As for myself, I feel to weep with her children in the loss of a spiritual mother, as well as a beloved and highly respected aunt. Let her memory be dear to us, and her exemplary life be to us one of those lights which illuminate the path of the just, "shining more and more, until the perfect day." With my grandmother, my aunt Tamson, my own dear father, and the millions of sainted dead, let her body rest and her soul enjoy the eternal bliss of _the promises_ and the God of the promises. Mrs. Rebecca Steward BY BENJ. T. TANNER, D.D. Exactly when or where the writer first made the acquaintance of the subject of this memoir, is forgotten; but he deems himself exceedingly fortunate in the fact itself. To know Rebecca Steward _now_, may not seem much; but in after years, when the real greatness of her character will have become known, as we doubt not it will, to have known her, will be accounted a most happy incident in one's life. It is so easy to talk of personal greatness, when the fact is, the truly great are as rare as purest diamond. Not one in a thousand approach it; not one in ten thousand attain to it, or, more properly speaking, possess it--for it is a thing of possession, rather than of acquirement. Be it born in you, you have it. If not, not. For while there may be a tide in the affairs of men, which lead on to "fortune," there is no such tide to a greatness that is real. Of the few really great souls whom it has been our privilege to know, Mrs. Rebecca Steward was the peer of any. In a very broad sense she was a great woman. As a daughter she was great in dutiful affection; as a sister, in the very broadest sympathy; as a wife, in her incomparable fidelity; and as a mother, in a patience that knew no bounds. It need not, however, be expected, that any stranger could sound the depth of her nature, in the above mentioned spheres. The qualities we have presumed to mention, were those that floated upon the surface of her life, and, like sweetest water lily, must need attract the attention of the passer by. It is as a friend and as a member of the African Methodist Episcopal Church, that the writer himself knew her, and in both which spheres she was eminently great. So vivid, indeed, are the remembrances of the friendship that existed between her and ours, in view of her sudden demise, we find most pertinent the words of Montgomery: "Friend after friend departs, Who hath not lost a friend? There is no union here of hearts That finds not here an end; Were the frail world our only rest, Living or dying, none were blest." When the sad announcement of her death was made at our own dear fireside, "Dead! Dead, Papa!" were the only words that first passed from lip to lip, while a silence ensued that was painful.