University of Virginia Library

THE YOUTHFUL EMIGRANT.
A True Story of the Early Settlement of New Jersey.

The latter part of the seventeenth century saw rapid
accessions to the Society of Friends, called Quakers.
The strong humility, the indwelling life, which then
characterised that peculiar sect, attracted large numbers,
even of the wealthy, to its unworldly doctrines.
Among these were John Haddon and his wife Elizabeth,
well-educated and genteel people, in the city of
London. Like William Penn, and other proselytes
from the higher classes, they encountered much ridicule
and opposition from relatives, and the grossest
misrepresentations from the public. But this, as
usual, only made the unpopular faith more dear to
those who had embraced it for conscience' sake.

The three daughters of John Haddon received the
best education then bestowed on gentlewomen, with
the exception of ornamental accomplishments. The
spinnet and mandolin, on which their mother had

played with considerable skill, were of course banished;
and her gay embroidery was burned, lest it should
tempt others to a like expenditure of time. The house
was amply furnished, but with the simplest patterns
and the plainest colours. An atmosphere of kindness
pervaded the whole establishment, from father and
mother down to the little errand-boy; a spirit of perfect
gentleness, unbroken by any freaks of temper, or
outbursts of glee; as mild and placid as perpetual
moonlight.

The children, in their daily habits, reflected an image
of home, as children always do. They were
quiet, demure, and orderly, with a touch of quaintness
in dress and behaviour. Their play things were so well
preserved, that they might pass in good condition to
the third generation; no dogs' ears were turned in
their books, and the moment they came from school,
they carefully covered their little plain bonnets from
dust and flies. To these subduing influences, was
added the early consciousness of being pointed at as
peculiar; of having a cross to bear, a sacred cause to
sustain.

Elizabeth, the oldest daughter, was by nature strong,
earnest, and energetic, with warm affections, uncommon
powers of intellect, and a lively imagination.
The exact equal pressure on all sides, in strict Quaker
families, is apt to produce too much uniformity of
character; as the equal pressure of the air makes one
globule of shot just like another. But in this rich
young soul, the full stream, which under other circumstances
might have overleaped safe barriers, being
gently hemmed in by high banks, quietly made for itself

a deeper and wider channel, and flowed on in all
its fulness. Her countenance in some measure indicated
this. Her large clear blue eye “looked out honest
and friendly into the world,” and there was an
earnest seriousness about her mouth, very unusual in
childhood. She was not handsome; but there was
something extremely pleasing in her fresh healthy
complexion, her bright intelligent expression, and her
firm elastic motions.

She early attracted attention, as a very peculiar child.
In her usual proceedings, her remarks, and even in her
play, there was a certain individuality. It was evident
that she never intended to do anything strange. She
was original merely because she unconsciously acted
out her own noble nature, in her own free and quiet
way. It was a spontaneous impulse with her to relieve
all manner of distress. One day, she brought home
a little half-blind kitten in her bosom, which her gentle
eloquence rescued from cruel boys, who had cut
off a portion of its ears. At another time, she asked
to have a large cake baked for her, because she wanted
to invite some little girls. All her small funds
were expended for oranges and candy on this occasion.
When the time arrived, her father and mother were
much surprised to see her lead in six little ragged beggars.
They were, however, too sincerely humble and
religious to express any surprise. They treated the
forlorn little ones very tenderly, and freely granted
their daughter's request to give them some of her
books and playthings at parting. When they had
gone, the good mother quietly said, “Elizabeth, why
didst thou invite strangers, instead of thy schoolmates?”

There was a heavenly expression in her eye, as she
looked up earnestly, and answered, “Mother, I wanted
to invite them, they looked so poor.”

The judicious parents made no circumstance of it,
lest it should create a diseased love of being praised
for kindness. But they gave each other an expressive
glance, and their eyes filled with tears; for this simple
and natural action of their child seemed to them
full of Christian beauty.

Under such an education, all good principles and
genial impulses grew freely and took vigorous root;
but the only opening for her active imagination to
spread its wings, was in the marvellous accounts she
heard of America and the Indians. When she was
five or six years old, William Penn visited her father's
house, and described some of his adventures in the
wilderness, and his interviews with red men. The intelligent
child eagerly devoured every word, and kept
drawing nearer and nearer, till she laid her head upon
his knees, and gazed into his face. Amused by her
intense curiosity, the good man took her in his lap,
and told her how the squaws made baskets and embroidered
moccasons; how they called a baby a pappoos,
and put him in a birch-bark cradle, which they
swung on the boughs of trees. The little girl's eyes
sparkled, as she inquired, “And didst thou ever see a
pappoos-baby thyself? And hast thou got a moccason-shoe?”

“I have seen them myself, and I will send thee a
moccason,” he replied; “but thou mayst go to thy
mother now, for I have other things to speak of.”

That night, the usually sedate child scampered

across the bed-room with but one sleeve of her nightgown
on, and tossed up her shoe, shouting, “Ho, ho!
Friend Penn is going to send me an Indian moccason!
Mother, art thou glad? Hannah, art thou glad?”

This unwonted ebullition was not rebuked in words,
but it soon subsided under the invisible influence of
unvarying calmness.

From that time, a new character was given to all
her plays. Her doll was named Pocahontas, and she
swung her kitten in a bit of leather, and called it a
pappoos. If she could find a green bough, she stuck
it in the ground for a tree, placed an earthen image
under it for William Penn, and sticks with feathers on
them for Indian chiefs. Then, with amusing gravity
of manner, she would unfold a bit of newspaper and
read what she called Friend Penn's treaty with the red
men. Her sisters, who were a of far less adventurous
spirit, often said, “We are tired of always playing Indian.
Why not play keep school, or go to see grandfather?”

But Elizabeth would answer, “No; let us play
that we all go settle in America. Well, now suppose
we are in the woods, with great, great, big trees all
round us, and squirrels running up and down, and
wolves growling.”

“I don't like wolves,” said little Hannah, “they
will bite thee. Father says they will bite.”

“I shouldn't be afraid,” replied the elder sister; “I
would run into the house and shut the door, when
they came near enough for me to see their eyes. Here
are plenty of sticks. Let us build a house; a wigwam,
I mean. Oh, dear me, how I should love to go

to America! There must be such grand great woods
to run about in; and I should love to swing the little
pappooses in the trees.”

When Elizabeth was eleven years old, she went
with her parents to Yearly Meeting, and heard, among
other preachers, a young man seventeen years of age,
named John Estaugh. He was a new proselyte,
come from Essex county, to join the annual assembly
of the Friends. Something in his preaching arrested
the child's attention, and made a strong impression on
her active mind. She often quoted his words afterwards,
and began to read religious books with great
diligence. John Haddon invited the youth home to
dine, but as there was no room at the table for the
children, Elizabeth did not see him. Her father afterward
showed her an ear of Indian corn, which John
Estaugh had given him. He had received several
from an uncle settled in New England, and he brought
some with him to London as curiosities. When the
little girl was informed that the magnificent plant grew
taller than herself, and had very large waving green
leaves, and long silken tassels, she exclaimed, with
renewed eagerness, “Oh, how I do wish I could go
to America!”

Years passed on, and as the child had been, so was
the maiden; modest, gentle and kind, but always
earnest and full of life. Surrounding influences naturally
guided her busy intellect into inquiries concerning
the right principles of human action, and the
rationality of customary usages. At seventeen, she
professed to have adopted, from her own serious conviction,
the religious opinions in which she had been

educated. There was little observable change in outward
manner; for the fresh spontaneousness of her
character had been early chastened by habitual calmness
and sobriety. But her views of life gradually
became tinged with a larger and deeper thoughtfulness.
She often spoke of the freedom of life away from
cities, and alone with nature; of mutual helpfulness
in such a state of society, and increased means of
doing good.

Perhaps her influence, more than anything else, induced
her father to purchase a tract of land in New
Jersey, with the view of removing thither. Mechanics
were sent out to build a suitable house and barns, and
the family were to be transplanted to the New World
as soon as the necessary arrangements were completed.
In the meantime, however, circumstances occurred
which led the good man to consider it his duty to remain
in England. The younger daughters were well
pleased to have it so; but Elizabeth, though she acquiesced
cheerfully in her father's decision, evidently
had a weight upon her mind. She was more silent
than usual, and more frequently retired to her chamber
for hours of quiet communion with herself. Sometimes,
when asked what she had upon her mind, she
replied, in the concise solemn manner of Friends, “It
is a great thing to be a humble waiter upon the Lord;
to stand in readiness to follow wheresoever He leads
the way.”

One day, some friends, who were at the house, spoke
of the New Jersey tract, and of the reasons which
had prevented a removal to America. Her father replied,
that he was unwilling to have any property

lying useless, and he believed he should offer the tract
to any of his relatives who would go and settle upon
it. His friends answered, “Thy relatives are too
comfortably established in England, to wish to emigrate
to the wilds of America.”

That evening, when the family were about to separate
for the night, Elizabeth begged them to remain a
while, as she had something of importance to say.
“Dear parents and sisters,” said she, “it is now a long
time since I have had a strong impression on my mind
that it is my duty to go to America. My feelings
have been greatly drawn toward the poor brethren and
sisters there. It has even been clearly pointed out to
me what I am to do. It has been lately signified
that a sign would be given when the way was opened;
and to-night when I heard thy proposition to give the
house and land to whoever would occupy it, I felt at
once that thy words were the promised sign.”

Her parents, having always taught their children to
attend to inward revealings, were afraid to oppose
what she so strongly felt to be a duty. Her mother,
with a slight trembling in her voice, asked if she had
reflected well on all the difficulties of the undertaking,
and how arduous a task it was for a young woman to
manage a farm of unbroken land in a new country.

Elizabeth replied, “Young women have governed
kingdoms; and surely it requires less wisdom to
manage a farm. But let not that trouble us, dear
mother. He that feedeth the ravens will guide me in
the work whereunto he has called me. It is not to
cultivate the farm, but to be a friend and physician to
the people in that region, that I am called.”

Her father answered, “Doubt not, my child, that
we shall be willing to give thee up to the Lord's disposings,
however hard the trial may be. But when
thou wert a very little girl, thy imagination was much
excited concerning America; therefore, thou must be
very careful that no desire for new adventures, founded
in the will of the creature, mislead thee from the
true light in this matter. I advise thee for three
months to make it a subject of solid meditation and
prayer. Then, if our lives be spared, we will talk
further concerning it.”

During the prescribed time, no allusion was made to
the subject, though it was in the thoughts of all; for
this highly conscientious family were unwilling to
confuse inward perceptions by any expression of feeling
or opinion. With simple undoubting faith, they
sought merely to ascertain whether the Lord required
this sacrifice. That their daughter's views remained
the same, they partly judged by her increased tenderness
toward all the family. She was not sad, but
thoughtful and ever-wakeful, as toward friends from
whom she was about to separate. It was likewise observable
that she redoubled her diligence in obtaining
knowledge of household affairs, of agriculture, and
the cure of common diseases. When the three
months had expired, she declared that the light shone
with undiminished clearness, and she felt, more strongly
than ever, that it was her appointed mission to comfort
and strengthen the Lord's people in the New
World.

Accordingly, early in the spring of 1700, arrangements
were made for her departure, and all things

were provided that the abundance of wealth, or the
ingenuity of affection, could devise. A poor widow of
good sense and discretion accompanied her, as friend
and housekeeper, and two trusty men servants, members
of the Society of Friends. Among the many
singular manifestations of strong faith and religious
zeal, connected with the settlement of this country,
few are more remarkable than the voluntary separation
of this girl of eighteen years old from a wealthy
home and all the pleasant associations of childhood,
to go to a distant and thinly inhabited country, to
fulfil what she considered a religious duty. And the
humble, self-sacrificing faith of the parents, in giving
up their beloved child, with such reverend tenderness
for the promptings of her own conscience, has in it
something sublimely beautiful, if we look at it in its
own pure light. The parting took place with more
love than words can express, and yet without a tear
on either side. Even during the long and tedious
voyage, Elizabeth never wept. She preserved a martyr-like
cheerfulness and serenity to the end.

The house prepared for her reception stood in a
clearing of the forest, three miles from any other
dwelling. She arrived in June, when the landscape
was smiling in youthful beauty; and it seemed to her
as if the arch of heaven was never before so clear and
bright, the carpet of the earth never so verdant. As
she sat at her window and saw evening close in upon
her in that broad forest home, and heard, for the first
time, the mournful notes of the whippo-wil and the
harsh scream of the jay in the distant woods, she was
oppressed with a sense of vastness, of infinity, which

she never before experienced, not even on the ocean.
She remained long in prayer, and when she lay down
to sleep beside her matron friend, no words were
spoken between them. The elder, overcome with fatigue,
soon sank into a peaceful slumber; but the
young enthusiastic spirit lay long awake, listening to
the lone voice of the whippo-wil complaining to the
night. Yet notwithstanding this prolonged wakefulness,
she rose early and looked out upon the lovely
landscape. The rising sun pointed to the tallest trees
with his golden finger, and was welcomed with a gush
of song from a thousand warblers. The poetry in
Elizabeth's soul, repressed by the severe plainness
of her education, gushed up like a fountain. She
dropped on her knees, and with an outburst of prayer
exclaimed fervently, “Oh, Father, very beautiful hast
thou made this earth! How bountiful are thy gifts,
O Lord!”

To a spirit less meek and brave, the darker shades
of the picture would have obscured these cheerful
gleams; for the situation was lonely and the inconveniences
innumerable. But Elizabeth easily triumphed
over all obstacles, by her practical good sense
and the quick promptings of her ingenuity. She
was one of those clear strong natures, who always
have a definite aim in view, and who see at once the
means best suited to the end. Her first inquiry was,
what grain was best adapted to the soil of her farm;
and being informed that rye would yield best, “Then
I shall eat rye bread,” was her answer. The ear of
Indian corn, so long treasured in her juvenile museum,
had travelled with her across the Atlantic, to

be planted in American soil. When she saw fields
of this superb plant, she acknowledged that it more
than realized the picture of her childish imagination.

But when winter came, and the gleaming snow
spread its unbroken silence over hill and plain, was
it not dreary then? It would have been dreary indeed
to one who entered upon this mode of life from
mere love of novelty, or a vain desire to do something
extraordinary. But the idea of extended usefulness,
which had first lured this remarkable girl into a path
so unusual, sustained her through all its trials. She
was too busy to be sad, and she leaned too trustingly
on her Father's hand to be doubtful of her way.
The neighbouring Indians soon loved her as a friend,
for they found her always truthful, just, and kind.
From their teachings, she added much to her knowledge
of simple medicines. So efficient was her
skill and so prompt her sympathy, that for many miles
round, if man, woman, or child were alarmingly ill,
they were sure to send for Elizabeth Haddon; and
wherever she went, her observing mind gathered some
new hint for the improvement of farm or dairy. Her
house and heart were both large; and as her residence
was on the way to the Quaker meeting-house
in Newtown, it became a place of universal resort to
Friends from all parts of the country travelling that
road, as well as an asylum for benighted wanderers.
When Elizabeth was asked if she were not sometimes
afraid of wayfarers, she quietly replied, “Perfect love
casteth out fear.” And true it was that she, who
was so bountiful and kind to all, found none to injure
her.

The winter was drawing to a close, when late one
evening, the sound of sleigh-bells was heard, and the
crunching of snow beneath the hoofs of horses, as
they passed into the barn-yard gate. The arrival of
travellers was too common an occurrence to excite or
disturb the well-ordered family. Elizabeth quietly
continued her knitting, merely saying to one of the
men, “Joseph, wilt thou put more wood on the fire?
These friends, whoever they may be, will doubtless
be cold; for I observed at nightfall a chilly feeling,
as of more snow in the air.”

Great logs were piled in the capacious chimney,
and the flames blazed up with a crackling warmth,
when two strangers entered. In the younger, Elizabeth
instantly recognised John Estaugh, whose
preaching had so deeply impressed her at eleven years
of age. This was almost like a glimpse of home—
her dear old English home! She stepped forward
with more than usual cordiality, saying:

“Thou art welcome, Friend Estaugh; the more so
for being entirely unexpected.”

“And I am glad to see thee, Elizabeth,” he replied,
with a friendly shake of the hand. “It was not until
after I landed in America, that I heard the Lord had
called thee hither before me; but I remember thy
father told me how often thou hadst played the settler
in the woods, when thou wast quite a little girl.”

“I am but a child still,” she replied, smiling.

“I trust thou art,” he rejoined; “and as for these
strong impressions in childhood, I have heard of
many cases where they seemed to be prophecies sent
of the Lord. When I saw thy father in London, I

had even then an indistinct idea that I might sometime
be sent to America on a religious visit.”

“And hast thou forgotten, Friend John, the ear of
Indian corn which my father begged of thee for me?
I can show it to thee now. Since then I have seen
this grain in perfect growth; and a goodly plant it
is, I assure thee. See,” she continued, pointing to
many bunches of ripe corn, which hung in their
braided husks against the walls of the ample kitchen:
“all that, and more, came from a single ear, no bigger
than the one thou didst give my father. May the
seed sown by thy ministry be as fruitful!”

“Amen,” replied both the guests; and for a few
moments no one interrupted the silence. Then they
talked much of England. John Estaugh had not
seen any of the Haddon family for several years; but
he brought letters from them, which came by the
same ship, and he had information to give of many
whose names were familiar as household words.

The next morning, it was discovered that snow had
fallen during the night in heavy drifts, and the roads
were impassable. Elizabeth, according to her usual
custom, sent out men, oxen and sledges, to open
pathways for several poor families, and for households
whose inmates were visited by illness. In this
duty, John Estaugh and his friend joined heartily,
and none of the labourers worked harder than they.
When he returned, glowing from this exercise, she
could not but observe that the excellent youth had a
goodly countenance. It was not physical beauty; for
of that he had little. It was that cheerful, child-like,
out-beaming honesty of expression, which we not

unfrequently see in Germans, who. above all nations,
look as if they carried a crystal heart within their
manly bosoms.

Two days after, when Elizabeth went to visit her
patients, with a sled-load of medicines and provisions,
John asked permission to accompany her. There, by
the bedside of the aged and the suffering, she saw the
clear sincerity of his countenance warmed up with
rays of love, while he spoke to them words of kindness
and consolation; and there she heard his pleasant
voice modulate itself into deeper tenderness of
expression, when he took little children in his arms.

The next First Day, which we call the Sabbath,
the whole family, as usual, attended Newtown meeting;
and there John Estaugh was gifted with an outpouring
of the spirit in his ministry, which sank deep
into the hearts of those who listened to him. Elizabeth
found it so marvellously applicable to the trials
and temptations of her own soul, that she almost
deemed it was spoken on purpose for her. She said
nothing of this, but she pondered upon it deeply.
Thus did a few days of united duties make them
more thoroughly acquainted with each other, than
they could have been by years of fashionable intercourse.

The young preacher soon after bade farewell, to
visit other meetings in Pennsylvania and New Jersey.
Elizabeth saw him no more until the May following,
when he stopped at her house to lodge, with
numerous other Friends, on their way to the Quarterly
Meeting at Salem. In the morning, quite a
cavalcade started from her hospitable door, on horseback;

for wagons were then unknown in Jersey.
John Estaugh, always kindly in his impulses, busied
himself with helping a lame and very ugly old woman,
and left his hostess to mount her horse as she
could. Most young women would have felt slighted;
but in Elizabeth's noble soul the quiet deep tide of
feeling rippled with an inward joy. “He is always
kindest to the poor and the neglected,” thought she;
“verily he is a good youth.” She was leaning over
the side of her horse, to adjust the buckle of the girth,
when he came up on horseback, and inquired if anything
was out of order. She thanked him, with
slight confusion of manner, and a voice less calm than
her usual utterance. He assisted her to mount, and
they trotted along leisurely behind the procession of
guests, speaking of the soil and climate of this new
country, and how wonderfully the Lord had here
provided a home for his chosen people. Presently
the girth began to slip, and the saddle turned so much
on one side, that Elizabeth was obliged to dismount.
It took some time to re-adjust it, and when they
again started, the company were out of sight. There
was brighter colour than usual in the maiden's cheeks,
and unwonted radiance in her mild deep eyes. After
a short silence, she said, in a voice slightly tremulous,
“Friend John, I have a subject of great importance
on my mind, and one which nearly interests
thee. I am strongly impressed that the Lord has
sent thee to me as a partner for life. I tell thee my
impression frankly, but not without calm and deep
reflection; for matrimony is a holy relation, and
should be entered into with all sobriety. If thou
hast no light on the subject, wilt thou gather into the
stillness, and reverently listen to thy own inward revealings?
Thou art to leave this part of the country
to-morrow, and not knowing when I should see thee
again, I felt moved to tell thee what lay upon my
mind.”

The young man was taken by surprise. Though
accustomed to that suppression of emotion, which
characterizes his religious sect, the colour went and
came rapidly in his face, for a moment; but he soon
became calmer, and replied, “This thought is new to
me, Elizabeth; and I have no light thereon. Thy
company has been right pleasant to me, and thy
countenance ever reminds me of William Penn's title-page,
`Innocency with her open face.' I have seen
thy kindness to the poor, and the wise management
of thy household. I have observed, too, that thy
warm-heartedness is tempered by a most excellent
discretion, and that thy speech is ever sincere. Assuredly,
such is the maiden I would ask of the Lord,
as a most precious gift; but I never thought of this
connexion with thee. I came to this country solely
on a religious visit, and it might distract my mind to
entertain this subject at present. When I have discharged
the duties of my mission, we will speak
further.”

“It is best so,” rejoined the maiden; “but there is
one thing disturbs my conscience. Thou hast spoken
of my true speech; and yet, Friend John, I have
deceived thee a little, even now, while we conferred
together on a subject so serious. I know not from what
weakness the temptation came; but I will not hide it

from thee. I allowed thee to suppose, just now, that
I was fastening the girth of my horse securely; but, in
plain truth, I was loosening the girth, John, that the
saddle might slip, and give me an excuse to fall behind
our friends; for I thought thou wouldst be kind
enough to come and ask if I needed thy services.”

This pure transparency of motive seemed less
wonderful to John Estaugh, than it would to a man
more accustomed to worldly ways, or less familiar with
the simplicity of primitive Quakers. Nevertheless,
the perfect guilelessness of the maiden endeared her to
his honest heart, and he found it difficult to banish
from his thoughts the important subject she had suggested.
It was observable in this singular courtship,
that no mention was made of wordly substance. John
did not say, “I am poor, and thou art rich;” he did
not even think of it. And it had entered Elizabeth's
mind only in the form of thankfulness to God that she
was provided with a home large enough for both.

They spoke no further concerning their union; but
when he returned to England, in July, he pressed her
hand affectionately, as he said, “Farewell, Elizabeth.
If it be the Lord's will, I shall return to thee soon.”
He lingered, and their hands trembled in each other's
clasp; then drawing her gently toward him, he imprinted
a kiss on her open innocent forehead. She
looked modestly into his clear honest eyes, and replied
in the kindest tones, “Farewell, Friend John; may
the Lord bless thee and guide thee.”

In October, he returned to America, and they were
soon after married, at Newtown meeting, according to
the simple form of the Society of Friends. Neither

of them made any change of dress for the occasion, and
there was no wedding feast. Without the aid of priest
or magistrate, they took each other by the hand, and, in
the presence of witnesses, calmly and solemly promised
to be kind and faithful to each other. Their mutual
promises were recorded in the church books, and the
wedded pair quietly returned to their happy home,
with none to intrude upon those sacred hours of human
life, when the heart most needs to be left alone
with its own deep emotions.

During the long period of their union, she three
times crossed the Atlantic, to visit her aged parents,
and he occasionally left her for a season, when called
abroad to preach. These temporary separations were
felt as a cross, but the strong-hearted woman always
cheerfully gave him up to follow his own convictions
of duty. In 1742, he parted from her, to go on a
religious visit to Tortola, in the West Indies. He
died there, in the sixty-seventh year of his age. A
friend, in a letter informing her of the event, says:
“A shivering fit, followed by fever, seized him on the
first day of the tenth month. He took great notice
that it ended forty years since his marriage with thee;
that during that time you had lived in much love, and
had parted in the same; and that leaving thee was
his greatest concern of all outward enjoyments. On
the sixth day of the tenth month, about six o'clock at
night, he went away like a lamb.” She published a
religious tract of his, to which is prefixed a preface,
entitled “Elizabeth Estaugh's testimony concerning
her beloved husband, John Estaugh.” In this preface,
she says, “Since it pleased Divine Providence so high

ly to favour me, with being the near companion of this
dear worthy, I must give some small account of him.
Few, if any, in a married state, ever lived in sweeter
harmony than we did. He was a pattern of moderation
in all things; not lifted up with any enjoyments,
nor cast down at disappointments. A man endowed
with many good gifts, which rendered him very agreeable
to his friends, and much more to me, his wife, to
whom his memory is most dear and precious.”

Elizabeth survived her excellent husband twenty
years, useful and honoured to the last. The Monthly
Meeting of Haddonfield, in a published testimonial,
speak of her thus: “She was endowed with great
natural abilities, which, being sanctified by the spirit
of Christ, were much improved; whereby she became
qualified to act in the affairs of the church, and was
a serviceable member, having been clerk to the
women's meeting nearly fifty years, greatly to their
satisfaction. She was a sincere sympathiser with the
afflicted, of a benevolent disposition, and in distributing
to the poor, was desirous to do it in a way most
profitable and durable to them, and if possible not to
let the right hand know what the left did. Though
in a state of affluence as to this world's wealth, she
was an example of plainness and moderation. Her
heart and house were open to her friends, whom to
entertain seemed one of her greatest pleasures. Prudently
cheerful, and well knowing the value of friendship,
she was careful not to wound it herself, nor to
encourage others in whispering supposed failings or
weaknesses. Her last illness brought great bodily
pain, which she bore with much calmness of mind

and sweetness of spirit. She departed this life as one
falling asleep, full of days, like unto a shock of corn,
fully ripe.”

The town of Haddonfield, in New-Jersey, took its
name from her; and the tradition concerning her
courtship is often repeated by some patriarch among
the Quakers. She laid out an extensive garden in
rear of the house, which during her day was much
celebrated for its herbs, vegetables and fruits, liberally
distributed all round the neighbourhood. The house
was burned down years ago; but some fine old yew
trees, which she brought from England, are still
pointed out on the site where the noble garden once
flourished. Her medical skill is so well remembered,
that the old nurses of New-Jersey still recommend
Elizabeth Estaugh's salve as the “sovereignest thing
on earth.”

The brick tomb in which John Estaugh was buried
at Tortola, is still pointed out to Quaker travellers;
one of whom recently writes, “By a circuitous path,
through a dense thicket, we came to the spot where
Friends once had a meeting-house, and where are
buried the remains of several of our valued ministers,
who visited this island about a century ago, from a
sense of gospellove. Time has made his ravages upon
these mansions of the dead. The acacia spreads thickly
its thorny branches over them, and near them the
century-blooming aloe is luxuriantly growing.”