Elizabeth Bookwalter

   Elizabeth, the subject of the following memoir was born March the 10th, 1804, being the second daughter of John, and Barbara Bugh. She was a dutiful child, and embraced religion while young at a time of a revival at Pleasant run: at which place she was united in wedlock the 22d May, 1823, to the writer, who, as her bosom friend, could say much of her to her praise,— Though she did not seem to live always in the enjoyment of religion, yet at some critical junctures, when death seemed to stare her in the face, she appeared to be "ready to depart." Last August, especially, when she had a severe attack of fever, and expected to die, she was as happy, as a saint could be on earth. She suffered much, her disease was a very lingering one, and painful in the extreme. She would often say that no tongue could tell what she suffered. She had truly to go through the furnace of affliction, the enemy often tempted her with doubts and fears, & "sifted her as wheat;" but, thank God, sometimes she would. get on "Pisga's top," and get a view of the promised land, then she would "mount upon wings as eagles," and shout glory, victory and praises to God and the Lamb. She came out as gold tried seven times in the fire. Death had lost its sting for weeks before she died. Yes, friends, she died in great peace, her only desire was to depart; she prayed to, the very last, "come Lord Jesus, come take me home,"—home to Jesus she is gone,—where

"Sickness and sorrow, pain and death

Are felt and fear'd no more."

Though the writer feels that his nearest, friend on earth Has gone, and would use the language of David when mourning for his son Absalom, "O my son would to God I had died for thee;" yet he sorrows not as those without hope, knowing that his loss is her infinite gain. She now undoubtedly blooms in eternal youth. She left six children, a father and mother, a brother and two sisters and a numerous circle of friends to mourn for their loss. She died April 21st, 1835, 5 P. M., aged 31 years 1 month 11 days.

"Her suffering time is o'er,

She sighs and weeps no more.

Bright angels have convey'd her home,

Away to new Jerusalem."

A. B. BOOKWALTER.