 
and before the Lamb, clothed with white robes 
and palms in their hands ! ' To be one among 
the number of those, in that great and final con- 
summation of all things ; to hear the voice of mj 
Redeemer and my Judge, saying, ^ These are 
they which came out of great tribulation and 
have washed their robes, and made them white 
in the blood of the Lamb,' will be worth a life 
of pain and trials, even could it be without one 
moment's mitigation. I tremble, when I think 
my portion may be among the lost This sinful 
heart is so prone to wander. Save me, O God 
of my salvation. 

* I plead the merits of thy Son, 
Who died for sinners on the tree: 

I plead his righteousness alone, 
put the spotless robe on me/ 

" Though the past year has been one of con- 
tinued sickness and pain, I have many, very 
many blessings to acknowledge. And may the 
same Almighty Power, that has made me willing 
to suffer, give me a grateful heart; grateful that I 
have kind friends to watch over me, and by acts 
of kindness that none but the sick can value, 
have made my sick-bed easy and pleasant : grate- 
ful that I have a kind and faithful pastor to sym- 
pathize with me, and by his counsel and prayers 
direct my thoughts from earth to heaven. * * * 
I have a perfect confidence in telKng him my 
joys and my sorrows, and feel that he kindly 
cares for them. Teach me, O Lord, to love him 


as thj servant, sent by thee to comfort and soothe 
mj afOiictions, and relieve the tedious hours of a 

"I desire to be thankful, that I have had 
through this long and painful disease a kind and 
attentive physician, anxious to alleviate my suf- 
ferings, and never weary with hearing my com- 

" Surely God is good. How many are called 
to suffer without one friend to comfort them, 
while I am surrounded with every blessing. I 
have kind parents, and affectionate brothers and 
sisters ; brothers alway willing to get every thing 
for my comfort, a kind mother ever watchful, and 
never weary in attending to the wants of her 
suffering child. And everlasting thanks to thee, 
my heavenly Father, that thou hast enabled me to 
endure all my trials with patience ; that I have 
been enabled to submit to this severe and pro- 
tracted disease without once repining in word or 
thought. Help me, O Lord, ever to trust all to 
thee. Give me strength to endure to the end. 

* Hold thou me up, and I shall be safe ; ' and 

* Though I walk in the midst of trouble, thou wilt 
revive me.' 'The Lord God will help' me; 
therefore shall I not be confounded.' " 



The CheerfUl Room of the Sufferer—Her Life the Joy of 
Many — Views of Sickness and Health — Correspondence — 
A Remarkable Prayer. 

When the writer first saw Miss Mugford, she 
was " sitting up in her chair," as stated in her 
journal of Dec 6, 1834. He never saw her 
again in that position. The attack of rheumatic 
fever which occurred a few days afterwards, was 
fatal to all reasonable hope of her ever recover- 
ing the use of her lower limbs. Six months 
later, she suffered extremely, every time she was 
taken out of her bed. The operation was de- 
ferred, at first for weeks, and then for months. 
It became so painful, exciting, and exhausting, 
that in one instance even ten months passed, 
without its being attempted. But in all this 
time, as well as eSier a contrivance, a few years 
later, to lift her from her bed, as in a sack or 
hammock, had been invented, everything about 


her was kept in perfect cleanliness, neatness, and 

At one time, when reduced by fever, and 
wandering in mind, she thought herself in a 
stranger's house. Recognizing her pastor at her 
bed-side, she extended her hands towards him 
with a piteous entreaty that she might be carried 
home. He succeeded in soothing her, and, as he 
supposed, had convinced her that she was really 
at home and in her own room. But in a few 
moments his risibilities were convulsed almost 
beyond control, as she responded, "Well, Til 
try to be contented ; but I hope the people here 
will be kind and neat, and wiU keep my face 
cleanJ' Never was there a truer expression of a 
ruling passion in any human being, consciously or 

From first to last, the style and management 
of Sarah's room would have satisfied the fullest 
demands of Florence Nightingale ; while the ex- 
pense was very small, and the principal labor 
was performed by her revered mother, long after 
she had reached the age of three-score years and 
ten. The furniture, so fitting and tasteful, the 
unfailing supply of the most beautiful flowers 
from the gardens or the green-houses, the picto- 
rial and other enlivening embellishments upon 


the walls, the air of comfort, cheerfulness, and 
happiness, — ^m a word, the whole aspect of the 
sufferer and the scene generally excluded every 
sign or suggestion of gloominess or sadness. 
" Why, how cheerful you look here," was a very 
common exclamation, both of strangers and ac- 
quaintances. '^ This does not look at all like a 
sick-room." A sweet smile of the happy invalid 
would be sure to accompany some such reply as 
"Well, I always love to see things pleasant 
about me. I do not know why they should not 

For nearly a quarter of a century, there was 
another sufferer in Salem, Miss Sally Purbeck, 
who was also an extraordinary "example" of 
Christian trust and fortitude. But in her case, 
the frequent spasms, contortions, and apparent 
agonies were so appalling, that some clergymen, 
as well as numerous gentle-hearted ladies, have 
fallen upon the door, or have vanished from her 
presence as quickly as possible. It is not sup- 
posed, however, that her actual suffering was 
greater than that of Miss Mugford, who, when 
able to see company, as most of the time she 
was, could always be visited without the slightest 
painfulness or disquietude. Many were the vis- 
iters of the latter ; some from distant parts of the 


country. Thus was the beneficent influence of 
her " example of suffering affliction and of pa- 
tience," diffused far and wide. 

In her journal, she has spoken of the con- 
tracting cords of her right lower limb. It was 
eventually drawn up, as far as it could have been 
by an act of her own wilL It became as fixed 
as if it had been cast-iron. At a later time, 
(1842,) when she was more emaciated, her left 
limb was also drawn up under her, even more 
than the other. Her posture, as will easily be 
conceived, was now extremely uncomfortable. 
Her physician, ever assiduous and prompt to 
meet any new exigency in the case of his pa- 
tient, labored to force down the foot, as far as 
possible, by a wedge-like fixture, which he en- 
larged a very little, at intervals of weeks or 
more; he moved the foot down two or three 
inches only, in six or seven months of a very 
painful experiment; which, at last, was aban- 
doned from his own unwillingness to continue it, 
and not from any reluctance on her part to suffer 
all that would be necessary, so long as there was 
any hope of benefit The fixture was ever after- 
wards worn. Those who knew of it could not 
often sit long at her bed-side, without being re- 


minded c^ it by the creaking respmise to some- 
convulsive or spasmodic twinge. 

The contraction of both of her lower limbs^ 
added to the weakness and soreness of the lower 
part of the back, rendered it impossible fw her 
to move herself from the place in which she 
was laid by her attendants. Her head and the 
upper part of the body were supported by pil- 
lows, making an angle of inclination of tliirty-five 
or forty degi*ees. At times she could bear to be 
raised, and even raise herself, for a few minutes, 
so as to appear almost like one sitting in bed. 
But if the house had been on fire, and she could 
have saved herself by getting to the floor of the 
room, she would probably have been burned to 
death, unless some arm of rescue had reached 
her. This was her own belief, and hence she 
was repeatedly in the greater apprehension from 
fires in her neighborhood. 

Her physician, who was no alarmist, had re- 
peatedly predicted that her final hour would soon 
come. But in the summer of 1837, he felt cer- 
tain. It was in the beginning of the sixth year, 
as she computed the period of her sickness, — 
always reckoning the years from July 1, 1832. 
Her pastor, being prostrated on account of ill- 
ness, was compelled to leave home for a journey 


of a month. He never expected to see her again 
in this world. She rallied, however, as perhaps, 
ten or twelve times before ; but in this instance 
so wonderfuUj, that she seemed almost to have 
risen from the dead. 

Whether, she should die or live appeared to 
be a subject of no solicitude or preference. Her 
simple desire was, that God's will should be 
done. And ^though if she had then fallen 
asleep, there would have been not a few, who 
would have congratulated her on her deliver- 
ance from the furnace of her affliction; yet so 
much more had her consolation abounded, the 
more she endured, that the symptoms of her re- 
suscitation were hailed with an exhilarating glad- 
ness and gratitude. 

None would marvel at this, if they could know 
how greatly she was esteemed and beloved, and 
how instructive and comforting she was to other 
sufferers in far lighter afflictions. As ^ the power 
of Christ rested upon " her, and the all-sufficiency 
of his grace was so signally illustrated, there was 
scarcely a person that could be named in the 
active usefulness of private, and but few in a 
public life, who would have been more lamented 
in death. Most unexpectedly she revived, and 
seemingly regained what she had lost of strength 


by the severe attack which had brought her so 
low. But if any one had suggested, that she 
might yet live even for a tenth part of her re- 
maining twenty-three years, it could hardly have 
been thought a possibility. 

At the close of the last chapter, an extract 
was given from her manuscripts, under date of 
Jan. 1, 1837. It may be regarded as a continua- 
tion of the private journal, commenced July 1, 
1832. He next entry was the following : — 

" 1837. The wish has often been expressed 
by my friends, that they could have an entire 
history of my sufferings, from the beginning 
until the present moment. Most gladly would 
I comply with their request ; but I feel it would 
be impossible. Four years and nine months of 
continual suffering, is what very few can have 
the most remote idea of. Could I tell them all, 
how every nerve has been tortured with pain, 
day after day, month after month, and year after 
year, they would get but a faint idea of sufferings 
like mine. 

" We can describe pain, and we can sympa- 
thize with those that suffer, but the anguish is 
known only to the sufferer. I can tell of weari- 
some days and sleepless nights, of painful limbs 
and burning fevers. But those that can lie 
down upon their pillows, and after a night of 
sweet and quiet sleep, rise in the morning re- 
freshed, and able to engage, body and mind, in 


active business^ — ^what can they know of suffer- 
ing? They can only imagine, faintly imagine, 
what it is to spend wearisome days and sleepless 
nights, confined to one spot, dependent upon those 
around them to supply their most trifling wants. 
Human nature would shrink from the thought of 
only the confinement. I know health is a bless- 
ing to be desired, and it is natural for us to dread 
sickness. But I could tell those that are in the 
enjoyment of health, that I enjoy many, very 
many, comforts on my sick-bed. 

" It is here I have learned many a salutary 
lesson. I have learned to know myself. UntU 
I was tried, I knew not that God had made me 
capable of enduring suffering and privation. I 
never should have known that I could have 
courage to apply remedy after remedy, to bear 
them aU without fear, and when they have failed 
to give the desired relief, to have no feelings of 
discouragement I never should have known 
that I could have endured patiently and cheer- 
fully all my trials, had they not been protracted. 
I should never have known how to be grateful 
for past and present mercies, had my cup been 
unmixed with sorrow. Many of the precious 
promises our heavenly Father has given to cheer 
and comfort his afflicted children, would not have 
been mine. Now when almost weary with suf- 
fering, how sweet the pro^iises, * As thy days, so 
shall thy strength be.* * He that shall endure to 
the end, the same shall be saved ; ' and ^ My grace 
is sufficient for thee : for my strength is made 
perfect in weakness.* 



"These and many other promises have ena- 
bled me to view mj trials, not as marks of Grod's 
displeasure, but as blessings to teach me the 
vanity and uncertainty of all earthly hopes. 
Had I never known affliction, had my path been 
cheered with all the warm and summer hg^ t of 
earthly joys, how poor would have been my 
felicity ; and how soon would it have sunk be- 
low the narrow horizon of the tomb! Even 
when life glows upon us with all its radiance, we 
cannot be happy, unless our hopes are fixed on 
heaven ! 

"The will of our heavenly Father must be 
submitted to cheerfully. Be it to do, or suffer, 
we must have no choice of our own, but ever feel 
that the path he marks out for us is always the 
best, and if we trust in him, he will lead us safely 
through, however dark our path may be. 

* It is the Lord who can sustain 

Beneath the heaviest load, 

From whom assistance I obtain 

To tread the thorny road. 

* It is the Lord whose matchless skill, 

Can from affliction raise 
Matter, eternity to fill 
With ever growing praise.* 

" May all my dear friends be led to glorify 
Grod, that amidst all my trials I have been ena- 
bled to trust in him. And may my example 
ever be consistent with the spirit of my divine 
Master ! May all that come in to see me be 
made to feel that true happiness can be found 


even on a bed of sickness and pain ; and that 
I can be as grateful to my heavenly Father, 
as though I was enjoying health and freedom of 

"Grant, merciful Father, that my sufferings 
may be for thy glory ! May they not only be 
blessed to me, but to those around me ! May 
they feel that life and health are uncertain ; that 
they may lie on a bed of sickness; that their 
active limbs may be as useless as mine ; and 
theiB bodies, now full of health and vigor, may 
lie as prostrate as mine ! When they look upon 
this frail, helpless body, may they think of their 
own frailty, and be constrained to give their 
hearts to God ! " 

Of a few letters, written in this same year, 
1837, copies were preserved, chiefly, perhaps, 
because of their containing so much which an- 
swered the same purpose, as that of her auto- 
biographic journal. One of these was written 
to a suffering sister in the bonds of Christ, but 
with whom personally she had no acquaintance. 
It is a beautiftd effusion of Christian love, with 
a short postscript, which may "stir up** some 
" pure minds by way of remembrance." " P. S. 
You may ask what my motive can be in address- 
ing you. I can only say, that to me the least 
remembrance from any one, be it a kind visit, or 
the gift of a book, or a flower, or a little note. 


has contributed much to mj happiness. And 
many a painful hour has been alleviated bj the 
kind sympathy of friends." 

Writing to <Mie who had recently buried an 
endeared and venerated father, she says respect- 
ing herself: — 

" You will want to know how this poor * house 
I live in * has been, since you saw me, — O Mary, 
I don't want to be tired cJ it, but when I read 
your account of your father's peaceful departure 
to the ' spirit-land ' I longed to say farewell to 

* Fain would I leave this weary road. 
And sleep in death, to rest in God.* 

^^ I continue to sofier from the same chronic 
complaints, though f<H* the last three days the 
pain has been less acute. I have done without 
watchers, a number of nights. You say in your 
letter, we may never meet. Our heavenly Father 
knows best, and in all things I can say, ' Thy 
will, O Grod, be done.' Will you write to me 
very socm again. ♦ ♦ ♦ My dear friend, will you 
pray for your sick friend. Pray that she may 
glorify God. And may ' the very God of peace 
sanct^- you whcdly ; and I pray Grod your whole 
spirit, and soul, and body, be preserved blame- 
less unto the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. 
Faithftil is he that calleth you.' " 


The letter which fdlows was addressed to a 
friend, who had proved herself a friend indeed. 

^'Dear MehitaMe: — I have made several at- 
tempts to write to you, since you left Salem, 
but thus far I have not been able to succeed. 
* * * I have heard from you by the way of 
your Salem friends, and it would have given 
me much pleasure to have received a letter 
from you. I heard a little about your wedding. 
How did the Chester folks like your taking them 
so by surprise ? I am with you often in imagi- 
nation, and see you surrounded by your family 
of children. You certainly must feel your situa- 
tion to be a very responsible one. But you have 
a heavenly Friend to ask counsel of, and he will 
give you strength to discharge your duty towards 
the children whom you have taken under your 
maternal care. 

" I need not tell you how much I miss you. 
Among my many friends you are not the least. 
Your kind attentions to me I shall never forget. 
You have sympathized with me in my sufferings, 
and watched over my sick bed, and I trust, I am 
still remembered by you in your prayers. I 
am lying on my sick bed, though not in the same 
spot that I was, when you saw me. Some folks 
think me stationary, but I and my bed, (you 
know that is a part of myself, for the bed and I 
have long been inseparable,) get a move some- 
times. Last November I was moved into our 
front room, and I have found it much more 



comfortable than my little room I used to be in, 
when you were here. We had a grate set, and 
have burnt coal, so that I could have a fire all 
nigHty without being obliged to have watchers. I 
am now very feeble, more so, I think, than I ever 
have been. My appetite is very poor. I have 
not been able to take any solid Ibod into my 
stomach for more than a fortnight. Last week 
I suffered very much from pain. The same 
chronic complaints continue to trouble me, and 
the bowels continue to swell, so that every week 
I am obliged to take some very powerfiil cathartic 
Last week the pain was so very severe, I was 
obliged to blister the bowels. It relieved the pain 
for which it was applied ; but I have suffered more 
than ever from that disease, that you used to think 
was worse than all the rest. Even while writing 
tliis, I am in agony. 

"You don't know how much I dread the 
poisonous effects of a blister. My physician 
avoids using them as much as possible, but I 
have been obliged to have three blisters within 
two months. One of them was on the chest, 
and after it was drawn, the skin was stripped 
from it, and it was dressed with the savin s^ve 
to keep it open ; and for three weeks, I was 
unable to turn or move myself one inch. I can 
assure you it was anything but comfortable. 
The Doctor thought it would help a trouble- 
some cough, attended with a good deal of pain ; 
but like many other remedies it failed to give 
the desired relief. But I have no reason or 
disposition to complain. I know God will bless 


the means used, just so far as will be for my 
good, and his glory, and what more can I ask ? 
I am not able to sit up only to have my bed 
made. Last week I was unable to have it made 
from Monday morning until the next Sabbath, 
and I can tell you I began to feel a little wearied 
and uncomfortable. 

"I have told you a great deal more about 
myself than my own inclination would have 
prompted me to; but I promised you, when- 
ever I wrote you, to be very particular, and tell 
you just how I was, and as far as I am able, I 
have given you a history of myself. 

^ I suppose you often think about Salem and 
Salem folks. I know you must miss your rer 
ligious privileges, but when we know that God 
is not confined to time or place, we should not 
complain, but cheerfully submit to all privations. 
Often when I have felt sad to think that, year 
after year, I have been shut out from tibose 
privileges I once enjoyed, the thought that in a 
short time, if I should be faithful unto the end, I 
shall be permitted to worship God in those man- 
sions of eternal rest, where sin, nor sickness, 
nor change can ever be known, has dispelled all 
sadness. ♦♦♦♦♦♦ 

" You must give my love to your mother and 
sister. I often think of their kind attentions to 
me, while I was in Chester. Remember me 
to your brother's family. Tell your brother, I 
could not climb up Rattlesnake Hill with him 
now. Remember me to your good old uncle 
C . Tell him, I still suffer from pain and 


sickness, but I can rejoice amidst it all, and 
can cheerfully say 'Thy will, O God, be 
done.' *♦**♦* 

" I wish to be remembered fb your husband. 
You of course thanked him for his kind remem- 
brance of me. I intended to have kept that part 
of his letter to me, but you was so selfish, you 
claimed the whole. I hope he will write again. 
I cannot mention all my Chester friends indi- 
vidually, but I have not forgotten one of them ; 
and you must tell them so for me. You must 
write me very soon. Your friend, Sarah." 

To these extracts from correspondence may 
here he added a remarkable prayer. 

"Sabbath, 5 o'clock, Aug. 13, 1837.— Sister 
Abigail's dying hour. 

" O thou righteous Judge and Disposer of all 
events, help me to look to thee at this time. I 
am as clay in thy hands, and thou art the potter. 
Thou that gavest life, hast a right to take it 
away. Thou that gavest health, and friends, 
hast a right to recall them when thou pleasest. 
Thou didst bestow them upon us, thou hast a 
right to take them away. Be silent, O my soul ! 
Hush every thought, and cheerfully submit to 
thy Father's will. 

" Great indeed is this affliction. Help, O help 
me to believe that this trial is thy appointment. 
While our hearts are overwhelmed by this sud- 
den and distressing event, we would feel thank- 


fill and rejoice that my dear sister has put her 
trust in thee her Saviour ; that she is permitted 
to rejoice in the hope of a blessed immortality ; 
that with her last breath she can praise her 
Redeemer. Be with her, O thou Saviour of 
sinners. Strengthen her faith in this her last 
and dying hour. Gro with her through the dark 
valley and safely land her in the haven of 
eternal rest. 

" And while we pray for thee to strengthen 
her, may we not bring before thee our, own 
wants ? We know thy ways are mysterious, 
but right Thou art pleased to remove my dear 
sister in the midst of life and health, while I am 
left to linger, year after year, on a bed of sick- 
ness and suffering. O thou blessed Redeemer, 
thou by whose atoning blood I hope to be 
saved, wilt thou give me strength to endure 
to the end. 

" Wilt thou bless this family. May this afflic- 
tion be blessed to the souls of all. Bless the 
absent ones, and those that are with us ; and 
when they see and hear of the sustaining power 
of religion in the hour of sickness and pain ; 
when they see that death has no terrors to those 
who trust in a Saviour, may they be constrained 
to give their hearts to thee. Sanctify this afflic- 
tion to our aged father. While he sees his 
children, one after another, removed to the land 
of spirits, trusting in their Saviour, may he seek 
and find peace in believing. O God, hear in 
mercy the prayers of his sick and dying children 
for the salvation of his soul. O may he be saved 


by the atoning blood of the Saviour, the only 
way by which he can be saved. Save him, O 
save lum, before he goes down to death. 

"Pardon our importunity, O Father, and 
strengthen our faith. Much we would ask of 
thee for our dear mother. Strengthen her hope 
in thee, and though she is called often to drink 
the bitter cup of bereavement, and sorrow of 
various kinds, O Father, may she see the hand 
of kindness in all the dispensations of thy wise 
and holy will. 

" O Lord, in this dark and trying event, thoa 
art about to rend asunder the dear and sacred 
ties of wife, and mother. Bless, O bless the 
husband of my dear sister. Give him the liglit 
of thy countenance. May he now, it* he never 
has before, give his heart to God. May he be 
sanctified through the blood of Christ. We know 
that at the foot of the cross, he will find iha 
fountain of life and peace. Bless the dear motli- 
erless babes. Spare their lives, and enable those 
that shall have the care of them, to be faithful to 
their spiritual as well as their temporal wants. 
Hear, O Father, the dying wife and mother's 
prayer for her husband and her dear little ones. 

And now, O Father hear us, and as far as is 
consistent with thy holy will and purpose, an- 
swer us. We thank thee^ that we are permitted 
to come to thee, and that our wants are known 
to thee. Pardon our sins, and accept this our 
humble petition, and all glory and praise shall 
be given to him who died for us, that we through 


his sufferings and death might be made partakers 
of eternal rest. Amen."- 

The sister, whose "dying hour" was thus com- 
memorated, had given birth to twin daughters, 
who slept in death, and were buried with her, 
reposing in her arms. 


Habitual Gratitude — ^Employments — Sabbath-School Mem- 
bership — Correspondence — Testimony to her Pastor — 
The Last Night of the Year. 

" In everything give thanks," said Paul to the 
Thessalonians. The meaning is more clearly 
expressed in the words : — " continue to give 
thanks, whatever be your lot" This to many 
" is a hard saying." But it was otherwise to her, 
whose character this Memorial is designed to 

When her prospects of relief or respite from 
the acutest suffering were the darkest in the 
view of her attendants; she often said, as her 
friends took leave of her aft«r a visit, — ^" I hope 
I shall be better tomorrow." This remark has 
been repeated many days in succession, the eye 
beaming brightly with hope, while the tones of 
her voice indicated no impatience or anxiety. 
Expressed or implied there was always the peace 


of unfaltering trust, and the unspeakable joy of a 
heart that was never at a loss for new occasions 
of thanksgiving. 

She often adverted to her cause for gratitude 
that she could employ her hands, both for writing 
and working. She wrote but little at a time, 
yet the aggregate in some years was quite 
large. A part of her writing was first done 
. witli pencil, — the pen following carefully after, 
in every line, word, and point But in her later 
years she wrote less and less, and chiefly with 
the pencil alone. 

Much of the time she could use her needle, 
and any kind of needle which was known to 
her. Her various domestic and ornamental hand- 
icraft afforded her very pleasant occupation, until 
the very last months and weeks of her suffering. 
Much valued specimens are cherished as tokens 
of her affectionate regard, or proofs of her artis- 
tic accomplishments. Among them are some 
beautiful collections of " Ocean Flowers," in ar- 
ranging and preserving which in albums she took 
great delight. 

When not wholly disabled for exertion, she 

had no lack of employment. Much time, chiefly 

of the night hours, she spent in meditation and 

devotion. Her choice books were always within 



her reach ; and one or more of the best journals 
of passing events came to her daily. Her mem- 
ory was seldom at fault, and her knowledge 
of facts was truly wonderful. The writer once 
said to her, — " Why, Sarah, you are a stationary 
chronicle." Her response plainly intimated that 
she did not consider the remark much of a com- 
pliment, and that she desired to think of herself 
as living for some higher purpose, than merely 
to repeat what she had heard or read, whether 
or not requested. 

She'was always pleased to aid her friends by 
giving information which would be useful or 
agreeable, especially in settling questions of fact ; 
while tattling, or tale-bearing, or even talkative- 
ness, or any semblance of either, was regarded 
with great dislike, or disgust. And her gcnei-al 
intelligence, so varied and so accurate, beside 
contributing much to her own enjoyment, was so 
often appealed to, that her obliging services in 
this respect were somewhat of an item in the or- 
dinary course of her occupations. To tliis let it 
be added, that, from a very early period of her 
life, as a sufferer, she had the virtual care and 
oversight of all the affairs of the household ; and 
for a few years previous to her death, was the 
real head of the family, superintending all its 
concerns with admirable propriety. 


One employment on the Sabbath would not be 
suspected by any reader of these sketches. Re- 
taining her connection with the Sabbath-school, 
she regularly prepared herself when able so to 
do, as if expecting to meet with the members of 
the class in which she was enrolled, when she 
last attended public worship. Long after the 
class had ceased to exist, — even until near the 
close of her life, — she procured every new text- 
book, and kept herself informed of all the opera- 
tions of the school. In 1838, writing to her last 
teacher, Mrs. F. W. A., then residing in Illinois, 
she said : — 

" The remembrance of those happy seasons I 
once enjoyed in the Sabbath-school is still ex- 
ceedingly precious ; and though I may never be 
permitted personally to mingle with those who 
still enjoy the blessed privilege, I can here on 
my sick-bed enjoy the presence of God, my Sa- 
viour. You can well understand my feelings 
when I say, what a comfort it is to know that 
God is omnipresent" 

The thought of being disconnected with the 
Sabbath-school was evidently most painful to her. 
Her love for it was like that of the venerable 
Dea. John Punchard, who attended the Taberna- 
cle Sabbath-school until he was upwards of ninety- 


three years old, — and as long as he was able to 
walk to the house of God. 

In many ways she gave proof of an earnest 
desire, that her personal influence might always 
be that of a true and consistent friend of Christ. 
Some of those who sought her acquaintance 
were not only from the higl^^t walks of life, 
but also held very different views of religious 
doctrine, from those which she had found her 
life and joy. Among them were several young 
ladies, who never forgot her Christian loveliness 
and faithfulness. To Miss E. S. P., she thus 
wrote: — 

"You are very kind in wishing that I *too 
were able to enjoy with you the sweet songs 
of the birds.' I can assure you, my dear Lizzie, 
it would be a very great gratification to me, 
to be with you, and to be able to participate in 
those pleasures which nature has so bountifully 
Aimished for our comfort. And did 1 not con- 
stantly remember that my heavenly Father 
wisely permits the continuance of these infirmi- 
ties, which have so long confined me to the mo- 
notonous scenes of a sick-room, I fear I might 
sometimes be apt to repine. But dear E., you 
have often heard me say, that I constantly re- 
ceive more blessings than I can ever be thankful 
enough for.** 

"I was amused with your plan about the 


cottage, house-keeping, and getting rid of dinner- 
parties. I think your opinion of such things is 
very correct I think with you, that we should 
live very comfortably. You are very judicious 
too in the division of our employment. But 
these plans, dear Lizzie, are all imaginary, for 
they can never happen to us. Let us then look 
forward to those things which are real ; and let 
each of us be anxious to secure that happiness 
which shall be sure and eternal, — a home in 
those mansions of rest, where sin or suffering can 
never enter, and our employment will be to praise 
Him who redeemed us." 

To the same. 

" ' A happy New Year ' to you, my dear Eli- 
zabeth. * * * I thank you for your kind 
wish that this may be a happy year to me. I 
know it wiU be my own fault, if it is not. I have 
so much to be thankful for, that I cannot find 
time to be unhappy. I was pleased with the 
little hand-glass, which you sent me, and I will 
try to make a good use of it You say that you 
thought you would * venture to send it, as I am 
vanity-proofJ I thought when I looked in it, 
that though I did not now deserve the compli- 
ment, your glass would soon teach me the folly 
of vanity having any place in my heart, as it is 
a very true reflector. I hope soon, very soon 
to see you. 

Yours truly, Sauah." 




The following was to a lady, who, although 
" rich in this world," had found herself entirely 
destitute of support and comfort in her bereave- 
ments and other trials : — 

^^My Dear Mrs. R. : — Permit one who knows 
by experience what it is to drink of the bitter 
cup of affliction, to mingle her sympatiiy with 
you. Since I heard of the death of your son, 
you and your family have been almost constantly 
on my mind. Most earnestly do I pray, that the 
severe trials you have been called to endure, 
may be sanctified to you. May you be enabled 
to look to that Saviour, who alone can speak 
peace to the troubled soul ; for * vain is the help 
of man.' 

" ' The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken 
away.' Yes, Grod has done it. And the cup of 
affliction which he now presents, though it con- 
tains the waters of bitterness, is filled irom the 
fountain of life and love. To that fountain, my 
dear afflicted friend, I trust you will go. Look 
not to this w^orld for comfort, but remember that 
the hand which has wounded alone can heal. 
Cast your burden on the Lord, and he will sus- 
tain you, and communicate strength adequate to 
your day, — causing you to sing of mercy, as well 
as of judgment. 

" I beg of you to trust to no other refuge, save 
Christ. He is just such a Saviour as your soul 
needs. Yes, he can be touched with a feeling of 
our infirmities, and he afflicts but for our good. 


May you be able to adopt the language of the 
Psalmist, and say, ^ It is good for me that I have 
been afflicted.' 

" Forgive me, my dear friend, if I urge you 
more strongly to accept of the offers of consola- 
tion, which the Bible presents, than may seem 
to be proper for me to do. I know of no other 
comfort, and that is why I urge it To those 
that believe, Christ is unspeakably precious. 
Come then to him, and at the foot of the 
cross, find a tranquil refuge for your weary 
soul. Bow to his sceptre, welcome him to your 
heart, and you will find in him all you need ; a 
Redeemer, mighty to save, — a Physician, able 
to make you whole, — a Friend, infinitely power- 
ful and compassionate, — ^a glorious Resting-place 
through all the changes of time, — through aU the 
ages of eternity. 

* * * "With this I send you a litde 
book, — Jay's 'Happy Mourner;' and ask you to 
accept of it I find many things in it, which, I 
think, will give comfort to the afflicted. Excuse 
the liberty I have taken in addressing you. 

Yours, in the bonds of affectionate sympathy, 
Sarah S. Mugford." 

To Miss Mary S. 

" My dear Mary, I fear, is quite too apt to 
think more highly of her friend's judgment, than 
she deserves ; and did not the good opinion my 
friends have of me, serve to humble and stimu- 


late me to be more like what they think me, 
than I really am, I should be under the neces- 
sity of requesting them to be more careful about 
what they say to me. But, I trust, I have been 
able in some measure to see my danger, and it 
has been my earnest prayer, that I might be kept 
free from self-righteousness. 

"You say I have forgotten *how the cares, 
the pleasures, and the bustle of life in the midst 
of the world destroy our time and perplex the 
mind.' No, Mary, I have not forgotten, and I 
am often pained, when I look back and remem- 
ber how many precious hours 1 have given to the 
false and fleeting pleasures of the world ; and how 
little I have done for the good of my fellow- 
creatures. How few of us value time correctly, 
or improve it diligently. 

" It is true that I am now, and have been, for 
the last five years, comparatively speaking, free 
from the cares of the world. And it is likewise 
true, that I often imagine the path I would tread, 
were I again blessed with health. That I have 
been regulated in the disposal of my time by a 
system of my own, I will acknowledge ; but it 
falls far short of the high encomiums you pass 
upon it. ' A good method wisely arranged and 
punctually observed, in the distribution of our 
time,' I have always thought would assist us in a 
right improvement of it. We should constantly 
remember, that our time is amongst the talents 
for which we must give account at the bar of 
Gknl. And I tremble when I think, that I am 


there to give an account for not only what I 
have done, but for what I have had tune to do, 
and yet neglected to improve it" 

To another. 

" My Dear Mary : — ^I cannot sufficiently thank 
you for the kind and benevolent feelings ex- 
pressed in your note towards me. * * * * 
I wish that you would not be troubled about 
visitmg me too often. I will promise you, that I 
will not be ^ weary,' if your feet bring you to my 
house as often as you may wish to come. The 
passage you refer me to in Prov. 25 : 17, you 
need not apply to yourself; but I wish you to 
remember what is said in Prov. 18 : 24. * A 
man that hath friends must show himself friendly.' 
And situated as I am, I know of stronger test of 
my friends' love towards me, than their coming 
often to see me. 

" I am glad you feel as you do in regard to 
my continuance here. Always, my dear Mary, 
when you pray for me, let it be your earnest 
desire, that the will of GU)d be done. I desire to 
know no will but his. You say, that the thought 
of my being taken away sometimes causes tears ; 
but, my kind friend, there is a healing in the bitter 
cup. Faith looks beyond the narrow bounds of 
time, to the Christian's home. O let us not 
murmur, but rejoice that it is our privilege to 
die. To me it is a blessed thought. 


* E'en the last parting earth can know, 
Brings not unutterable woe, 

To souls that heavenward soar; 
For humble faith, with steadfast eye. 
Points to a brighter world on high, 
Where hearts mat here at parting sigh 

May meet to part no more.' 

" You request that while I live you may be a 
sharer of my friendship. Most cordially, dear 
Mary, do I reciprocate all your wishes. As 
long as I live, you shall be remembered by me. 
And may our love to each other be none but 
holy love, and then it will be lasting, yes, it will 
be eternal.'* 

In April, 1839, her debility was so great, that 
she was daily looking for the end. 

"You have often," she said to her pastor, 
" spoken with me about some little matters re- 
lating to my sickness. Some things you have. 
I have tried at times to write. But I have found 
that my sufferings seemed so much the same, 
that what I did write appeared but a repetition 
from day to day. I have done but little. I 
have always felt that it was all right I have 
enjoyed a peace and comfort, such as I never 
could have imagmed. My mother feels very 
much for me. I know you will never forget 
her. I may be spared a little longer. I may 
not have suffered hdf as much as I may yet 
have to suffer. But I sometimes feel, when 
I have almost got home, as if I should like 
to go. 


" I have not for a long time thought that I 
should be well again. I have always felt that 
Grod is righteous in all my afflictions. When I 
have thought of the sufferings of Christ, I have 
felt that mine are nothing to his. I have never 
dared to express all my feelings in regard to my 
poor body.'* 

Having recovered so far as to be able to 
use her pen, she wrote to Miss C. B., who 
was peculiarly afflicted, and who then had not 
found, as subsequently she did find, the in- 
ward supports of Christian submission and 
hope : — 

" When writing in your album, I said to my- 
self, perhaps these pieces will be read by my 
friend C— — , when I shall be where * the weary 
are at rest,' and ^ the inhabitant shall not say, I 
am sick.' And may I not hope, that when your 
eye rests upon the record of your afflicted and 
suffering friend, memory will take you back to 
this little room ? Yes, you will, I trust, think of 
the hours you have spent by the side of my sick 
bed, with feelings of thankfulness, that my sick 
bed was not the abode of sadness and gloom ; 
but that it was cheered by the kind attentions of 
friends and the prayers of Christians. And more 
than all I would have you remember, dear 

C , that through all the trials your friend 

has been called to endure, she was sustained and 


comforted by him, who hath said, I will never 
leave thee, nor forsake thee. 

" And may I not hope, that when my spirit 
shall be released from this frail dwelling, I may 
be permitted to see you a decided follower of our 
Lord and Saviour. Then, my friend, you will 
have a peace such as the world cannot give, and 
you will be enabled to view the trials and disap- 
pointments of this life, as blessings. I know 
your trial is severe ; but think not that you would 
have been more reconciled, had your trial been 
otherwise than it is. God cannot do amiss. He 
worketh all things after the counsel of his own 
will, and we know that he afflicts but for our 
good; and I pray that you may be enabled 
to say, ' It is well.' * It is the Lord, let him do 
what seemeth him good.' " 

The first day of July was very specially re- 
membered by Miss Mugford, as the anniversary 
of her confinement to the sick room, for the resi- 
due of life. But the commencement of a new 
year, according to the calendar, was still more 
an object of marked attention. In one of her 
letters, she says : — 

" You must not feel troubled when you find 
that I wrote part of this letter at twelve o'clock, 
last night. I began it yesterday afternoon, as 
you will see, and wrote only a few lines. Com- 
pany came in, and I had no chance to write 


until midnight I should not have been asleep, 

if I had not been writing. I told sister H , 

before she went to bed, that since I have been 
an invalid, I have never gone to sleep, the 
last night of the year and the beginning of 
the new year. It has always been an interest- 
ing season to me, and I would not be forgetful 
of it, even if by sleeping it away, I could have 
a night of sleep, such as those only in health can 

In another letter to the same friend, she refers 
to a striking passage in Krummacher's " Elijah 
the Tishbite." 

"./aw. 1, 1840. Last night, being unable to 
sleep, I spent the hours in thinking of that 
home, where time shall be without change, and 
where the weary shall find rest I could not 
but feel, that many had been taken away the 
last year, whose usefulness would have far ex- 
ceeded mine, had they been permitted to re- 
main upon the earth. In the midst of these 
thoughts, I took up my little book, * Elijah the 
Tishbite,' and was comforted and encouraged 
by reading this sentence: 'Many a broken in- 
strument will the Lord use again for his work, 
before he takes it away into the land of rest ; 
and many a troubled sufferer before he de- 
parts shall again take his harp from the wil- 
lows, and sing thanksgiving to Him, whose 
counsel is wonderful and his ways mysterious^ 



but who doeth all things well. And then it will 
be enough. Ah, who is warranted yet in say- 
ing it is * enough ? ' It is only ' enough,' when 
the Lord saith it And if you have still to re- 
main for years in the furnace of affliction, be 
assured that you will eventually acknowledge in 
heaven, that then only was it enough, and not a 
moment earlier, when the Lord stripped you of 
the garments of your pilgrimage, and took you 
unto himself.' " 

" Mary, I do feel, that it is not enough, until 
the Lord saith it I submit all to his will, and 
he will strengthen me to endure every trial. 
Pray for me, my dear friend. And may the 
year we have just entered upon, be to each of us 
both useful and happy; and when we are to- 
gether let us think and talk more about the 
Saviour. Let no earthly friend take the place 
in our hearts which belongs to him whom we 
have promised to follow." 

Accompanying the foregoing was a copy of 
the lines, " On hearing the clock strike twelve 
at night, Dec. 31st," — beginning with the ad- 
dress, — 

" Knell of departed years 
Thy voice is sweet to me; '* 

and ending with the stanza, — 


" Thou art the voice of Lift ; 
A sound which seems to say, 
prisoner in this gloomy vale, 
Thy flesh shall faint, thy heart shall fail; 
Yet fairer scenes thy spirit hail, 
That cannot pass away; 
Here, grief and pain 
Thy steps detain, 
There in the image of the Lord, shalt 
Thou with Jesus reign." 


Physicians— The Refining Process—The Night-Blooming 
Cereus— Winter's Jubilee— New Trials and Triumphs — 
Enjoyment of Life — The Closing Scenes. 

The eminent physician who performed the 
operation of cauterizing, and afterwards visited 
his patient daily with unabated interest and 
without charge, was unfortunately poisoned dur- 
ing a post mortem examination. Anticipating a 
suspension, if not an end of his professional 
practice, he introduced to her a brother phy- 
sician. Dr. G. O , in whom he fully and just- 
ly confided. They visited her in company, or 
separately, until 1841, when the latter was her 
only dependance. She regarded it as an occa- 
sion of daily thanks to God, that she was so 
favored in respect to medical service. Her new 
adviser spared no pains to administer every 
available remedy, in the most scientific treatment 
of diseases and infirmities like hers; receiving 


all the recompense which he desired, in the 
pleasure of his daily visitations. 

She had a great abhorrence of quackery, and 
would never listen with any favor to suggestions 
which were sometimes made by visiters, as if 
she might be benefited by a diflPerent course of 
treatment In one instance an amiable man 

tried to persuade her to admit a Dr. C and 

his electrical battery, — assuring her that she 
would certainly receive great relief, if not be 
perfectly cured. It happened at a time when 
she had been greatly alarmed by fires near her 
dwelling, as well as in other parts of the city. 
Her characteristic decision appears in a few 
words to a friend : — 

" I forgot to tell you, that Saturday afternoon, 
in the midst of the fire, the Dr. C— — , I told 
you about, called to see me, and brought his 
electrical machine all ready to give me a shock. 
But I thought I had had shocks enough for one 

day, and as I had referred him to Dr. O ^ 

and he had not seen him, I refused to see him, 
and the poor man went off with his box. Dr. 

T used to tell me, that if he had children, 

he would teach them ' how to say, wo.' And I 
will never say yes, when I feel that it is right to 
say no ; not to please the best friends I have. 
If the man is wiling to go to Dr. O , as he 



ought to, and if Dr. O thinks well of him, I 

am ready to see him." 

She was troubled no farther from this source. 
And beyond question, she saved herself and her 
family much expense and unhappiness, by her 
inflexible purpose to follow the directions of her 
chosen physicians, and give no countenance to 
the pretensions of empirics, however heralded, 
or to any panacea, whatever the attestations of 
its incomparableness. 

Not anything was more uniformly manifest, 
than her confidence that her trial would have an 
end in God's own appointed time. She was 
deeply interested, when her pastor informed her 
of the test to which refiners of silver bring their 
work, — viz., the clear reflection of their own 
face from the surface of the heated metal. She 
has alluded to the process of refining, in several 
of her manuscripts, as in the letter which fol- 
lows, dated, "Saturday night, 11 o'clock, July 1, 

* * * " Eleven long years of suffering ! 
How many times, within the last three or four 
hours, I have repeated these words ! I am lost 
in wonder, and feel that it is almost impossible 
to give you the least idea of the mingled emo- 
tions which now fill my heart I have shed 


tears of sorrow and of joy. Bitter tears of sor- 
row I have good cause to shed, when I remem- 
ber how long I have been in the furnace, and 
how much dross still remains. But, dear Mary, 
I rejoice to know that he who tries, is the ' Great 
Refiner,' and he knows how much I can bear, 
and just what I need. 

* Tis blessedness to know that he 

The piece he has begun 
Will not forsake, till he can see, — 

To prove the work well done, — 
An image, by its brightness shown, 

The per£Bct likeness oi his own.' 

'"Many, very many, years longer it will be 
necessary to keep me in the furnace of affliction, 
ere the work wiU be well done, or ere a faint 
likness of my Saviour can be seen in me. I will 
make no promise now, dear M., that this new 
year, the twelfth year I am just about to com- 
mence, shall be more satisfactorily spent, than 
those that are past, but I do pray that it may be. 
I will trust in Him, who has hitherto been my 
strength, my refuge ; and whatever the coming 
year may bring to me, be it sickness and suffer- 
ing, joy or sorrow, life or death, I trust I shall 
be enabled cheerfully to acquiesce. Thus far I 
can say, that I have not had one pain too many 
or too severe. My lot has been a pleasant and 
by no means a hard one ; and in truth and sin- 
cerity I can say — 


* I thank theo for sickness, for sorrow, for care, 

For the thorns I have gathered, the anguish I bear; 

For nights of anxiety, watchings, and tears, 

A present of pain, a perspective of years ; 

I praise thee, I bless thee, my King and my God, 

For the good and the evil thy hand hath bestowed/ " 

In this same illuminated midnight letter, there 
is a corresponding description of a rare spectacle, 
which cannot be omitted, as it at once so happily 
illustrates her discriminating taste, and her great 
facility in deducing appropriate moral lessons 
from what we call nature, and what truly " is but 
the varied Grod." 

" It is now almost two o'clock, and think not, 
dear M., that I have been kept awake writing 
this letter. I have felt no desire to sleep. 
A little after ten, Mrs. P. was so very kind as 
to bring me a beautiful flower, the night-bloom- 
ing Cereus. I was delighted to think I had got 
the beautiful flower to watch all night. Would 
you not like to watch it with me? The first 
moment I saw it, I wished you could see it ; 
and if it had not been too late, I should have 
sent for Mr. W. and Mrs. A., and the chil- 
dren, to come and see it. But I had to enjoy 
it all alone. About one o'clock, when it was 
in all its splendor, I did awake Mary P. out 
of a good sound sleep, to get up and see it; and 
I got her to take it into mother's room for her 
to see." 


*^ It IS tlie most singular and interesting flower 
I ever saw. This is the second one I have 
watched all night When Mrs. P, brought it at 
ten o'clock, it was not entirely bloomed out 
From that time until one, it very gradually 
spread out its beautiful straw-colored, and its 
pure white petals ; and then I could look down 
into the calyx, or cup of the flower, where I 
could see placed, in such beautiful order, its 
rich and delicate straw-colored stamens. But I 
cannot tell you how magniflcent it looked. 
Have you ever seen one ? If you have, you will 
know why I cannot describe it How sad it 
seems, that anything so beautiful should die so 
soon I Before daylight, it will look like an ugly 
wilted stalk. Even now the outside straw-colored 
petals have changed to a dark brownish shade ; 
and as they draw up towards the white ones, 
such a dark shade is cast over them, that I am 
reminded of an eclipse of the sun." 

" What a lesson one may learn from this 
flower! And how few behold its beauty, or 
smell its rich fragrance I O Mary, you would 
not value a night's watching, if you could enjoy 
what I have with this flower. The fragrance 
and beauty of it are almost gone, but not the 
lesson I have received. I have often heard peo- 
ple say, that they look from nature up to na- 
ture's God. And they think oftentimes, that in 
so doing they worship him as they ought But 
can they feel his presence, unless they feel and 
believe that nature's Grod is their Redeemer? 
And unless we feel, that he is our Redeemer, 


and that his blood has been shed for us — how 
can we feel that he is more to us, than he is to 
this little flower?" 

"Our meditation for July first, if I mistake 
not, is — ' My Saviour is the One Mediator be- 
tween God and man.' How very pleasant it is 
to study this little book, *My Saviour?* Mary, 
I have felt to-night that he is indeed my Creator 
and Saviour. 

"Four o'clock. For the last hour I have 
been watching my poor, dying flower. Its 
beauty is all gone. And I have been listening 
too for the welcome sound of rain, as I hear 
the distant sound of thunder. But the cloud, 
I think, is passing from us, and there is no rain. 
But it will come all in good time. The thunder 
has passed away, and now the birds have be- 
gun their sweet morning songs. It is delightful 
to hear their sweet songs, and more so when 
I remember that this is the Sabbath. Aside 
from pain, what I now enjoy is a foretaste of the 
heavenly rest, — 

* Where fragrant flowers immortal bloom, 
And joys supreme are given.' " 

The attentive reader must have marked the 
beauty and fitness of the poetical passages, 
which appear in such extracts from her writings, 
as the foregoing. Quite a collection might be 
made from her papers, rich according to its ex- 
tent, as the richest compilation yet seen in our 


noble language, designed for the especial com- 
fort and joy of the afHicted. Her love of beauty 
also, in whatever form, attracted to her mind and 
heart the choicest variety of other poetic effusions. 
It is not known that she ever attempted to ex- 
press her thoughts or sentiments in any versifica- 
tion of her own. But in her artless, and most 
unpretending compositions, there was not seldom 
an unconscious kindling of poetic fervor. 

" Jan, 2, 1853. O Mary, dear Mary, was there 
ever on this earth such a glorious Sabbath morn- 
ing ? And new year too ? * He casteth forth his 
ice like morsels.' K the Psalmist had the glo- 
rious sight I now have before my eyes he could 
not help exclaiming, — ^ O Lord, how manifold are 
thy woii^ 1 in wisdom hast thou made them all : 
the earth is full of thy riches.' God has indeed 
* cast forth his ice like morsels.' Nature has put 
on a splendid robe for the new year. 

* Tis winter's jubilee,— this day 

His stores tneir countless treasures yield. 
See how the diamond glances play 
In ceaseless blaze from trees and field. 

* A shower of gems is strewed around, 

The flowers of winter, rich and rare ; 
Rubies and sapphires deck the ground, 
The topaz, emerald, all are there.' 

** I can see, dear M., from my window, just 
two elm trees, covered as it were with silver. 
I am almost blinded by the sight, as the sun 


shines upon them. What an exhibition of purity! 
None but infinite wisdom and power can so soon 
bring forth such a picture of beauty. If the two 
trees I can see, fill my mind with so much pleas- 
ure, what must those feel and enjoy, who can see 
a greater number ? " 

" I call this splendid exhibition our heavenly 
Father's new year's present to his children. 
What a splendid world this might have been, if 
sin had never entered it. And even now, Mary, 
sinful as I am, I cannot look upon this splendid 
glitter of gems, without feeling this to be a fore- 
taste of heaven. Of the New Jerusalem, John 
says, — *Her light was like unto a stone most 
precious, even like a jasper-stwie, clear as crystal. 
* * * And the building of the wall of it was of 
jasper; and the city was pure gold, like unto 
clear glass. And the foundaticms of the wall 
of the city were garnished with all manner of 
precious stones.' " 

" Since I have been writing, the sun has melted 
away much of the beauty of nature's silver robe. 
Still much remains. But how soon all will be 
gone. How strikmgly emblematical of human 
life is this scene. Life and death, sunshine and 
tears. We should be the better for such lessons. 
But how soon we forget them." 

Did not she who could so write, and who con- 
tinued even more than seven years longer thus to 
feel, to write, and to exemplify, have triumph in 
her trial? But as yet the half of either part 


of her experience has scarcely been suggested, 
much less portrayed. 

In Jan. 1845, she was lifted carefully from her 
bed, and in a few minutes was replaced. She 
had not been thus moved for almost a year. 
The convulsive excitement was sadly disastrous. 
As soon as her head was laid again upon her 
pillows, her mouth closed with a new and most 
alarming sensation. Entering her room just at 
this hour, her pastor saw her in tears. It was 
the only time he ever saw her weep, on account 
of any suffering in her afflicted body. But the 
tears were flowing fast, as she said to him, with 
a laboring utterance, — ^ My jaws are locked, and 
I am afraid they will never be opened again ! " 
Her worst fears were realized. For sixteen 
years and a half her jaws were locked, immov- 

She was obliged during all this time to take 
her nourishment in a liquid form, through a glass 
tube, which was inserted on one side of her 
mouth, in an opening caused by the extraction 
of defective teeth. Her articulation was of course 
obstructed and otherwise impaired. 

A little more than three years kter, (Feb. 
1848,) while seized of a violent influenza, she 
lost her voice, so as never afterwards to be able 



to speak, except in whispering sounds. And 
about the same time, her teeth and gums became 
excessively sore and painful, from an inequality 
in the pressure of the upper and lower parts 
of the mouth. A skilful dentist undertook the 
removal of seventeen or more perfectly sound 
teeth, and to substitute an artificial set, in a 
frame-work, which might equalize the pressure, 
that had been so insupportable. 

To submit to such an operation, in any cir- 
cumstances, would be quite enough for more 
than an average shar© of resolution. But with 
those fine teeth in that fastly closed mouth, it 
was a trial to herself scarcely inferior to the 
terrific cauterizing, fifteen years previous, and 
was borne with the same unblenching firmness. 
On two or three different days, the work was 
accomplished. The experiment of the substitute 
was equally successful, and afforded her a most 
happy relief. 

Beside the bodily diseases already mentioned 
or indicated, she had great suffering, at different 
times, from neuralgic affections of the face, the 
eyes, the ears, and the head generally. For 
some one or more of her maladies, blisters upon 
blisters, large and small, but of the most irri- 
tating kind, were applied and were usually as 


anodynes or opiates, in contrast with the an- 
guish endured without them.' Almost every year 
she had either a rheumatic or a lung fever. 
For weeks together, she seemed just on the eve 
of departure. Several times she was also brought 
to the very borders of the grave, by dysentery 
or cholera ; in some years attacked by the former 
in winter, and the latter in summer ; while of the 
influenza and other epidemics of our climate, she 
had at least as ^11 an apportionment as any of 
her neighbors. 

From the chronic and occasional ailments or 
maladies, and from the '^ unchanging sameness 
in which," as she said, she was " obliged to lie," 
her whole digestive organization was incurably 
disordered. As a natural consequence, there was 
indigestion, costiveness, flatulency, or nausea, 
which required the most active and powerful 
remedies of the Materia Medica. If now stran- 
gury be added, it can surprise no one that there 
was not an hour or moment of consciousness, 
with an entire exemption from pain or distress. 
When suffering only her chronic maladies, and 
considering herself very comfortably sick, she 
seldom had more than an hour or two of sleep in 
twenty-four. Often she was awake all the night, 
as well as all the day. 


If there is a record of such an accumulatioa 
and complication of bodily inflictiais in any other 
sufferer, — ^where is it to be found? Would it 
have been strange, is she should often have said, 
— " Behold and see, if there be any sorrow like 
unto my sorrow, which is done unto me, where- 
with the Lord hath afflicted me ? " But this, or 
anything like this, she was never heard to say, 
or to intimate. 

Her appearance much of the time would 
naturally prompt an inquiry, like that of a 
Christian lady from abroad, ^ Do you have much 
suffering?" The answer was, — ^''-I am never 
free from pain, but I do not suffer anything com- 
pared with what the Saviour suffered for me.** 
This she said in as natural and as pleasant a 
manner as can be conceived. She was as far as 
any one could be, from all affectation of serious- 
ness or solemnity, and from imitating what has 
been called "a hdt^ tone" 

A clergyman who was also from abroad, hav- 
ing been much interested in her case, inquired 
of her, — if the thought ever came into her mind, 
whether so much suffering as hers would not 
entitle her to a high place in heaven. With a 
most intense look of mingled astonishment and 
grief, she replied, — '^ Why, no ! I never had such 
a thought" 


Beside bodily inflictions, she had more than a 
common experience of sorrow for the dead, who 
in life were most dear to her heart Some 
of her bereavements were brought into view in 
previous chapters. Brothers and nephews were 
lost at sea, or died in foreign lands. One most 
estimable brother was smitten down bj assassins, 
on the island of Luzon, near Manila, when just 
ready to embark for home, after an absence of 
eight years. The intelligence well nigh crushed 
to the earth the whole circle of wife, mother, 
sister, brothers, and other kindred ; although not 
a doubt could be felt, that the Lord Jesus re- 
ceived the spirit of the dear departed, as certainly 
as he did that of the dying Stephen. 

The father had died some years previous. 
The aged mother fell asleep in March, 185G. 
Her death had been anticipated with "great 
heaviness and continual sorrow," for almost a 
year. From 1830, to 1855, she had ministered 
to her afflicted daughter with an admirable 
Christian firmness, united with an unsurpassed 
maternal tenderness. In their religious persua- 
sions and hopes they were one, and in constitu- 
tional elements of character perfectly congenial. 
Hence few hours were happier than when they 


could be in undisturbed communion, as usually 
they were late in the evening. 

The mother had been blessed with excellent 
health for eighty years, when she was prostrated 
by a most painful sickness. Occupying an ad- 
joining room, her irrepressible groans would 
reach the ears of her suffering child, who for 
months could not bear to think of the end. In 
one instance, however, when much moved him- 
self, the writer said, — ^'^ Sarah, it does indeed 
seem a mystery that your dear mother, at her 
advanced age, should be afflicted by such excru- 
ciating anguish!" "It is to make us willing 
to part with her," — was the immediate reply, 
with a flood of tears. From this time, there 
was manifest the needed and the full prepara- 
tion to bless " the God of patience and consola- 
tion " for the hour of that devoted mother^s mer- 
ciful release. 

One who providentially had been in training 
for several years, as an assistant in the care of 
the survivor, was found entirely capable of serv- 
ing her in her peculiar need. The blessing was 
more and more gratefully appreciated, in the 
years which were yet to be numbered for the 
completion of her trial. Her pastor^s resigna- 
tion in Dec 1859, was an event which engross- 


ed her thoughts with a variously disquieting in- 
fluence; although as to herself she anticipated 
no change in his ministrations. 

In the following spring, the return of a be- 
loved brother, after a long sojourn in China or 
the islands of the " Orient," was so grateful and 
cheering to her, that while the steady progress 
of decline and decay was as plain to herself as to 
others, there was yet a seeming increase of love 
of life and interest in earthly scenes. Upon this 
brother it had been her privilege to lean for 
pecuniary support; and his fraternal kindness 
was to the last all that she could desire. 

Less and less able to do that miscellaneous 
handwork, which had so much beguiled the pain- 
fulness and weariness of previous years, she the 
more enjoyed the fare of the household and the 
society of her old and tried friends. These were 
never more dear to her, nor was she to them. 
Her books also, and her journals of intelligence, 
had a larger share of her time. 

As mid-summer of 1860 approached, her fee- 
bleness was premonitory of her last great change. 
She spoke at times very feelingly of her dread 
of August, as the month in which she must ex- 
pect a return of that malady, which had repeat- 
edly brought her so near to the grave. She 


seemed quite sure that she could not survive 
another visitation of the cholera, if it should be 
as severe as it had been wont to be. The thought 
of death did not trouble her ; but her heart's de- 
sire was, if so it could be, that in some other way 
the silver cord might be loosed. 

At the beginning of the dreaded August, her 
symptoms were more hopeful than they had been 
for several months. Near the middle of the 
month, her guardian brother took a journey to a 
distant resort of invalids, without any apprehen- 
sion that he would hear her voice no more in 
" welcome home." He was also absent who had 
been her pastor for more than a quarter of a cen- 
tury, and fully expecting, if spared to return, 
that he should find her still living to witness for 
the all-sufficiency of the grace of Christ. 

Suddenly, the dreaded malady came. The 
usual remedies were promptly applied. The 
faithful attendant and nurse, unwilling to think 
of a fatal issue, was, as ever before, unremitting 
in her services, — her whole manner being cheer- 
ful and her words encouraging. The physician 
early saw those signs of "the last of earth," 
which he would gladly not have seen. Yet his 
remembrances of the past did not allow him to 
relinquish all hope. 


On the 17th and 18th of August, the malady 
was increasingly severe. The next day was the 
Sabhath. The languor of the sufferer was ex- 
treme, and at intervals the pains were intense. 
None were admitted to her room but those who 
could not be spared. Few and faint were her 
words, and these such only as her bodily con- 
dition instinctively prompted. When a little res- 
pited from suffering, she seemed "in perfect 
peace," and as " fearing no evil." She had been 
" in deaths oft," and had given, as she supposed, 
her dying testimony to the Saviour^s loving-kind- 
ness and faithfulness. It was so ordained, that 
she should now scarcely utter another word. 
And what one word more was needed ? 

In the evening she was sleeping quietly, and 
so continued, until about midnight. Awaking, 
she was restless and distressed. On a return 
of the peculiar virulence of her malady, she faintly 
whispered, '''This vnU he the finishing of we." 
It was soon beyond her power to articulate a 
sentence. Her rational consciousness glimmered 
only for moments, lighting up the shadow of 
death upon those around. 

Her physician's countenance was so marked, 
that she fixed her eyes expressively upon him. 
After repeated struggles, she was understood to 


say, "Doctor, you are troubled," — her manner 
implying that all was well with herself. There 
were a few minutes of silence, when she opened 
her eyes as if a vision of scenes immortal had 
burst upon her inward view, and with an ex- 
clamation, as of sudden and delighted recognition 
of loved ones who had gone before, she peace- 
fully expired. 

Monday morning, August 20, 1860, when the 
sun rose, hers, as we cannot doubt, was the ever- 
lasting light of the glorified, in "the paradise 
of God.'' 


From SaraJis Poetical Selections. 

Chamber of sickness ! Much to thee I owe, 

Though dark thou be; 
The lesson it imports me most to know 

I owe to thee ! 
A sacred seminary thou hast been, 
I trust, to train me to a happier scene. 

Chamber of sickness ! Suffering and alone, 

My friends withdrawn. 
The blessed beams of heavenly truth have shone 

On nie forlorn. 
With such a hallowed vividness and power 
As ne'er were granted to a brighter hour. 

Chamber of sickness ! Midst thy silence oft 

A voice is heard. 
Which though it falls like dew on flowers, so soft, 

Yet speaks each word 
Into the aching heart's unseen recess, 
With power no earthly accents could possess. 

Chamber of sickness ! In that bright abode 

Where there is no more pain. 
If through the merits of my Saviour God 

A seat I gain. 
This theme shall tune my golden harp's soft lays, 
That in thy shelter passed my early days. 


I would not have this gloomy view 
Aboat my room, arooDd my bed; 

But early violets, bathed in dew, 
To ease this burning, throbbing head. 

When adverse winds and waves arise, 
And in my heart despondence sighs, — 
When life her throng of care reveals. 
And weakness o'er my spirit steals, — 
Grateful I hear the kind decree. 
That * as my day, my strength shall be. 

When, with sad footstep, memory roves, — 
Mid smitten joys, and buried loves, — 
When sleep my tearful pillow flies. 
And dewy morning drinks ray sighs, — 
Still to thy promise. Lord, I flee. 
That * as my day, my strength shall be.' 

One trial more must yet be past, 

One pang, — the keenest, and the last, — 

And when, with brow convulsed and pale. 

My feeble, quivering heart-strings fail. 

Redeemer, grant my soul to see 

That * as the day, her strength shall be.' 

The pains of death are past, 

Labor and sorrow cease. 
And life's long warfare closed at last; 

Her soul is found in peace.