Rachel's Sepulchre; OR, A MEMORIAL OF Mrs. Lydia Willis, Taken, chiefly, from her Letters to Friends, on various occasions.
A DESIRE to preserve the memory of worthy and beloved Friends, especially of such as have, thro' the course of their lives approved themselves the friends of God, is not only founded in nature, but seems evidently warranted in the holy Scriptures. God has told us that the righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance (1); and that the memory of the just is blessed (2)— Which implies the care of Providence, not by miracle, but by the use of proper means, in preserving the memory of such just and righteous persons: While those of an opposite character, thro' neglect, are forgotten. Their very name is blotted out; as it follows, but the name of the wicked shall rot.
From this principle, no doubt, and with this view even to perpetuate the memory of his beloved Rachel the Patriarch Jacob raised a monument over her grave Gen. 35, 19, 20, Rachel died, and was buried in the way to Ephrath; and Jacob set a pillar upon her grave: that is the pillar of Rachel's grave unto this day: which was known, in after ages, to be Rachel's sepulchre, and referred to, 1 Sam. 10, 2.
[Page 5]But there are other monuments equally durable and more instructive, due to the merits of some departed friends, which may be justly expected, as they are earnestly desired by the living; for this worthy end, that God may be glorified and praised, for his gifts and graces, bestowed on the children of men, whereby he alone makes one to differ from another.
The monuments here intended, are the Lives and Characters of persons whose excellent spirit, christian conversation, profitable writings and good works, do furnish materials both to entertain and edify succeeding generations, who, without such memorials, would entirely miss the benefit.
Tis with this view, and not without some hopes of attaining this end that I have, at the earnest desire of one (whom I could not deny) been persuaded to gather up some pious remains of Mrs. Lydia Willis, whose memory is precious, so far as I have known, to all her acquaintance—peculiarly so to her beloved surviving husband, near relations and intimate friends, for whose use, more especially these pages are designed.
Characters, I know, are oftentimes offensive; and many unkind reflections, are occasioned thereby, both on the living and the dead.—But why should any be offended at a character truly drawn? Why take offence, at a simple narrative of facts, or a true and faithful account of those virtues and good things, which evidently took place and appeared, in the person's life! And this I take to be the main point, in giving a character, even to pay a sacred regard to truth in relating facts, or things that were really found, in the person described. And when all is said in truth, we mean not, thereby, to exalt and praise the man himself, but to glorify God in him.
Wherefore, to excite the living to praise the giver of [Page 6] every good and perfect gift, as well as to comfort and edify her surviving friends, I shall in simplicity of heart, give a sketch of Mrs. Willis's Life and Character; more especially as it appears in her familiar letters, wherein the genuine breathings of her soul are the most sensibly discovered, perhaps, of any way in which her ideas were communicated.
Of these I have therefore selected a number, and giving the most of them at large, exactly as they were written with her own hand; except a grammatical defect hath, now and then, been supplyed. That her letters might appear in their native simplicity, I have not so much as corrected some inaccuracies, which a learned pen might have avoided.—The principal liberty that I have taken, is sometimes to exchange a word for some other, which is more expressive of what was evidently her meaning! and the word that is substituted, may be known by inverted comma's before and after it, thus "—"
But some of her letters are wholly suppressed; and in those that appear, some stricking passages are omitted, on account of the singular amity and friendship, that subsisted between her and the living relative, to whom they were written; in whose hands she knew herself to be safe, tho' she wrote with the most unreserved freedom.
MRS. Lydia Willis, late virtuous Consort of the Rev. Mr. Eliakim Willis, Pastor of the second Church of Malden, after ten days sickness, died there, much lamented, on the 25th of January, 1767, in the 59th year of her age.
She was born at Duxborough, April 1709, the only Daughter of Mr. Thomas Fish of that Town, deceased.
A Description of her person, (with some principal branches of her character) is aptly and truly drawn, by another hand, as entered at the close of this account.
And yet, to compleat the view of her person, there is [Page 7] room to add, that she was of an eligible stature and proportion. Her visage comely especially in youth, nor wholly defac'd in age.*—On her countenance dwelt a peculiar seriousness and pleasancy, so agreeably composed, as to demand respect, while it sensibly invited to nearness and freedom of converse.
As a grateful acknowledgement to the father of lights, it may be said, that under the influence of a careful and religious education, her youth was preserved from blemish. So that she entered the social life, in good repute among her companions.
An early taste for reading led her to acquaint herself, as opportunity favoured, with authors, polite as well as religious; the latter more especially, suited her attention.—This rendered her conversation edifying, while it agreeably entertained her discerning acquaintance. So that she was favoured with the best society that her rural situation and the times afforded.
A good talent at writing gave her the advantage of a profitable correspondence; which many special providences occasioned her frequently to improve.—Her constitution (being of the most delicate & tender make) subjected her to habitual weakness, and frequent distressing sicknesses; which, together with numerous other adverse providences, made her indeed a woman of sorrow and acquainted with grief.—She was a person of uncommon trials and afflictions, from her early days. Which, however, did not sink her spirits, but rather tended, for the most part, to wake up and invigorate every faculty, and manifest to others, rather than herself.
She abounded in love and tender affections, not only to her near relations, but to all mankind—A mind, susceptable of the deepest impressions, disposs'd her to joy and sorrow, in their turns, proportionable to every interesting event.
[Page 8]On such occasions, her letters are most expressive of what she felt.—But as crosses and afflictions were familiar to her, even from her youth. These were, most frequently, the moving subjects, on which she wrote.— In a very low state of health, and under some peculiar trials, she writes, to her brother at Stonington, upon his marriage, and settlement there.
"I Can no more, but just congratulate your happy change—wishing a long continuance of the pleasant scene, with greater additions of bliss, than, as yet your soul finds room for the reception of—and then turn my thoughts to the gloomy cares, in which my life is involv'd. I had a great desire to come to your Ordination; and was ready to flatter myself, that heaven would be propitious to my wishes, and grant me health enough to admit of the journey—But alass! I find every scence of pleasure, that appears in view, is but imaginary, nothing real.—I dare not say, I am contented, and willing to bear my misfortunes: but" (can say) "my constant desires are, that my will may join with his, who hath assign'd them for me.—I will not blast your joys with a particular recital of my circumstances. Oh no: I had rather you should erase your unhappy sister, forever from your memory, than suffer her afflictions, to deprive you of any part of that happiness, which heaven has design'd for you—But this, I must tell you, I despair of ever being well! Each day brings a boundless eternity nearer by view: and how my unbodied spirit will appear, is the great concern! For which I beg, while alive, to be remembred by you in your prayers to God;—that he would enrich me with his grace, patiently and cheerfully to endure every affliction that may advance his glory and my eternal peace.—Remember [Page 9] me to your—spouse. Tell her I love her next to you, &c. From your affectionate Sister,
The next spring after this, she so far recovered her health, that she visited Stonington, where she spent the summer, very pleasantly, at her brothers, with growing endearments.—But this perhaps, served rather to encrease than abate her trials, when absent, upon returning, bodily infirmities, and other sorrows.—Her affections, that were even too tender before, are now, with greater difficulty, kept under command.
On her journey home, she writes back in a moving strain.—
"I Cannot bear to leave you without a second farewell. Though the hurry that attends my writing, "prevents" my expressing the thousandth part of the tender concern, which wrecks my—soul, at the tho't of being parted from such dear—creatures.—When I revolve in my mind the "trying" distance that "providence" has plac'd me at from you, the thought is too hard to bear, without dissolving into tears. Forgive my childish fondness, which has hardly afforded a dry eye since I left you. And in the midst of my wild despairing grief, my distracted senses would tear you from my soul, that I might have ease.
But my better reason chides my rashness, and bids me forever indulge the generous tenderness, though I loose the repose of my life thereby."
After a particular account of her journey, she concludes, "I am this moment setting out for home— Farewell dear souls—I bless while I write."
Under the influence of such excessively tender emotions, accompanied with extreme pains, she returned to her fathers's house; where, besides her own and families [Page 10] common troubles, she met with a new scene of sorrow, which in the issue, almost dissolv'd her tender frame.— This was the dangerous sickness of her brother Samuel Fish, from which there was but little hopes of his recovery. —The following is an extract of some passages of a letter, wrote upon the occasion above.
"WIth what pleasing raptures could I embrace this opportunity of writing, or breathing out my soul to you, if I could, in an measure do it in an agreeable entertaining manner.—But oh! I can't.—There is a gloomy cloud of ills, that hangs heavy on my little weakly soul, and almost stiffles every glimmering thought of earthly joys. It is with the greatest reluctance that I am forced to tell you the troubles of our family, &c." (After a very affecting account of the frowns of Providence, in respect to their temporal affairs, and her own bodily infirmities, she adds.)—"But I must alarm your ears with a more melancholly story, than any of my own ailments. Brother Samuel's sickness comes nearer my heart, and gives me deeper wounds than any my own could do—He continues very weak, and has lost much flesh—is sometimes very melancholly and discouraged about himself. But we are not yet out of hopes that he may be restored to health, in God's time."
With a blessing on means he recovered his health and strength, so far that, in a few weeks, he returned to his vessel and business, which was in the sea faring way.—This mercy gave joy to the family; but to none more than the Sister; whose sensible feelings were not to be out-done, even by parents themselves.
Thus raised from the sides of the grave, and being in the bloom of life, * 'twas hoped he would live for a [Page 11] lasting comfort and blessing to the family.—But how soon and how suddenly was their rejoicing turned into mourning! In a little more than a month from the date above, he was drowned in Plymouth bay.—What less than divine support could uphold the distressed parents, —ever fond and tender of their children,—aged and broken with repeated and long continued troubles? And surely nothing short of that eternal arm, which saved a sinking Peter, could have preserved our Lydia (whose very composition was love and tenderness) from plunging deeper in the floods of sorrow, than her blooming brother in the ocean. Upon this sorrowful occasion she writes to her brother at Stonington.—
"IT is not unlikely that, by some means or other, you may have heard of the change in our family, before this can meet you.—But if not, forgive the unwilling hand, that writes unwelcome news. And may divine goodness enable me to write and you to hear, the soul-searching affliction, which God, in his infinite wisdom, is pleased to try our faith and patience withal. —Fain would my trembling soul spin out the time, and frame a thousand things, before it tells the wound. —But no—my mournful errand must be done.—Oh Heaven assist me in pronouncing those bitter words, our dearest brother is gone! his time is swallowed up in a vast eternity.—But not "by" a natural death, as some phrase it. Oh no! He soon recovered from his bed of pain and weakness—his flesh and strength were renewed, even to the wonder and admiration of all who saw him,—the rose and the lilly seemed to mix in every agreeable feature; and new graces adorn each look and action—His sweet temper, together with a manly, generous soul had gained the affections of all who knew him: So that the whole town seem to mingle [Page 12] their tears with ours, and mourn their loss.—And if the death of one makes such impressions on the hearts of strangers, what then do our souls suffer, who were more intimately acquainted, and knew more of his worth? —Oh how high were our expectations raised! how fond were all our fancies?—but none more lavishly set than your poor, wounded, distressed sister.—For finding —in him, I had vainly placed my happiness there, and pleased myself with an imaginary notion, of taking much pleasure in the world in that dear engaging object.—But alass! he is gone! my expectations are perished,—his young life is cut off, by a sudden stroke of Providence.—
"He had been to Boston, and was returning home, the 19th day of this month,—They had just turned the gurnet, when he thought proper to ease the main-sheet, which he was about; and (the wind being very high) he was struck "(or carried)" overboard with it.— There happened to be a little place were the rails of the [...]oop were broke, and there he must glide through, and plunge into his watry grave!—I have not life to repeat the many aggravating circumstances, which attended this melancholly scene; nor would I wound your ears with them if I could—But this I would let you know, brother Nathaniel * was on board, and saw him in the water, while struggling with all the bitter agonies of soul and body.—Oh what a—killing sight was that! May Heaven support him under his extreme sorrow; and give him, and all of us, grace to make a happy improvement of this fiery trial, which God has justly sent, to refine our souls from sin; and that mercy, and not judgment may be the happy consequence, is the earnest desire of your affectionate, sorrowful sister,
"P. S. My father would have writ but was not [Page 13] in a capacity§—He and mother both send their tender love to you and sister, desiring a continual remembrance in your prayers, for the comfortable supports of grace and patience, under God's afflicting rod.—My two surviving brothers, and poor distressed sister, † with myself all pay our tender regards to you both, and ask the same favor with them "(i. e. parents)." I must leave you to think of their sorrow, for it exceeds the power of expression. It awakes their former griefs; insomuch that they seem to be groaning under the burden of two bereavements at once ††—Do write the first opportunity."
Here she refers to the like sudden death of their eldest son, Mr. Thomas Fish, jun. who was going passenger from Duxborough to Boston, in a coaster, September, 1722. when the vessel was overset, by a sudden, violent gale of wind, not far from the light house, and drove ashore on Nantasket beech, nigh to which he was drowned. Madam Robinson, virtuous and amiable consort of Rev. Mr. John Robinson, (then Minister at Duxborough) and her daughter, were drowned at the same time. [She was the mother of the late governour Trumbull's lady of Connecticut, and one of the wives of the Rev. Jacob Eliot, of Lebanon, deceased; and of the wife of the late Rev. Abel Stiles of Woodstock.] The said Mr. Thomas Fish was educated at Cambridge-College, —took his degree, A. B. July 1719; and just before his death was published to Mrs. Anne Turner, of Scituate, now the wife of Deacon Joseph Stockbridge, of Pembroke.
[This lady was a daughter of Col. Amos Turner, of Scituate. The God of Nature blessed her with a capacious mind, which she greatly improved by reading the best writers the age she lived in afforded; and by conversing with persons of the best taste in the circle in which she lived; especially the clergy who were most noted for their accomplishments. She rendered her husband one of the happiest of men, by her most sweet and engaging behaviour. The want of children was supplied by her most soft and endearing deportment. And though she had no children, she trained up those of others in such a manner, that they were ready to rise up and call her blessed.
She lived to an advanced age; and died in her 84th year, in December, 1782. She left the world as became a disciple of Jesus, though she left it with the most excruciating pains, as she died with a cancer in her breast: yet she did not reckon the sufferings of the present time worthy to be compared with the glories which were revealed in her. How did she converse with a most intimate friend, who saw her but a few days before her death? Those who were not acquainted with her, knew not the happiness they lost; and those that were, were ready to cry out in the language of a divine writer, Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord: henceforth they rest from their labours, and their works follow them.—And though she is dead, the life which she lived speaks to all. And may these lines recommend religion to her sex; and then she did not live in vain with respect to them, as she did not I trust with respect to herself.
But I shall add no more with respect to this once amiable lady—but that the leading strokes in the character of Madam Page, towards the close of this pamphlet, were applicable to her; and that she may be viewed in as amiable a light by the reader. The three ladies, whose characters have been attempted in some measure in these pages, ought ever to shine in this hemisphere, like three brilliant stars.]
He was universally beloved for his strict virtue, amiable endowments and engaging behaviour—most dear to his parents, who mourned not alone.
Two sons, so desirable, being taken away after the like affecting manner, in their bloom, at the same time of life, about 23 years old, and neither of their bodies ever found, must needs fall uncommonly heavy upon their aged parents, whose other trials had brought them very low.—Deep called unto deep.—They mourned for their sons many days: and their grey hairs were brought down with sorrow to the grave.
[Page 14]Under this severe trial she was greatly supported, in her mind and spirits, though her body languished. She was enabled to make a religious and profitable improvement of the Providence, that deprived her of one of the dearest comforts of life.—Soon after this, she writes to her brother at Stonington, as follows.
"I am unwilling that any opportunity for writing should be neglected, since it is all I can do, in token of that love and tenderness I feel for you.—I have lately sent you a letter, which gave an account of our sorrowful circumstances; so that I shan't be particular [Page 15] in this. But only let you know, that we, who are alive, are in our usual state of health; though every body cries out upon me, that I look like a picture of death.— And indeed, I have been more indisposed since my brother's death, than I have been for twelve months before.*—I believe that grief was part of the occasion. My body partook in the sufferings of my soul.—But I hope the sufferings of both here, will prove the happy cause "(or means)" of my rejoicing hereafter; which is all the comfort I have, and all I can wish, this side the grave, which seems to be gaping for me: But I don't think I shall take up my cold lodging there, before I have seen more and greater afflictions, which I believe my life is spared for.—The dear corpse of my brother is not yet found, nor have we any ground to think it ever will."
"'Tis not without reluctance that I am obliged to leave you: but—I did not know of writing 'till late; and a heart and head too full of sorrow and care, to think or write any thing agreeable," &c.—"So must bid you farewell, mixing a thousand blessings therewith.
Extract of a letter to her brother, in answer to his upon her own and families afflictions.—
"WE received yours, which demonstrated the greatest "tenderness for us."—I can't— 'tis impossible for me to express the variety of passions awakened, by reading your dear engaging lines.— Oh that I could gain a thought from my disordered soul, that might excite in you a clear idea of the tender concern that I continually feel for you both.—I return you my hearty thanks for the good counsel you gave, [Page 16] and wish the taking impressions may prove lasting, on each of our souls.—I have a great deal to say; but cannot speak.—My thoughts are more confused than ever.—I long to see you; but must not think of being so happy, 'till Providence brings you here again.—I am struggling to bring my mind to my circumstances, and be willing to meet my allotments in all their charming or most frightful shapes. May Heaven's preserving goodness spare you both, and grant me the bliss I wish, to see your faces once more.
Under the double pressure of settled prevailing weakness of body and clouds of darkness, that overspread her mind, she had such a low opinion of herself, and such diffidence of personal merit, as tended to sink her thoughts beneath her own importance.—to encrease the gloom, and encourage despondence, even when her circumstances (however ill) were not so desperate, as imagined.—And yet under cloudy providences, she would, at times, encourage herself in the Lord that all might issue well.—A specimen of her affecting apprehensions, in such a state of mind, we have in the following extracts of a letter, wrote in a time of some peculiar trials.
"WE received your welcome letters."— "If my soul was freed from all perplex'd ideas, yet I know the dimensions of it will never afford an answer."—"Indeed, my thoughts all appear so much unworthy the name, that were it not for you, I would forever conceal the poor conceptions of my mind, and never display such confused notions, as, by your indulgence, my weakness still prompts me to do.— I should have writ by—But not having any [Page 17] thing new to acquaint you with, I willingly neglected it, in hopes of more favourable changes, respecting the circumstances of the family: And that I might not always grate your ears with a recital of what would be distasteful."—But I have waited in vain, in that respect: For the frowns of Providence still surround us, with darker ills than what, till now, has been conceived of.
"Oh, what gloomy cares distract my mind, blend all my thoughts, and wound my better reason!—Dear brother, I can't tell you how shocking it is, to think of leaving home, to go I know not where!—not that my present circumstances oblige me to it; but since I have nothing but my feeble hands, to support my tender frame, I must seek out such employments as they can bear.—I know you wish me well, and would rejoice at my agreeable settlement. But that is a favour the unfortunate may not expect.—If by disclosing my mind I should in any measure, disappoint your expectations, in that regard, I hope you will be so kind to me, and so just to yourself, as to attribute your disappointment to your own mistaken "judgment, which has raised me in your opinion, so much above my deserts."— "By revolving me in your mind, with all my demerits, you will need no other assurance of my person and circumstances being alike distasteful."—"Wherefore, I am resolved, with submission to Providence, to preserve my liberty, resigning myself to the care of Heaven, whose blessings, I hope, will meet my endeavours, both for time and eternity.
About this time her infirmities and trials so prevailed, or at least, had such an influence, as to prevent her usual frequent writing. However, her ardent affection for her friends, and abiding concern about herself, [Page 18] now and then, overcame all impediments, and furnished matter for letters, at distant periods.
"I Have set apart this evening, and retired, as much as I could, from the noisy world, in order to say something to you. But I have lived so long in the neglect of writing, that every little faculty which I formerly had, has utterly deserted me, and nothing but confusion reigns instead of thought: So must intreat you not to look for any thing from me, but only the most sincere love and tender affection, that was ever nourished by such a relation.
"Oh, I know not how to suppress the variety of passions, often felt by me, resulting from the thoughts of that "trying" separation, which "Providence" has destined me from such dear, enlivening, soul-edifying relatives. I am afraid my submission to Providence is tainted with murmurings; for I don't know how to conclude it best for me, to live debarr'd from the conversation of such, as might have a happy tendency to promote my best good.—Dear—don't fail writing, and admonishing of me. I stand in constant need of your counsel. Don't spare reproofs, nor let your charity extend too far. I am afraid you are deceived in me; and conceive better thoughts "of me" than I deserve. For though I earnestly desire those excellencies you mentioned in your last, yet, upon an impartial examination, I cannot find myself possessed of so rich a treasure.—I have been in town a fortnight; left the family in their usual state, excepting my mother's choaking fits; they seem to grow much upon her, to the grief and surprize of us all. I beg your prayers in her behalf.—I have enjoyed my health very well this summer; adored be divine goodness therefor.
[Page 19] To her brother, on her mother's dangerous sickness.—
"WE have had the pleasing satisfaction of hearing from you several times this winter; but no opportunity to convey a letter, &c. till now, which, mixed with grief and joy I embrace.—But can no more than just let you know how it is with us; and give you back the assurance of love and friendship.—Our present circumstances are melancholly, by reason of my mother's indisposition, which has wholly confined her these ten or twelve days.—She has many ailments; but that which chiefly concerns "(or exercises)" the Doctor's skill, and affects her and us, is a distressing pain, which centers in her back—feared to be the gravel or stone.—She is unwilling I should mention any thing about her illness, for fear it would trouble you; but I thought it would be crueller to be wholly silent, in what so nearly concerns us all.—I need not ask your addresses to Heaven for us; for I know the tender sympathy you feel, will not admit of silence in that regard.—Father has had four or five fits* this winter; but they seem to be abated of late.—We have met with many difficulties," &c.
"I am very desirous of coming to you; insomuch that I find it hard to exercise patience, under disappointments. My present circumstances forbid me to entertain any such thoughts. For if divine mercy spares my mother's life, we can't expect a speedy recovery. And we have no help but A. W. and she almost as weakly as I. So that we do after a poor fashion —with much pain and difficulty. Excuse my [Page 20] hasty performance, and accept all of our tender regards.
At another time, under confinement, by usual infirmities and heavy trials, she expresses her love and grief in the following lines.
Extract of a letter without date.
"TIS not without reluctance, that I appear before you in such a gloomy style, as my late circumstances move me to write" in. But the tender ties of nature excite me to manifest my regard some way or other: And since it is not in my power, to assume a language, foreign to my heart, or to dissemble" (and hide) "my griefs so handsomely, as I could wish, if thereby I might be entertaining.—I must desire you to accept of my love, in these dark inconnected lines."— "Yes—my soul flies to you" laden with grief, and seeks your friendly breast—to entertain its woes.— Tis true, the friends I am with are dear as my life: But "yet your absence"!—"Tis not all the beauteous scenes of a delightful spring, can chear my cloudy soul, though now adorn'd in nature's richest plumes, profuse of balmy sweets"—"as if the delicious allurement rationally strove to ravish my senses and charm me into—gaity," "Dont' chide my weakness, if I tell you what distressing fears I have indulged since I saw you last.—Though my better reason forbids my distrust about future events, yet, in spire of me, that fearful thought, which daily haunts my breast, of seeing you no more, melts all my reason, and drowns it with my tears.—But I have hush'd my passions a little better, of late, by resigning you, and all that's dear, to the care of a holy providence, which I know will do nothing, but what is wisest, holiest and best, for such as are "the [Page 21] children of God,"—"I have a thousand things yet to say, but must conceal the rest; for my indispositions force me from the sweet entertainment, to my painful bed, where I have been confined this eight or nine days" &c. "Your tender sister, who sends a thousand loves and blessings with her name,
P. S. "I heartily congratulate you on the happy meeting with our Brothers, whom I hope, heaven has bro't safe to your view; and wish the same goodness may, once more grant me the like favour."
In a low and afflicted state, both in body and mind, and now at a distance from all her near relations, she writes, on the transient and unsatisfying pleasure of seeing friends.—
"WE have so lately seen each other, that it seems impertinent to write, having nothing new to acquaint you with.—But yet my soul is laden with sentiments that want to be disclosed. For it is so seldom that I can see your faces, that when I have that happiness, I can no more—but gaze.—And while I think to speak my griefs, hasty time runs on, and, like a subtle thief, steals you from me,—robs me of the bliss, and leaves me less contented than before.—But you have taught me not to complain; and my reason bids me be silent, lest I should, unwillingly, make you the partakers of my sorrows, which the blind world cannot see, through the vail of a chearful aspect.—I should write oftener than you would care to read, if I knew how to make my pen dissemble and speak things foreign to my mind.—But since I can't be gay in writing, forgive me if a gloomy thought escapes" from "my soul: don't think it an act of the will, but attribute it to the weak government of my possions.—If I murmur, [Page 22] it is at I don't know what. 'Tis not that I am discontented with my outward circumstances of life; not would I think that you should not live at such a— distance, where Providence has assign'd you, from me: no,—'tis something else concerns me; and yet I am unconcerned—There is the wound, that wants your friendly aid, to help my soul to her desired peace."
P. S. "I am still at Little Compton, in a much poorer state of health than you left me in: which makes me much concern'd about getting home." The sudden death of Mr. Williston last Monday, has been a great surprize to me.—"I'm unable to set up— Farewell—
She so far recovered her health, as to return home, this fall: and sometime the spring after, writes—no date.
"FAIN would I say something, if I knew how, in answer to your engaging lines, which fill my soul with gratitude.—You say, my expressions are too moving, and almost wish me to forbear." I may justly give you back your own complaints—and say, you are—I cannot bear it: for I am too susceptible of impressions, as well as you.—But if my undesigning pen has committed such a fault, forgive me; for I know your—soul too well, to be willfully guilty of such errors, were I capable of committing them. But when I wrote last, my soul was overwhelmed—pain and distress, weakness of body and mind, enfeebles all my faculties; which is the reason why I write so seldom to you.—While at Little Compton, I was so ill, that I was obliged to send for Mr. Billings. * He did a great deal for me,—I received much benefit: (but [Page 23] had, notwithstanding, a very tedious winter,) he refused satisfaction—I could not thank him enough,— pray do me the favour, ("thank him for me,") when you have opportunity. I am as well at present, as is common for me to be: but dare not depend upon coming to Stonington; though I earnestly desire to come, once more, if it might be.—I can hardly forbear shedding tears, to think they are all coming to see you, but unhappy me. Though I am not so unreasonable, as to desire to come now, if I could: for we should not only be troublesome to you, but cruel to Mother, if all of us should leave her at once. But I hope and intend to come the latter end of summer, God willing—But I can't desire you to come for me, for I know my company can never be worth that trouble: though I wish some other motive might bring you here, that I might have the opportunity of going with you.—A thousand loves to you and my dear sister, and little Molly shares her part.
Having buried her father, in April, 1736, which gave her deep sorrow of heart, she had the trial of parting with her mother, in —, 1737. This occasioned inexpressible grief and anguish of soul. For her death was sudden: occasioned by a fit of the apoplectick kind.—As it began to be light in the morning she opened the door of her daughter's bed room, (supposed, as usual, to see how she did) and as she entered the room, dropp'd down, with a low sigh or groan, and never spoke more.
Lydia viewed this sore affliction as sent more especially on her account, designed for her chastisement, rather than for any others. In the midst of grief and distress she would often say, with great severity on herself, "that her sins had slain her mother."—In a weakly, [Page 24] and oftentimes even helpless state, being unable to minister to herself, her chief dependence was upon her mother; who was unwearied in doing for her, every thing that might relieve and comfort her. But now the creature fails—her earthly props are gone,—father and mother forsake her; and there is none among creatures, like minded, to take her up! Now, if no higher refuge opens to view, than what the earth and creatures afford she must be even inconsolable.—How she should be provided for, supported; and enabled to perform the remaining stages of life? were questions naturally arising, but not easily answered; until the Lord appeared to relieve her troubled mind, by shewing that the fountain remained, tho' the streams were dried up. This consolation was not entirely withheld from her, though she had not, speedily, the sensible benefit of it.
Under all the dark dispensations of Providence, imply'd and referred to, in the foregoing letters and account, she remained very much in the dark, as to her spiritual state.—Though the spirit and sentiments of her writings, accompanied with a life agreeable to the Gospel, might afford sufficient ground of charity to others, that the grace of God was with her, yet she had very little charity for herself; at least had not the comfort of knowing that God was hers, and that all these things were tokens of his love and faithfulness.—
But in the midst of darkness and trying afflictions; not late in life, while yet in a single state, she was, hopefully, led, more fully and clearly, to view and adore the hand that rules the world, and humbly to acquiesce in all his dealings with her.—She rose in some good measure, above the frowns and flatteries of human life,—made the Lord her refuge,—his holy religion her business, and conversing with him her chiefest joy.
[Page 25]At a season when favoured with some glimmerings of light and comfort, breaking through the clouds, she breathes the following sentiments of her soul, in a letter to her brother at Stonington, after long silence.
"YOUR expressions of love and pity, shown to me in all your letters, fill my soul with inexpressible gratitude, however careless I may appear— I am ashamed of my neglects,—I will not pretend to excuse myself; but will improve this opportunity, though in much weakness, relying on the ingenuity of — to pity and pardon the defects of my indigested thoughts▪—I would very gladly entertain you with some cheerful turn of thought; but that I find it impossible for me, to pass by the black, melancholly scene of affliction—to admit of any external delights, to cheer my drooping soul.—But I must stop here, and not proceed, with a recital of gloomy reflections, to wound your tender, sympathizing heart, which not only pities my distress, but feels it too; which is all, or more than I can desire.—But I hope divine grace is about to thwart the prevailing biass of nature, and turn the current of my affections from the vanities of time, (which too long I have been in pursuit of) to live more upon invisibles, and feast on intellectual joys, wherein true satisfaction only can be found. But oh! a true religious life, is a nice and difficult undertaking. Lord help me to keep the even paths of virtue, thro' an uneven, troublesome, sorrowful world, is the language of my soul.—Crosses and afflictions appear less formidable, while I can keep a steady view on the blood of my Redeemer.—Send your desires to Heaven for me, dear brother, that God would shine more and more on my polluted soul; and cause me to improve wisely, under every dispensation of his holy providence, [Page 26] and sweeten every sorrow, with the happy fruits of sanctification, through boundless grace in him, to whom I desire to commend you and all that is dear. —Farewell.
"P. S. I can't conclude without letting you know the goodness of Heaven to me, respecting my health; which is restored and continued beyond my expectation.
Extract of a letter to a friend at Lebanon, without date, supposed to be writ about this time, in much haste.—
"WE just now received a letter from you, in which you expressed your love to me, with desire that I would send you a line."—"I am ready to embrace the opportunity, to let you hear from me, as a poor acknowledgement of that love and esteem, which is due from your worthless friend.—I am just going from home, so that I can't say half I wou'd to you—But I hope Heaven is your benefactor, and has made your circumstances better than heretofore; if not, 'tis best relying there still; for crosses and afflictions, loose their efficacy by impatience and distrustings. Though it is difficult for human frailty, to discover the blessings and mercies that flow to us, under the gloomy vail of sorrow and trouble."—"For my part, I have drunk deep of the sorrows of life; and have experienced more of the mercies of God, in my affliction, than ever I was sensible of, in all my prosperity".—"I long to see you and all my friends that way.—My love to you and your children—your respectful friend,
Not long after this, she was married to Mr. Elia [...]im Willis, son of the late Hon. Samuel Willis, Esq; of Dartmouth, and after some time removed to dwell there. —But before she left her native place, she had further [Page 27] afflictions to endure by distressing sickness, which brought her very low.—Just upon her recovery she writes.
"THESE with my tender regards come just to acquaint you with my present circumstances, which thro' the goodness of God, are much better than when you left me. I remained very ill, until the next week after you went away, when I began to mend; and have been better ever since, am now able to sit up and walk about house a little.
"I am lost in admiration at the various dispensations of providence to me, a poor worthless worm; who am still spar'd, when so many others are taken away! That I am so often brought to the gates of the grave, and so often receive the sentence of death in myself, and yet so often experience the new returns of life! Oh that I may be faithful in the remaining duties of it, and with christian patience wait for my change; and then join the happy number of those, that receive the promised reward, is the earnest wish of her, who begs to be continua [...] remembred by the best of brothers. When you bow before the throne, fail not to carry me, with those distressed ones that cry for mercy.—Who can tell how prevalent your prayers may prove for your poor afflicted sister,
These tender emotions of soul, manifest in all her foregoing letters, were not excited, merely, by what befell herself and family, or confin'd to such occasions. Altho' affecting providences, so near home, may well be supposed, if not allow'd, to engage her first attention, yet she was ever sensibly touch'd with the afflictions of others, no ways related. It was familiar to her to weep with them that wept, as well as to rejoice with them that rejoiced: choosing rather to visit and converse with [Page 28] the former of which sympathizing temper the following letter is an evidence.
To Miss Jane Gardiner, a virtuous young lady of her acquaintance, daughter of the Rev. Mr. James Gardiner, Minister of the Gospel at Marshfield, she writes on the occasion of her father and sister's death.— Found among her papers, supposed to be the first draft, —unfinished and without date.—
"'TIS my present indisposition that prevents my coming, personally, to condole with you, now, under your sorrowful bereavement.—Though I know my best advice will sink beneath your own superior knowledge, yet the lively sense I have of your affection, prompts me to offer it, as a poor token of that love and friendship, which is due from your unworthy friend, who has drunk deep of the bitter draught.—I have been inur'd to sorrow from my tender years, and none knows how to pity, but such as have pledg'd in the same cup. Two years have revolved, upon my sorrowful life, since my last hopes were cut off, in" the death of "my dear and only parent; when I thought it impossible for me to live, and even chose strangling and death, rather than life.—But blessed be God, I am still the living, monument of his sparing mercy; and I hope I can say, that it is good for me thus to be afflicted—in such a way and manner, as infinite wisdom sees meet to dispense unto me.—My stubborn heart needs the severity of the rod: the wormwood and the gall my soul hath still in remembrance; and; oh blessed God, grant it may be truly humbled within me.
"And now, dear Jenny, your turn is come!"— "When death stays, "long from a house (says one) yet come it must; and when it comes, it often strikes double."—A sweet endearing sister, * followed by a [Page 29] tender, virtuous father, to" enlarge "the wound and make your grief more keen.—But the greater the sorrow" is, the greater the consolations, which will, hopefully "be ushered into the soul, by humble penitential cries, to the omniscient God, whose ear is always open to the sighs and groans of his poor afflicted ones. Let us pray for the happy fruits of sanctification."— "When father and mother forsake us, then the Lord will take us up.—Wherefore then should we fear? if God be for us, who or what can be against us?
"I heartily pity" you; "yes, my soul grieves with and for you, I know the strugglings of nature and grace, in the gloomy hour of affliction.—Besides the agonizing pangs we feel, at parting with beloved relatives, there are wild ideas roving in our minds, relating to our abode here, which result from the vain though of living long— And then, how we shall be provided for, when such— a friend is gone, who was our only or chief earthly benefactor! —And, by unbelief, limit omnipotent power, or grasp his providence within our finite capacities; not considering how easy" it is with him, and "how willing he is to open new" streams, when the old are dried up. —These, and such like reflections have been very prevalent with me; but I hope you have not the like imperfections."
After this we find her at Dartmouth, well provided for and most kindly treated—but still the subject of many sorrows, and some unexperienced before.—Here she finds the bowels of a mother, exulting at the birth of a lovely daughter; and anon they are troubled, yea turned within her, at the early departure of the pleasant babe; after about three weeks enjoyment of the blessing. —But he who knows how to comfort them that are cast down, was present with his cordials, to support her fainting spirits, that she might not be overcome with much sorrow.—She survived the double stroke of [Page 30] sickness and grief—was raised up from the sides of the grave—restored to her usual state, and strengthned to endure another trial, more severe and dreadful.—The birth of two sons, that forsook their mother even before they were born—infant twins which never saw light, was an event as wonderful as it was distressing.—That one so feeble in her make—so extremely weak and low, at the time of trial, should live through such a perilous hour, leaves no room to question the power and goodness of God, remarkably displayed for her deliverance.
These afflictions, together with all that went before, were doubtless designed and happily improved for her soul's good.—Though after those terrible shocks, she seemed to be more silent, and, in a manner, laid aside her pen, for a season, yet when she wrote or conversed, she generally appeared to be more stablished, strengthened and settled.
The little that she wrote to her friends, after so many scenes of sorrow, and trying, but teaching providences, was, chiefly, by way of advice and excitement to the younger, and of condolence, sympathy and consolation to others, in the days of their affliction and distress.—An instance or two, of the like kind, has been already given, I shall add the following, as a specimen of the rest.
To her niece, M. F.—while at school in Newport.
"SUFFER me to call you mine, since none of that lov'd name can rival you, in my affections; a faint emblem whereof I present you in these few inconnected lines; that you may know my hearty love, which raises my desires to Heaven, both for your temporal and eternal prosperity.—I know you don't need my advice; since superiour minds are not wanting [Page 31] to cultivate your growing genius. Yet I would also become a beggar, that your blooming morning may begin with God.—My dear life! let your prayers and endeavours join with their prayers and instructions, that you may pass, unspotted, through the hasty months of youth—in this tempting, bewitching, ensnaring world; where there is nothing but sin and vanity, naturally possessing all minds and things. Don't suffer your affections to be sullied, with the gay, airy pomp, with which you are, or may be surrounded. Think on the transcendant beauties of the bleeding Prince of life; who died to redeem you from all perishable toys.—There may all your passions center, in that boundless ocean, is the earnest desire of your affectionate aunt,
The following, without date, found among her papers, in her own hand, perhaps not sent or miscarried, supposed to be wrote some years after the above, and after her remove to Malden; yet being to the same person, in answer to one received from her, may take its place here, though several letters to other friends, interven'd.—It exhibits a picture of her low and humble opinion of herself, and a specimen of the difficulties and discouragements she met with, in her religious affairs; yet full of love and tenderness, nor empty of judicious counsel and advice.
"I Received yours of October 14, but not till near a month after wrote.—And not having opportunity to return my thankful acknowledgments, I was obliged to welter in silence, under the painful pleasure of gratitude. And now I have an opportunity presented, and have taken upon me to write, I know not what to say.—I am altogether unequal to the very shadow of an answer.—I am a pitiful, broken vessel, which contains [Page 32] no ideas; nor can I persuade myself that my former lines had half the merit which your approbation seems to indicate; but this I know, it was a specimen of my heart, as my frame then was.—But now, alass! where am I? under the chastnings of the Almighty! But far,—ah, infinitely far from learning those divine lessons, which dutiful children are wont to receive, from the correcting hand of their beneficent," heavenly Father.—"Would you know how I do, and what preparations I am making for eternity; or what progress I have made, with my advancing years, to that world of spirits, which I am swiftly hastening to?—Well then, my dear, to deal plainly, I must tell you, I am poor and low,—a fit object of your prayers and pity, much rather than a copy to pattern after.—My life is made up with blots and blurrs.— I am one of the most stupid creatures that divine patience suffers to live.—A gospel sinner! what can be worse? Yet, through amazing goodness, under hope of saving grace, and God proclaiming peace to my poor captive soul, through the merits of his Son's blood; which I am, (in my poor manner) striving to obtain.—But oh, my discouragements are not few nor small! The gate is strait,—the way is narrow,—my heart is hard,—my sins are great,—my strength is weak,—my faith is so benighted with doubts, that I am ready to cast all offered good away.—
"Thus I have, in a very broken manner, given you a faint sketch of my poverty; praying that a blessing may attend this dark image of myself, to quicken your flight to Jesus.—Hasten, my dearly beloved— spread the wings of faith, and fly away, now the door [Page 33] of boundless mercy stands wide open," and "you have (blessed be God) through grace, begun to enter.—Oh stay not in the plain,—cast not a look back, for all the glittering toys, the world can possibly give,—keep them at a distance,—they are poison when near.—Listen to no discouragements, tho' they come with never so great, seeming propriety. You may be sure to meet with crouds of such visitants, and the more familiarly they are entertained, the more intruding will they be, 'till they plunge the poor trembling soul into darkness. —And then; oh then comes on a train of evils, too many to be expressed,—known only by experience.
"Oh may the bold tormentors never disturb your peaceful breast: but may the blessed Spirit guide and direct you, thro' this ensnaring world, to that city of refuge, which is opened in the bleeding wounds of our compassionate Redeemer; in whose blissful arms I leave you, begging an interest in your prayers."
The following was written to her brother, N. F.* in a day of his sore affliction, occasioned by the death of four lovely children, within a few days of each other; two of which were buried the same day, in one grave.
"I Am distressed for you. I feel your wounds. Your sorrows are half mine. My heart bleeds, and condoles with you, under this painful rod, which infinite wisdom and love are exercising you withal.— But alass, what can your poor afflicted broken sister say? How shall I address myself? In what consolatory manner can I appear before you? Your fainting spirits call for rich, balmy cordials, to soften the keen anguish of your bleeding wounds. And should I summon the poor remains of my feeble powers, I could [Page 34] do no more, but send you to the balm of the covenant, from whence, I trust, you have, through grace, already begun to sip divine consolation.
"Your letter is expressive of the christian. You seem to enter the school of affliction with such meekness, patience and resignation, as if you had already attained the stature of a man in Christ Jesus.—I pray we may not be deceived in matters of such infinite importance.—The hand of love meets out our bitter cups; and by such" kind of "trials, the friends of God are proved. But afflictions cry love, in the ears of conscience, afterwards;"—(call for returns of love, or tokens of filial obedience) "oh may we be attentive listners thereto, and diligent in our researches; not suffering the least" hint or motion, "to escape observance, as ever we expect the sanctifying fruits of the cross; for by such fiery trials, sincerity is brought to the test.—We don't know what manner of creatures we are, 'till cast into the furnace; the light whereof shews us, what to let go, and whether we love God, more than these.
"When we list under the banners of Jesus, we" become, and "stand engaged, to give our richest treasures up, without reserve. We take Jesus with his cross,—Jesus with his offices, as well as for all his benefits. —And is it not a much greater mercy, to be enabled to give up such dear young limbs,—such pleasant opening flowers, into the arms of their Redeemer, than the enjoyment of them, in this ensnaring world, could possibly be?
"Half your dear ones are gone before you!—Oh turn your eyes from the dead to the living, and adore that goodness, which has stay'd his rough wind, in the day of the east wind.—You have pleasant children yet left—Lord grant that they may live before thee; and may they prove double blessings in their day and generation. [Page 35] And" may "you, their now sorrowful parents, be abundantly comforted, in their well ordered life and conversation.—So prays your childless, sympathizing sister,
"P. S. I am pining to see you, my dear brother and sister,—I am every day at your house, in my pleased imaginations; but I have but little reason to hope for the more substantial satisfaction. How that may be, God only knows.—Oh pray for me, that I may find grace to be faithful, under all my trials, till death. Remember me to my beloved brother Fish, and family. My love to your dear children."
By the tenor of the following letter, it must be intended for one of Mr. Willis's brother; as neither of her own has ever yet been called to the trial of burying an only child. 'Tis without date, and, for aught that appears, may properly take place here.
"THE tender sympathizing sense I have of the afflictive providence of God upon you, in the death of your dear and only babe, excites my poor attempts to condole with you and to comfort you, under this heavy cross." You'll believe me if I tell you, "I know how to pity you, having drunk of the like bitter cup.—My bowels are troubled for you.—To such as are in affliction, pity should be shown. But oh! what can pitying friends do? How vain are their attempts to heal the keen anguish of the smarting rod? None but the hand that strikes, can cure the wound.—In Jesus there is strong consolation. Thither, dear souls, I would intreat your flight, for the sanctifying influences of his holy Spirit, without which you will certainly loose the benefit of the cross; which, I trust, is laid upon you for your eternal felicity—that your affections may be reduced from creature comforts,—from empty [Page 36] bubbles," and set on "the living fountain of all substantial joys, where there is safety in love; no fear of excess, nor danger of cruel death."
The last instance that we find, of such tender, savoury breathings of soul, towards her friends in affliction and distress, is an unfinished letter to her brother at Stonington, as appears from an expression in it, applicable to none else, in that relation.—It is but a sketch of her sentiments, at a time when her affections were most tenderly moved, at the news of his youngest daughter's distressing sickness, of which there was but little hope of her surviving. It was found among her papers; but, probably, never compleated nor sent, or failed of coming to hand.—In a kind of tumult of tender passions, she writes.
"WHAT can I say—what can I do, but love and wish and pray, that God, of his boundless rich grace, may be all, and do all, in and for you and yours, as the circumstances do or may call for.—The sorrowful news have reach'd my ears and pierced my heart, respecting dear Miss Becca's sickness;—and I am now waiting for further tidings; but (for want of that holy fixed fortitude of soul, the Psalmist speaks of) I am afraid of evil ones.—The Lord prepare us all for his holy will, when and how it may be manifested.
"It may be you feel the powerful band of parental ties, stronger than ever you knew before, if called to part with that lovely one, for whom you would e'en die. —Oh, methinks I hear, and see and feel the anguish of your groaning, bleeding, wounded souls, in such a gloomy hour.—But if this be the case, I am sure there is" full "consolation, in that sweet balmy covenant which," in "Jesus" is opened "for such as believe," and at such times as these.—Therefore, dear souls, rejoice in him, and give him back his own,—and bless a taking [Page 37] as well as a giving God."—"Pray for your poor, unworthy sister, who are groaning under the burdens and sorrows of life, which infinite wisdom meets out to me, in various forms (too great to be expressed, tho' infinitely less than my deserts) that I may be strengthned with strength in my soul."
The dear relative above mentioned, recovered of that sickness, to which (it is supposed) the foregoing letter refers; and, not long after, was married [to Mr. Benjamin Douglass] with whom she lived in great amity, at New-Haven, about three years, and then died of the small-pox, December 8, 1766, in the 28th year of her age, to the inexpressible grief of her parents, husband and sister, and much lamented by all friends.—She was [allowed by all her intimate acquaintance, to be a truly amiable young woman, not only on account of the external beauties of her person, but more especially for the sweet and obliging temper of her mind. Her very composition was love, tenderness and generosity.] —Remarkably patient in all her distressing sicknesses; and in her last was favoured with such discoveries of God, and found such trust in him, as abundantly satisfied her attendants and sorrowing friends that her hope of eternal life was founded in Gospel evidences of a saving acquaintance with Christ.
In less than two months after her decease, Mrs. Willis departed this life, as above related; concerning whom it remains to be said, That her relish for divine things, and deep concern for the prevalence of true godliness in her own heart and life, may further appear from some select passages, found among her private papers, after her death; which ('tis supposed) she met with in her reading, and penn'd for her own use; as what were peculiarly agreeable to her sentiments, and which deeply impressed her mind.
[Page 38]They are as follows, viz.
Providences are sometimes dark texts, that want an expositor.— God's providence fulfils his promise.—Without God's providence nothing falls out in the world.—Without his permission nothing stirs.—Without his blessing nothing prospers.
Afflictions are not so much threatened as promised to the children of God.
To be a christian, and a suffering christian, is a double honour.
By affliction God separates the sin which he hates, from the soul which he loves.
An hard heart is not so easily broken, as a broken heart is bound up.
We must bear the warnings of the conscience, or we shall feel the woundings of conscience.
A word from God; a look from Christ; a touch from the Spirit, will break the heart.
To those that believe, (1) Christ is precious. (2) The word is sweet. (3) Sin is bitter. (4) Saints are dear. (5) Religion is their business. (6) The world is a broken idol. (7) Death is welcome.
Reserving other parts of her life and character, to the hand that published them soon after her funeral (tho' some of them have been, unavoidably, touch'd in the foregoing account) I shall here only observe,
That her early profession of religion was followed with the exercises of devotion; and, abating humane imperfections, adorn'd with a conversation becoming the gospel. Her attendance, when able, was constant on public worship and ordinances of God's house, where her solemn deportment spoke the deep concern of her soul, to worship God in spirit and in truth.—The zeal which carried her up to the house of God, accompanied her back to her ow [...], and spread itself through her ordinary conversation.—The godly were highest in [Page 39] her esteem, with whom she delighted to converse upon the affairs of religion and the other world. Yet ever sociable and pleasant, delighting to make all about her happy.—Even on a bed of sickness and pain, which affected the hearts of her friends, she would conceal a measure of her own grief, and strive to chear their spirits, rather than increase their sorrows by uttering all her complaints. Her common treatment of those that visited her house, or fell in her way, (not excepting the injurious) discovered a heart full of friendship and loving kindness to all men. But her tenderness and dear affection to her relatives was almost singular; nor did it fail of suitable returns—As a daughter, sister, wife and mother, none more affectionate. The duties of each relation were considered as a privilege, not a task—done with so much pleasure and chearfulness, and (which could hardly fail) attended with such mutual endearments, as made it not easy to say, whether she loved more than she was beloved.—As a mistress, provident and kind to her servants, ruling with moderation and gentleness, to make their yoke of servitude easy, and their burden light.—She guided the affairs of her house with discretion, generosity, carefulness and frugality appeared in all her domestic oeconomy.—Though pressed with infirmities of body, she greatly assisted her worthy partner in the instruction and education of tender youths, committed to their care (for which she had a singular faculty, and) in which exercise she closed her life.
When the time came that she must die, being apprehensive that it was her last sickness, she seemed not terrified at the approach of death.—She that had long been deprived of health, and e'en cut off (in youth) from the hopes of that blessing.—She "that often received the sentence of death in herself, and viewed [Page 40] the grave as gasping for her," met the summons, when she found it real, with much composure of mind.— Though under some clouds, and, in a measure, destitute of former manifestations, yet retained a firm reliance on the all perfect righteousness and merits of Christ for acceptance with God,—thirsting for him and the displays of his grace in that decisive hour.—At a lucid interval, from the force of her disease, which had now deeply affected the powers of her mind, she finished her work with this important and striking expression (in answer to a word that was spoken, concerning her going to join the angels and saints in their delightful work of praise) 'Tis not enough said she, "for me to glorify God in heaven; I long to glorify him on [...] and in death."
The following character of Mrs. Willis, heretofore referred to, was drawn by a gentleman of her intimate acquaintance, and published in the Boston prints, soon after her death. Which, as it harmonizes with and confirms the foregoing account; the substance whereof (touchin [...] [...] character) was taken down, by the author, [...] he saw or heard of what was printed, I hope will (therefore) escape the censure of Tautology, and be admitted as an acceptable close.
"On Sunday last, one o'clock in the morning, died here, much lamented, Mrs. Willis, Aetat. 59, the pious and truly amiable consent of the Rev. Mr. Eliakim Willis, Pastor of the second church in this town.—The external graces of her person were uncommon.—The vivacity and sprightliness of her countenance was unusual. Her aspect discovered a quick discernment, a deep sensibility, and benevolent heart. In manners she was gentle, easy and unaffected—A most agreeable companion—of a very sociable [...] pleasant, without the [Page 41] least tincture of levity—serious, without a gloom—religious and devout, without enthusiasm—extremely entertaining in conversation.
Her natural genius was above the common size—her taste for reading was almost singular; and she excelled most of her sex, in a relish for works of genius; books writen in taste. She had a quick sense of the charms of imagination and beauties of expression.
"But subjects of divinity chiefly engaged her attention, and especially such as were the most important and interesting.—Her favourite authors were those that placed the perfections of God, the grace of the gospel, and our absolute dependance upon God, through Christ, in the clearest light; and that gave the justest representation of our obligations, our duty and interest—and that afforded the best rules for self-examination, and the most powerful motives to christian practice.—Piety, which commenced in early life, was no small part of her character. She appeared jealous of herself, with a godly jealousy; and at times was concerned lest she should be mistaken in an affair of the greatest consequence; though at other times, a sight of the glory of God, in the face of Christ, removed the inquietudes of her mind; and the love of God shed abroad in [...] heart, cast out disquieting fear.
"She had a remarkable turn for friendship; and the unusual kindness, courtesy and cheerfulness, with which she treated her friends, appeared to be a just and sincere expression of that respect and benevolence which warmed her heart. She highly valued such as exceeded in goodness and ingenuity.
"She excelled in charity and hospitality—was a true friend to the poor—of a tender, compassionate, sympathizing heart—easily touched with a sense of the afflictions and sorrows of others—could mourn with them that mourned, and weep with them that wept.
[Page 42]"She was much esteemed and beloved by her acquaintance; and the worthy object of Mr. Willis's warmest and strongest affections. Nor need it be said, that she was very happy in the conjugal connection.
"Her constitution was extremely delicate; and, for a number of years she had been subject to much feebleness and indisposition, which did not however destroy the amiable sweetness of her mind.
"The rules of true virtue and religion were her guide and companions in life: A dependance upon God's all-sufficiency through Christ alone, in death, was her support.—And yesterday her funeral was attended with great decency and solemnity."—
—The house appointed for all living. There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary be at rest. Amen.