"Having known Lucretia Mott, not only in the flush of
life, when all her faculties were at their zenith, but in the
repose of advanced age, her withdrawal from our midst seems
as natural and as beautiful as the changing foliage of some
grand oak from the spring-time to the autumn."--ELIZABETH
CADY STANTON.

Old age is apt to follow great personages, like the moon the sun,
to distort the shadowy shapes of those who have lingered too long.
But the years were kind to Lucretia, and she grew venerable without
the caricature of mental affliction. She suffered no serious decay, yet
year by year, month by month, and finally day by day, the body weak-
ened, the spirit no longer could apply the lash, and she laid herself
down to die, serenely and without fear.

She had faith in the universal fitness of Creation; death must
inevitably dissolve the physical body. On her death bed she held fast
to her integrity, saying: "I do not dread death. Indeed, I dread
nothing; I am ready to go or to stay, but I feel that it is time for me
to go"; and again, "I am willing to acknowledge all ignorance of the
future, and there leave it. It does not trouble me. We know only
that our poor remains

'Softly lie, and sweetly sleep
Low in the ground.'"

At half past seven o'clock on the "eleventh day of eleventh
month," 1880, the torch flickered out. She was laid to rest Sunday
afternoon in the Friends' burying ground at Fair Hill on the German-
town Road in the presence of a large concourse of about two thousand
persons, many of whom were representatives of the race she had done
so much to free. Before death she had commanded her family,
". . . . remember that my life has been a simple one; let simplicity
mark the last done for me."

In the house at Roadside there had been the Quaker season of
solemn silence, after which short remarks had been made by those
who felt moved to speak. A friend quoted the passage, "Know ye not

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