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till the spring of 1830 that the disease put on appearances fatal to all hopes of her recovery. At this time she was seized with an attack of determination of blood to the head, which much depressed her, and threw her mind, for a short time, into a state of great excitement in regard to the state of her heart towards God, and the foundation on which her faith had been reared. God, in his loving-kindness, smiled, however, upon the dark cloud; his promises broke through it; the day, the unclouded day, arose upon her mind; and she came forth from the fiery trial that tried her as gold purified seven times. From this period she laid aside the indulgence of all hope of eventual recovery, and evidently lived under the hourly impression that the close of her days was drawing nigh.
We shall shortly state how beautifully the spirit of her father wrought in her decline, as it had done in her days of health, and how the grace that blessed his latter end, blessed hers also. Her disposition was naturally most generous and enthusiastic, and all her feelings so sensitive, as to expose her, during the previous years of her life, to frequent and severe suffering, however unimportant in themselves the causes from which such pains occasionally arose. Little did her family suppose that concealed under all this sensibility lay the firmness and strength of mind which her conduct, during her long illness, manifested, and by its operations on which the Spirit of God so wonderfully supported her-enabling her, at last, to look with composure upon that, the very thought of which, during her years of health, would have crushed her gentle spirit; and to shew
to her friends that, when stripped of the promises of her youth, and shut out from the realisation of all her buoyant young hopes, the eye of her faith, unmoistened, was turned from the interests of time to the brighter and more lasting scenes of an eternity that came hastening upon her.
Though early devoted to her Saviour, she now felt an increasing and earnest desire to abstract her mind from every subject that might interfere . with her entire devotedness to her God. She would not even allow the periodicals of the day, from which formerly she received much pleasure during her illness, to be read in her hearing; and though the joyous elasticity of her former spirits would sometimes return, there was a peculiar solemnity about her manner which had never displayed itself before. She frequently said to her sister who nursed her, “I believe this last sad distress was sent in peculiar mercy; and though, from my early years, I think I have loved my Saviour, I feel now, more than ever, my entire dependence on him.” Her love to her parents had always been distinguished by the greatest tenderness and enthusiasm, and ruled, almost as a tyrant, over every other earthly affection; but when speaking of her love to God, as compared with her love to her sainted father, she now said, “ They are distinct feelings, and do not interfere the one with the other; my love to my father, now he is in heaven, is as great as ever it was; but my love to my God is so much greater than it used to be, that it almost swallows up the other.” During the last six weeks of her life, she was entirely confined to her room, and latterly to her bed. Her state of
mind was most enviable. She enjoyed the peace of God-was at peace with all mankind-forgave, with all the sincerity of a dying and humble believer, any by whom her exquisitely sensitive mind had been wounded—and daily poured out her heart in gratitude to God for the mercies with which she was surrounded. When speaking of her coming dissolution, she said ; “ The world holds out no charms to me- no inducements to wish to live; but it is hard to leave my mother. I feel confident, however, that God will support you, and reward you for your years of care and attention to me. I am going home to perfect bliss—of this I have no doubt; not, oh no, (lifting up her beautiful eyes,)--not through any righteousness of my own, but alone, alone through the righteousness of my Redeemer. Some time ago, when you and I conversed upon this subject, I had not this confidence-I feared that I was building upon a false foundation ; but these fears are all gone.” It was replied, “ You have not, dear Jeane, attained to this, without much struggling and wrestling with God.” “No,” she said ; “ but you, if you do so, will gain it too.”
The kindness of her heart did not wax cold during her long course of suffering. Finding her strength a little revived, though scarcely able to walk across the room, even when assisted, she caused her work-box to be brought to her, and said to her mother; — “ Now, dear mother, I am going to put a plan into execution, of which I have thought for some time past. God has graciously renewed my strength, and I am anxious to shew my gratitude in some other way than by
words. I intend to make some fancy articles, and you, my brothers, and sisters, will purchase them of me; and thus, with God's blessing, I hope to be able to provide some warm clothing for some poor people against the coming winter.” She entered upon the work, and continued it till increasing weakness would not allow her even to sit up in bed. It was customary to read some of God's promises to her out of that valuable little work, “ Clarke's Scripture Promises,” the last thing every night before she lay down. It some times happened, that many were read to her none of which came home to her present feelings. She would say—“ These promises are very beautiful; but they do not just suit me to-night: read on;" and when one was read that seemed adapted to her situation, she said, “ That's the one-thank you, dear mother; do not read any more,—this is my anchor — I will not talk any more ;" and then, in devout meditation, she composed herself to rest. It is delightful to think that there is so rich a variety in the promises of God; that the tree of life bears twelve manner of fruits—yields its fruit every month of the year, even in its coldest and darkest; and that its richest branches hang over the dark valley.
Though she had no wish to die, the evidences she gave of her calmness and acquiescence were most abundant; hers was the submission of a child—not my will, but thine. After a very distressing night, she said in the morning to her sis. ter, “Well, dear, if this is death coming at last, how grateful ought I to be that my mind is kept in
perfect peace! I feel no more concern in the certainty that in a few days I shall be laid in Bunhill Fields, than I should do if you were to lift me from this bed to yours.” She inquired of her kind medical attendant, a day or two before her death, how long he thought it probable she could continue to live. He, being well acquainted with her strength of mind, replied, “ Not long.” “Do you expect to see me alive to-morrow ?" she asked. He replied, “Yes ;” upon which she thanked him, and pressed the inquiry no further; but requested her sister to have in readiness whatever might be necessary. “For myself,” she said, “it will make no difference; but, for your own sakes, I hope there will be nothing of confusion.” Her sister replied, “Yes, to-morrow.” She said, “No, to-night- you know not what a night may bring forth;” and then begged that this intelligence might be conveyed, in the tenderest manner, to her aged mother. She said, one Sunday evening, to her mother, “ It has always appeared to me very imprudent in people, when they see friends just about to expire, to warn them of it—the mind at that time may have become so weak as not to be able to bear it, though it may have looked on death unmoved for months previous.” And within an hour or two of her actual departure, reading in her mother's countenance the bitter consciousness that now another of earth's strongest holiest ties was about to be torn asunder, she looked full in her face, and said, “ Mind, mother, mind!”
She read much during her illness: “ Drelincourt on the Fear of Death,” frequently; “ Baxter's