priate in this place. Let the imagination of the reader picture to itself an individual-in person, tall and symmetrically formed, her complexion fair, and her cheeks deeply tinted with the rose-hue of health, her blue eyes beaming with meek intelligence, and a profusion of light-brown hair falling in bright ringlets around her neck, and it will possess a faithful portrait of the interesting subject of our memoir. Upon this picture must be thrown the sun-light of that sweet, gentle disposition, winning manner, and air of superior station, which imparted dignity to every action, and grace to every movement. And yet to all this loveliness, her own eye was deeply veiled. An object of attraction to all who saw her, she alone was unconscious of the power which she possessed, and of the admiration which she awoke. Absorbed in

the contemplation of the beauties of Jesus, revelling amidst the wonders of God's Word, and yearning in her heart for the conversion of souls, personal vanity and pride, inherent though they were in her fallen nature, (for the germ of all sin dwells within us,) appeared not to soil and marr the peerless beauty of her character.

Young although she was, her literary attainments, particularly her acquisition of languages, were of a high order. She was a superior linguist. Before she arrived at the age of sixteen, she had become perfect mistress of the French, Italian, and other languages. Her belles-lettres accomplishments were not less brilliant. Her drawings were exquisite, and her executions upon her favourite guitar, and the piano, marked a skill and proficiency in music far beyond her years. Religion seemed

to blend with, and to sanctify all her amusements. One day, she said to mamma,

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'Mamma, although I have a great quantity of music, yet I have so few sacred pieces, and, oh, if you did but know how I love to sing the praises of my God!" The next day, on driving into Cork, her mamma enriched her stock of music, by the addition of a choice selection of anthems and other sacred pieces. On their return home, Elizabeth went to her piano, and sang that splendid composition of Handel-" Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God," &c. Overpowered with a sense of God's love, on finishing the piece, she arose, and approaching her mamma, dropped upon her knees, kissed her feet, and wept. With a heart struggling with the deepest emotion, she exclaimed-"O, God is good! how can I ever praise Him sufficiently in having given me

such dear parents to gratify me in this way!"

1

Death and eternity seemed ever present conceptions to the mind of Elizabeth. To her friends, not one of whom gave to these all-important subjects a single serious consideration so eager were they in chase of the honours and the pleasures of the world --she was a person "wondered at." They would frequently inquire, "what has come over Elizabeth, for she is always speaking on religious subjects?" Upon one occasion, when walking in view of the Wicklow mountains, her mamma, in the fond romance of her heart, and yielding at the same moment to the full inspiration of the grand and tranquil scene, said—“ O, Elizabeth, if you and I had a cave in that mountain to reside together in, how happy we

1 Zech. iii. 8.

should be!" Elizabeth, with great impressiveness of manner, yet gentleness of tone, instantly replied, "Yes, mamma, but one of us might die! and then what would become of the survivor?" The thought that death might enter that peaceful glen, and rudely sunder the fond tie that existed there, leaving a broken, bleeding heart, to sigh out its lone grief to the wild winds of the mountain, never crossed the mind of this indulgent mother. But to the sanctified and thoughtful mind of this girl of sixteen, with the capacity and the power of enjoying life to its extreme of earthly bliss, there seemed an ever present consciousness of the solemn realities of the eternal world.

The preciousness of the Saviour was her favourite and frequent theme. One day, when her mamma was embarrassed in re