Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Leah Moser and PG Distributed Proofreaders




A BRIEF MEMOIR

WITH PORTIONS OF THE

DIARY,

LETTERS, AND OTHER REMAINS,

OF

ELIZA SOUTHALL,

LATE OF BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND.

1869.

  "For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain."--PHIL. 1. 21.




INTRODUCTION


The first edition of this volume appeared in England in 1855, where
it was printed for private circulation only. Many expressions of the
interest that has been felt in its perusal, and of the value that has
been attached to the record it contains, have reached the editor
and the family of the departed. Several applications to allow its
publication in America have also been received; and, after serious
consideration, the editor feels that he ought not to withhold his
consent.

In order that it may be more interesting and worthy of the
largely-extended circulation that it is now likely to obtain,
additions have been made, and particulars inserted, which a greater
lapse of time from the occurrence of the events narrated, seems now
to permit. A slight thread of biographical notice has also been
introduced.

But it is not to this part, which merely serves to render the volume
more complete, by enabling the reader to understand the circumstances
by which the writer of the Diary was surrounded, but to the Diary
itself, that the editor desires to commend attention, believing that
those who enjoy to trace the operations and effects of Divine grace on
the heart will find much that is interesting and valuable therein,
and that the young may reap instruction and encouragement from the
spiritual history of one who early and earnestly sought the Lord.

WILLIAM SOUTHALL, JR.

EDGBASTON, BIRMINGHAM, 2d mo. 12th, 1861.




BRIEF MEMOIR

OF

ELIZA SOUTHALL.


Eliza Southall, wife of William Southall, Jr., of Birmingham, England,
and daughter of John and Eliza Allen, was born at Liskeard, on the 9th
of 6th month, 1823.

As she felt a strong attachment to the scenes of her childhood, and
an interest in the people among whom she spent the greater part of her
short life,--an attachment which is evinced many times in the course
of her memoranda,--it may interest the American reader to know that
Liskeard is an ancient but small town in Cornwall. The country around
is broken up into hill and dale, sloping down to the sea a few miles
distant, the rocky shores of which are dotted with fishing-villages;
in an opposite direction it swells into granite hills, in which
are numerous mines of copper and lead. There is a good deal of
intelligence, and also of religious feeling, to be met with among both
the miners and fishermen, Cornwall having been the scene of a great
revival in religion in the time of John Wesley, the effects of which
have not been suffered to pass away. A meeting of Friends has been
held at Liskeard from an early period in the history of the Society;
but, as in many other country places in England, the numbers seem
gradually to diminish, various attractions drawing the members to the
larger towns. Launceston Castle, so well known in connection with the
sufferings of George Fox, is a few miles distant.

The family-circle, until broken a few years before her own marriage
by that of an elder sister, consisted, in addition to her parents, of
five daughters, two of whom were older and two younger than Eliza. Her
father was long known and deservedly esteemed by Friends in England,
and her mother is an approved minister. John Allen was a man of
sound judgment and of liberal and enlightened views, ever desirous
of upholding the truth, but at the same time ready to listen to the
arguments of those who might differ from him in opinion. Moderate and
cautious in counsel and conduct, firm, yet a peacemaker, he was truly
a father in the Church. For many years he took an active part in
the deliberations of the Yearly Meeting, and was often employed in
services connected with the Society. He was known to many Friends on
the American continent, from having visited that country in 1845 by
appointment of the London Yearly Meeting. He was the author of a work
entitled "State Churches and the Kingdom of Christ," and of several
pamphlets on religious subjects. He died in 1859.

John Allen retired from business at an early age; and a prominent
reason for his doing so was that he might devote himself more fully to
the education of his daughters, which was conducted almost entirely at
home. Having a decided taste for the ancient classics, he considered
that so good a foundation of a sound education ought not to be
neglected. The same might be said of the older history and literature
of his own country, including its poetry, in which he was well read;
but he fully encouraged his pupils to become acquainted also with
the better productions of the day, to the tone of which their younger
minds were more easily adapted. Nor was education confined to direct
instruction in the school-room. In a little memoir of John Allen,
published in the "Annual Monitor," we read, "In the domestic circle,
the tender, watchful care and sympathy of the parent were blended
with the constant stimulus to self-improvement of the teacher; and the
readiness to sacrifice personal ease and convenience, in order that
he might enter into the pursuits and amusements of his children, was
united with an unremitting endeavor to maintain a high standard of
moral and religious feeling. Thus by example as well as by precept did
he evince his deep concern for their best welfare. As years passed on,
his cordial sympathy with their interests, and his anxiety as far as
possible to share his own with them, gave an additional power to his
influence, not easily estimated." Such were the simple and natural
means of education employed. The aim was true enlargement of mind; and
the desire was carefully instilled that the knowledge acquired
should be valued for its own sake, not as a possession to be used for
display. At the same time, care was taken not to destroy the balance
between the intellect and the affections, so that, whilst the growth
of the mental powers was encouraged, domestic and social duties
should not suffer, and habits of self-reliance should be formed. From
earliest childhood the great principles of Christianity were instilled
into the opening minds of the children; and when the reflective powers
had come into operation, their reasonings were watched and guided into
safe paths. In this object, as in all the pursuits of her children,
was the loving influence of a watchful mother gently felt. Thus by
the united love and example of the parents were the affections of the
children directed to a risen Saviour; and it is the aim of this volume
to show, principally from records penned by her own hand, how one
beloved daughter grew in grace and in the knowledge of the Lord, until
it pleased Him to take her to Himself.

Eliza Southall possessed a mind of no common order; and hers was
a character in which simplicity and strength, originality and
refinement, were beautifully blended: diffident and retiring, she was
best appreciated where she was known most intimately.

In very early life she manifested an unusual degree of mental power.
When quite a little child, her earnest pursuit of knowledge was
remarkable: she delighted in her lessons, and chose for her own
reading a class of books far beyond the common taste of children.

Her ardent, impulsive nature was, to a beautiful degree, tempered and
softened by a depth of tenderness and intensity of feeling, together
with a warmth of affection, which bound her very closely in sympathy,
even as a child, with those around her.

These sweet traits of natural character were so early blended with the
unmistakable evidences of the fruit of divine grace in her heart, that
it would be difficult to point to any time in her earliest childhood
when there was not an earnest strife against evil, some sweet proof of
the power of overcoming grace, and some manifestation of love to her
Saviour.

Her own words sweetly describe her feelings in recalling this
period:--"When I look back to the years of my early childhood, I
cannot remember the time when the Lord did not strive with me; neither
can I remember any precise time of my first covenant. It was the
gentle drawing of the cords of his love; it was the sweet impress of
his hand; it was the breathing in silence of a wind that bloweth where
it listeth."

The following instances of the serious thoughtfulness of her early
childhood are fresh in her mother's recollection. On one of her
sisters first going to meeting, Eliza, who was younger, much wished
to accompany her; saying, "I know, mamma, that R---- and I can have
meetings at home; but I do want to go." Being told that her going must
depend upon her sister's behavior, Eliza ran to her, and putting her
arms round her neck, said, most earnestly, "Do, dear R----, be a good
girl and behave well." The dear child's desire to attend meeting was
soon gratified; and that morning she selected, to commit to memory,
Jane Taylor's appropriate hymn on attending public worship, especially
noticing the stanza--

  "The triflers, too, His eye can see,
    Who only _seem_ to take a part;
  They move the lip, and bend the knee,
    But do not seek Him with the heart,"--

saying, earnestly, "Oh, I hope I shall not be like those!"

At another time, whilst amusing herself with her toys, she asked,
"Mamma, what is it that makes me feel _so sorry_ when I have done
wrong? _Directly_, mamma: what is it?" On her mother's explaining that
it was the Holy Spirit put into her heart by her heavenly Father, she
replied, "But how very whispering it is, mamma! Nobody else can hear
it." "Yes, my dear," said her mother; "and thou mayst sometimes hear
it compared to a 'still small voice, and then thou wilt know what
is meant." She answered, "Yes, mamma," and then continued to amuse
herself as before.

The first remembrance of Eliza retained by one of her younger sisters
is that of sitting opposite to her in the nursery-window while she
endeavored, in a simple manner, to explain to her the source and
object of her being. To the same sister she afterwards addressed
some affectionate lines of infantile poetry urging the same subject,
commencing,--

  "Look, precious child, to Jesus Christ."

The missionary spirit which filled her young heart was also evinced
by her desire to possess a donkey, that she might distribute Bibles in
the country places round about; and this was afterwards spoken of as
the ambition of her childhood.

Together with the cheerful sweetness of her disposition, there was
an unusual pensiveness, a tender care for others, which was most
endearing, and often touching to witness. One day, perceiving her
mother much affected on receiving intelligence of the decease of a
valued friend and minister at a distance from home, Eliza evinced her
sympathy by laying on the table before her some beautiful lines on
the death of Howard. On her mother asking if she thought the cases
similar, she said, "Not quite, mamma: J---- T---- was not without
friends."

So earnest was her anxiety for the good of herself and her sisters,
that, when any thing wrong had been done, her feelings of distress
seemed equally excited, whether for their sakes or her own. After
any little trouble of this sort, her mother often observed her
retire alone, and, when she returned to the family-group, a beaming
expression on her countenance would show where she had laid her
sorrows. Sometimes in her play-hours she would endeavor to prepare
her two younger sisters for the lessons which they would receive from
their father, and, when the time came for her to join in giving them
regular instruction, she entered into it with zest and interest.

Many hours were spent during the summer in the little plots of ground
allotted to herself and sisters out of a small plantation skirting
a meadow near the house, and many others in reading under the old
elm-trees which cast their shade over the garden-walk.

The spare moments during her domestic occupations which she was
anxious not to neglect were often beguiled by learning pieces of
poetry, a book being generally open at her side while thus employed.

Earnestness of purpose and unwearied energy were characteristics
of her mind. Whatever she undertook was done thoroughly and with
an untiring industry, which often claimed the watchful care of her
parents from the fear lest she should overtax her strength. It was
evidently difficult to her to avoid an unsuitable strain on her
physical powers, whatever might be the nature of her pursuit,--whether
her own private reading or other intellectual occupation. At one
period her time and energies were closely occupied for some months
in the formation of very elaborate charts, by which she endeavored to
impress historical and scientific subjects on her mind. The collection
and examination of objects illustrating the different branches
of natural history was also a very favorite pursuit, in which she
delighted to join her sisters. But the reader will best understand how
completely any pursuit in which she became deeply interested took hold
upon her, from her own account of her experiences respecting poetry.

While deeply feeling her responsibility for the right use of all
the talents intrusted to her care, and earnestly engaged in their
cultivation, she was equally conscious of the claims of social duty,
and as solicitous to fulfil them, seeking in every way to contribute
to the happiness of those around her, whether among the poor or among
the friends and relatives of her own circle.

Her journal, while it exhibits an intense earnestness in analyzing the
state of her own mind, and perhaps rather too much proneness to dwell
morbidly upon it, also evinces the tender joy and peace with which she
was often blessed by the manifested presence of her Lord. It unfolds
an advancement in Christian experience to which her conduct bore
living testimony, and proves that in humble reliance on the hope set
before her in the gospel, with growing distrust of herself, her faith
increased in God her Saviour, and through his grace she was enabled
to maintain the struggle with her soul's enemies, following on to know
the Lord.

Thus it was, as she sought preparation for a more enlarged sphere of
usefulness on earth, her spirit ripened for the perfect service of
heaven; and six weeks after she left her father's house a bride, the
summons was received to join that countless multitude who "have washed
their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb; therefore
are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his
temple."




DIARY.


The diary which was kept by the beloved object of this memoir, and
the extracts from which form the principal part of this volume, is
contained in several volumes of closely-written manuscript, and,
taken as a whole, is a most interesting record of mental and spiritual
growth. At times it was continued with almost daily regularity, but
at others, either from the pressure of occupations or from various
causes, considerable intervals occur in which nothing was written.
It has been the endeavor of the editor to make such selections as may
preserve a faithful picture of the whole. There is almost of necessity
a certain amount of repetition, as in seasons of depression, when
faith and hope seemed to be much obscured, or, on the other hand, when
cheerful thankfulness and joy of heart were her portion; and in such
places it did not seem right to curtail her words too much. Many
entries referred too closely to personal and family matters to be
suitable for publication, and the uneventful character of her life
does not leave room to supply in their stead much in the way of
narrative; but it will be remembered that it is the heavenward journey
that it is desired to trace, not simply _towards_ the land "very
far off," but that pilgrimage _during which_, though on earth, the
believer in Jesus is at times privileged to partake of the joys of
heaven.

The first volume of the series is entitled, by its author, "Mementos
of Mercy to the Chief of Sinners." Some lines written on her
fourteenth birthday--about the period, of its commencement--may
appropriately introduce the extracts.

  _6th Mo. 9th_, 1837.--

  Can it be true that one more link
    In that mysterious chain,
  Which joins the two eternities,
    I shall not see again?

  Eternity! that awful thing
    Thought tries in vain to scan;
  How far beyond the loftiest powers
    Of little, finite man!

  E'en daring fancy's fearless flight
    In vain would grasp the whole,
  And then, "How short man's mortal life!"
    Exclaims the wondering soul.

  A bubble on the ocean's breast,
    A glow-worm's feeble ray,
  That loses all its brilliancy
    Beneath the orb of day.

  Can it be joyful, then, to find
    That life is hastening fast?
  Can it be joyful to reflect,
    This year may be our last?

  Look on the firmament above,
    From south to northern pole:
  Can we find there a resting-place
    For the immortal soul?

         *       *       *       *       *


  Where can we search to find its home?
    The still small voice in thee
  Answers, as from the eternal throne,
    "My own shall dwell with me."

  And I have one year less to seek
    An interest on high;
  Am one year nearer to the time
    When I myself must die!

  And when that awful time will come,
    No human tongue can say;
  But, oh! how startling is the thought
    That it may be to-day!

  How shall my guilty spirit meet
    The great, all-searching eye?
  Conscious of my deficiencies,
    As in the dust I lie.

  How shall I join the ransom'd throng
    Around the throne that stand,
  And cast their crowns before thy feet,
    Lord of the saintly band?

  _12th Mo. 6th_, 1836. There are seasons in which
  I am favored to feel a quiet resignation, to spend
  and be spent in the service of Him who, even in
  my youthful days, has been pleased to visit me with
  the overshadowing of His mercy and love, and to require
  me to give up all my dearest secret idols, and
  every thing which exalts self against the government
  of the Prince of Peace.

  _4th Mo. 3d_, 1837. Almost in despair of ever
  being what I ought to be. I feel so poor in every
  good thing, and so amazingly rich in every bad thing.
  Still this little spark of love that remains, seems to
  hope in Him "who will not quench the smoking flax."

  _6th Mo. 4th_. I have cause to be very watchful.
  Satan is at hand: temptations abound, and it is no
  easy matter to keep in the right way. To have my
  affections crucified to the world is my desire. The
  way to the celestial city, is not only through the
  valley of humiliation, but also through the valley
  of the shadow of death.

  _6th Mo. 11th_. Many things have lately occurred
  which have flattered my vanity. I have received
  compliments and commendations: old Adam likes
  these things, and persuades me that I am somebody,
  and may well feel complacency. How needful is
  watchfulness! may the true light discover to me the
  snares that are set on every side.

  _7th Mo. 2d_. May I be enabled to give myself up
  as clay into the Potter's hand, without mixing up
  any thing of my own contriving; and in the silence
  of all flesh, wait to have the true seed watered and
  nourished by heavenly dew.

  _8th Mo. 2d_. I feel humbled at the sight of my
  many backslidings and deficiencies. Oh, may He,
  "who is touched with a feeling of our infirmities," in
  just judgment, remember mercy. If He does not,
  there can be no hope for me; but oh! I trust He
  will. "Let not Thy hand spare, nor Thine eye pity,
  till Thou hast made me what thou wouldst have me
  to be."

  _8th Mo. 20th_. Utterly unworthy! Oh, my
  Father! if there be any right beginning, if there
  be the least spark of good within me, carry it on:
  oh, increase it, that I may become as a plant of thy
  right hand planting, that I may become a sheep of
  thy fold. Assist me to present myself before thee
  in true silence, that I may wait upon thee in truth,
  and worship thee in the silence of all flesh, and
  know "all my treasure, all my springs, in Thee."

  _10th Mo. 13th_. We have just been favored with
  a visit from J.P., which has been to me a great
  comfort. At our Monthly Meeting he addressed
  the young; and it seemed as though he spoke the
  very thoughts of my heart; and the sweet supplication
  offered on their behalf that they might be
  preserved from the snares of the delusive world,
  may it be answered.

  _4th Mo. 15th_, 1838. I want to give up every
  thing, every thought, every affection, in short, my
  whole self, to my offered Saviour. Then would His
  kingdom come, and His will be done. Instead of
  the thorn would come up the fir-tree, and instead
  of the brier the myrtle-tree. How precious, how
  holy, how peaceful, that kingdom! Oh! if I may
  yet hope; if mercy is left, I beseech Thee, hear and
  behold me, and bring me "out of the miry clay, and
  set my feet upon the rock."

  _5th Mo. 26th_, 1839. A beautiful First-day.
  Every thing sweet and lovely; fulfilling the purpose
  of its creation as far as man is not concerned. Birds
  and insects formed for happiness, are now completely
  happy. But ah! they were formed to give glory to
  God, by testifying to man His goodness. Ten thousand
  voices call upon me to employ the nobler
  talents intrusted for the same purpose. Nearly
  sixteen years have I been warned, and sweetly
  called upon to awake out of sleep: "What meanest
  thou, O sleeper? arise, and call upon thy God!"
  How shall I account, in the last day, for these
  things? It is often startling to think how time is
  advancing, and how ill the day's work keeps pace
  with the day. For even now, poor drowsy creature
  that I am, it is but occasional sensibility, with the
  intervals buried in vain dreams; and even at such
  times, my poor warped affections, and busy imaginations,
  crowded with a multitude of images, refuse to
  yield to the command, "Be still, and know that I
  am God." I have, indeed, found that in whatever
  circumstances I may he placed, I can never be really
  happy without the religion of the heart; without
  making the Lord my habitation; and oh, may it be
  mine, through Christ's humbling and sanctifying
  operations, to know every corner of my heart made
  fit for the dwelling-place of Him who is with the
  meek and contrite ones. Then shall the remaining
  days of my pilgrimage be occupied in the energetic
  employment of those talents which must otherwise
  rise up for my condemnation in the last day.

  _6th Mo. 2d_. It is not for me to say any more
  "thus far will I go, but no farther," either in the
  narrow or the broad way. In the former, we cannot
  refuse to proceed without receding; in the latter, if
  we will take any steps, it is impossible to restrain
  ourselves. Besetting sins, though apparently opposite
  ones, sad stumbling-blocks in the way of the
  cross, are unrestrained activity of thought and
  indolence: the former proceeds from earthly-mindedness;
  and the latter as a sure consequence from
  the want of heavenly-mindedness. Oh that by
  keeping very close to Jesus, my wandering heart
  may receive the impression of His hand, that the
  new creation may indeed be witnessed, wherein
  Jerusalem is a rejoicing and her people a joy;
  then may I find that quiet habitation which nothing
  ever gave me out of the fold of Christ.

  _6th Mo. 9th_. Alas! how shall I account for the
  sixteen years which have, this day, completed
  their course upon my head? What shall I render
  unto the Lord for all his benefits? Shall I not,
  from this time, cry unto Him, "My Father, thou
  art the guide of my youth"? But, for the year that
  is passed, what can I say? I will lay my hand on
  my mouth and acknowledge that it has been squandered.
  Yes, so far as it has not been employed about
  my Father's business. But, alas! it has been
  crammed with selfishness; though now and then
  He, whom I trust I yet desire to serve, has made me
  sensibly feel how precious is every small dedication
  to Himself.

  _6th Mo. 16th_. The consideration of the peculiar
  doctrines of Friends having been lately rather
  forced on my attention, let me record my increased
  conviction of the privilege of an education within
  the borders of the Society; of the great value and
  importance of its spiritual profession, and the awful
  responsibility of its members to walk so as to adorn
  its doctrines, and shine as lights in the world.

Warmly as she was attached to these principles, she ever rejoiced in
the conviction that all the followers of Christ are one in Him, and
that, by whatever name designated, those who have attained to the
closest communion with Him are the nearest to one another; and when
differences in sentiment were the topic of conversation, she would
sometimes rejoin in an earnest tone, the "commandment is exceeding
broad."

  _2d Mo. 2d_, 1840. Time passes on, and what progress
  do I make, either in usefulness in the earth,
  or preparation for heaven? Self-indulgence is the
  bane of godliness, and is, alas! mine.' This world's
  goods are snares, and are, alas! snares to me.
  Coward that my heart is, when pride is piqued, I
  have not resolution to conquer my own spirit.
  Pride, indolence, and worldly-mindedness are bringing
  me into closer and closer bondage: the first
  keeps me from true worship by preventing me from
  seeking the help and teaching of the one Spirit;
  the second, by making me yield without effort or
  resistance to the uncontrolled imaginations which
  the third presents. And now do these lines witness
  that, having been called to an everlasting salvation,
  God, the chief good, having manifested His name
  unto the least of His little ones, my soul and body
  are for Him, _belong_ to Him, to be moulded and
  fashioned according to His will; and that if I
  frustrate His purpose, His glorious holiness and
  free grace are unsullied and everlastingly worthy.

  _7th Mo. 12th_. If I acknowledge my own state,
  it is one cumbered with "many things." Alas!
  amid them how little space is there for the love of
  God! I have remembered the days when untold
  and inexpressible experiences were mine; when a
  child's tears and prayers were seen and heard before
  the throne! The stragglings of grace and nature
  have been great since then. I can look back to
  years of struggles and deliverances, years of revoltings
  and of mercies. It is like "threshing mountains"
  to meddle with the strongholds of sin; but
  mountains, I sometimes hope, will be made to "skip
  like rams."

  _10th Mo. 5th_. How long have I been like the
  "merchantman seeking goodly pearls"! Ever since
  reason dawned I have longed for a goodly pearl;
  though dazzled and deceived by many an empty
  trifle, I cannot plead as an excuse that I could not
  find the pearl. I have seen it at times, and felt how
  untold was the price, and thought I was ready to
  sell all and buy it, sometimes believed that all was
  sold; but why, ah, why was my pledge so often
  redeemed? I have been indeed like a simple one,
  who, having found a "pearl of great price," cast it
  from him for an empty, unsatisfying show.

  _1st Mo. 17th_, 1841. Very precious as have been
  the privileges vouchsafed the last two days, I can
  this morning speak of nothing as my present condition,
  but the extreme of weakness and poverty. On
  6th day evening R.B. addressed us in such a way
  as proved to me that the Divine word is a discerner
  of the thoughts and intents of the heart. The
  chief purport was the necessity of a willingness to
  learn daily of the great Teacher meekness and
  lowliness and faithfulness in the occupation of the
  talents intrusted; "for where much is given, much
  will be required." Yesterday his parting "salutation
  of brotherly love" was such as cannot be effaced
  from my memory; and oh, I pray that it may not
  from my heart. And now my prayer, my desire,
  must be for a renewed dedication. The separation,
  as R.B. said, from the right hand and the right eye
  must be made: the sacrifice which is acceptable will
  always cost something.

  _3d Mo. 8th_. Oh, may I become altogether a babe
  and a fool before myself, and, if it must be, before
  others! God has been very graciously dealing with
  me.

  _3d Mo. 19th_. Words must be much more
  guarded, as well as thoughts. This morning I am
  comforted with a precious feeling: "I will take care
  of thee."

  _3d Mo. 27th_. How does my heart long, this
  evening, that the one Saviour may be made unto
  me "wisdom and righteousness, sanctification and
  redemption!" Teach me to keep silence, O God!
  to mind my own business and be faithful to it; to
  deny my own will and wisdom; give me the spirit
  of true Christian love, that my whole life may be in
  the atmosphere of love!

  _3d Mo. 28th_. * * * To cease from my own
  works, surely in a very small degree, I can experimentally
  say, "this is the only true rest." This
  blessed experience seems to me the height of enjoyment
  to the truly redeemed. Oh, a little foretaste
  of this sabbath has been granted, when I have
  seemed to behold with my own eye, and to feel for
  myself in moments too precious to be forgotten, the
  waves of tumult hushed into a, more than earthly
  calm by Him who alone can say, "Peace, be still."
  My tossing spirit has never found such a calm in
  any thing this world can give.

During her first attendance of the Yearly Meeting in London, in 1841,
she wrote the following affectionate lines in a letter to her sisters
at home:--

  LONDON THOUGHTS.


  The crowds that past me ceaseless rush
    Stay not to glance at me,
  As falling waters headlong gush
    Into their native sea.

  But hearts there are that brightly burn,
    And light each kindling eye,
  And home to them my thoughts return,
    Swift as the sunbeams fly.

         *       *       *       *       *

  To home, to home my spirit hastes;
    For why? my treasure's there;
  'Tis there her native joys she tastes,
    And breathes her native air.

  Oh, sweetest of all precious things,
    When this wide world we roam,
  When meets us on its balmy wings
    A messenger from home!

  From home, where hearts are warm and true,
    And love's lamp brightly burns,
  And sparkles Hermon's pearly dew
    On childhood's crystal urns.

  Oh, sweet to mark the speaking lines
    Traced by a sister's hand,
  And feel the love that firmly twines
    Around our household band!

To one of her sisters:--

  LONDON, 6th Month, 1841.

  * * * * I lay still half hour, and read over
  thy tenderly interesting and affecting sheet, and poured
  out my full heart; but what can I say? How I do long
  to be with you, and see, if it might be, once more, our
  beloved uncle! But perhaps before this the conflict may
  be over, the victory won, the everlasting city gained,
  none of whose inhabitants can say, "I am sick." And
  if so, dare we murmur or wish to recall the loved one
  from that home? Oh for that childlike and humble
  submission which is befitting the children of a Father
  of mercies, and the followers of Him who can and will
  do all things well!

After the Yearly Meeting, she thus writes in her Journal:--

  _6th Mo. 12th_. Many and great have been the
  favors dispensed within the last five weeks. The
  attendance of the Yearly Meeting has been the
  occasion of many and solemn warnings and advices,
  and, I trust, the reception of some real instruction.
  But, truly, I have found that in every situation, the
  great enemy can lay his snares; and if one more
  than another has taken with me, it has been to lead
  me to look outward for teaching, and to depend too
  much upon it, neglecting that one inward adoration
  for the want of which no outward ministry can atone.
  But I hope the enemy has not gained more than
  limited advantages of this kind, and perhaps even
  the discovery of these has had the effect of making
  me more distrustful of self. And, now, oh that the
  everlasting covenant might be ordered in _all_ things
  and sure, and He only, who is King of Kings and
  Lord of Lords, be exalted over all, in my heart; and
  the blessed experience thus described, be more fully
  realized: "He that hath entered into his rest hath
  ceased from his own works as God did from his."

  _6th Mo. 21st_. Very early this morning the long
  struggle with death terminated, and the spirit of our
  beloved Uncle E. was released from its worn tenement.
  The stony nature in my heart seems truly
  wounded. May it not be as the wounded air, soon
  to lose the trace. My heavenly Father's tender
  regard I have, indeed, felt this evening; but I tremble
  for the evil that remains in me. May I be blessed
  with the continued care of the good Shepherd, that
  I may be preserved as by the crook of His love.
  And now, seeing that much is forgiven me, may I
  love much. I feel that my Saviour's regard is of
  far more value than any earthly thing; and oh
  that my eye may be kept singly waiting for Him!

The decease of her uncle was soon followed by that of his youngest
son, Joseph E. In reference to his death, she remarks:--

  _7th Mo. 22d_. He, in whose sight the death of
  His saints is precious, has again visited with the
  solemn call our family circle, and summoned away
  the sweetest, purest, and most heavenly of the group.
  Our dear cousin Joseph last night entered that
  "rest which remains for the people of God;" rest
  for which he had been panting the whole of the day,
  and to which he was enabled to look forward as his
  "happy home."

  _7th Mo. 28th_. Yesterday was one long to be remembered.
  The last sad offices were paid to him
  whom we so much loved; and oh that the mantle
  of the watchful, lowly disciple might descend abundantly
  upon us! Yet it is only by keeping near to
  the divine power, that I can receive any thing good;
  and, though yet far away, oh, may I look towards His
  holy habitation who is graciously offering me a home
  where there is "bread enough and to spare."

  _4th Mo. 3d_, 1842. He who has been for years
  striving with me, has lately, I think I may say, manifested
  to me the light of His countenance, and
  enabled me at seasons to commit the toiling, roving
  mind into His hand. This morning, however, I feel
  as if I could find no safe centre. Oh that I were
  gathered out of the false rest, and from all false
  dependence, to God Himself, the only true helper,
  and leader, and guide! How precious to recognize,
  in the light that dawned yesterday and the day before,
  the same glory, and power, and beauty, which
  were once my chief joy! But oh, I desire not to be
  satisfied with attaining again to former experience;
  but to give all diligence in pressing forward to the
  mark for the prize, even forgetting things that are
  behind.

  _10th Mo_. Mercies and favors of which I am totally
  unworthy have been graciously bestowed this morning,
  and, may I hope, a small capacity granted to
  enter into the sanctuary and pray. This week I
  have been unwatchful,--too much cumbered; yet,
  oh, I hope and trust, at times, my chains are breaking,
  and though I must believe the bitterness will
  come in time, the gospel of salvation is beginning
  to be tasted in its sweetness, completeness, and joy.

  _1st Mo._ 1843. I desire that the privilege of this
  day attending the Quarterly Meeting at Plymouth,
  may be long held in grateful remembrance; that the
  language, "I have heard of Thee by the hearing of
  the ear, but now mine eye seeth Thee; wherefore I
  abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes," may
  be my increasing experience. Conscious that the
  state of my heart, long wavering between two opinions,
  has of late been fearfully in danger of fixing
  to the wrong one of these, I would ask of Him who
  seeth in secret, and who is, I trust, at this very moment
  renewing a measure of the contrition, which,
  amid all my desires for it, did but gleam upon me
  this morning, to do in me a thorough work, to remain
  henceforth and ever.

  _2d Mo. 12th_. About four weeks since, we had
  a precious visit from B.S., and it has been a sacrifice
  to me to make no record of his striking communications;
  but I have been fearful, lest in any measure
  the weight and freshness of these things should
  vanish in words; and I have never felt at liberty to
  do so.

In this year, she wrote but little in her Journal, and it appears
to have been a time of spiritual proving; yet one in which she
experienced that it was good for her "to trust in the name of the
Lord, and to stay herself upon her God."

  _6th Mo. 16th_, 1844. One week ago was the
  twenty-first anniversary of my birthday. In some
  sense, I can say,--

  "The past is bright, like those dear hills,
    So far behind my bark;
  The future, like the gathering night,
    Is ominous and dark.

  "One gaze again--one long, last gaze;
    Childhood, adieu to thee;
  The breeze hath hurried me away,
    On a dark, stormy sea."

  Deeply and more deeply, day by day, does my understanding
  find the deceitfulness of my heart. Well
  do I remember the feelings of determination, with
  which I resolved, two years since, that this period
  should not find me halting between two opinions,--that
  ere _this_ day I would be a Christian indeed.
  And looking back upon my alternating feelings, ever
  since reason was mine, upon the innumerable resolutions
  to do good, which have been as staves of reed,
  I must want common perception not to assent to the
  truth, that "the heart is deceitful above all things,
  and desperately wicked: who can know it?" But,
  oh, it is not this only, which my intellectual conscience
  is burdened with: when I look at the visitations
  of divine grace which have been my unmerited,
  unasked-for, privilege, through which I can but feel
  that in days past, a standing was placed in my power
  to attain, which, probably, now I shall never approach,
  the question does present with an awful importance,
  "How much owest thou unto thy Lord?"
  Seeing we know not, nor can know, the value of an
  offer of salvation, till salvation is finally lost or won;
  seeing that such an offer is purchased only by the
  shedding of a Saviour's blood, how incomprehensibly
  heavy, yet how true, the charge, "Ye have crucified
  to yourselves the son of God afresh." I know well
  that of many now pardoned, for sins far deeper in
  the eyes of men than any I have committed, it might
  be said that _little_ is forgiven them in comparison of
  the load of debt that hangs over my head; and I
  have sometimes thought, that the comparison of
  _debtors_ was selected by the Saviour, purposely to
  show that guilt in the sight of God is chiefly incurred
  by the neglect of His own spiritual gifts, not
  in proportion merely to the abstract morality of man's
  conduct. It is certainly what we have received
  that will be required at our hands: and oh, in the
  sight of the Judge of all the earth, how much do I
  owe unto my Lord! This day, though I was not in
  darkness about it, seems almost to have overtaken me
  unawares. I was not ready for it, though I knew so
  well when it would come; and, oh, for that day which
  I know not how near it may be, when the account
  is to be finally made up--how, how shall I prepare?
  With all the blessings, and invitations, and helps,
  which the good God has given me, I am _deeply,
  deeply_ involved. How, then, can I dream of clearing
  off these debts, when there can be no doubt that
  I shall daily incur more? Alas, I am too much disposed
  to keep a _meum_ and _tuum_ with heaven itself
  in more senses than one. * * * As to setting out
  anew on a _carte blanche_, I cannot. There lies the
  deeply-stained record against me: "_I_ called," and,
  oh, how deep the meaning, "Ye did not answer."
  Yes, my heart did: but to answer, "I go, sir," does
  but add to the condemnation that "I went not."

  _6th Mo. 23d._ This morning, I believe, the spirit
  was, in measure, willing, though the "flesh was
  weak." I have thought of the lines--

    "When first thou didst thy all commit
    To Him upon the mercy-seat,
    He gave thee warrant from that hour
    To trust his wisdom, love, and power."

  My desire is to know that _my_ all is committed, and
  then, I do believe, He _will_ be known to be faithful
  that hath promised. The care of our salvation is
  not ours; our weak understandings cannot even
  fathom the means whereby it is effected; but this
  we do know, that it indispensably requires to be
  "wrought out with fear and trembling." The Saviour
  will be _ours_, only on condition of our being
  _his_. Religion must not be an acquirement, but a
  transformation; and surely that spirit, which could
  not make itself, and which, when made by God, has
  but degraded itself, is unable to "create itself anew
  in Christ Jesus unto good works." No, fear and
  trembling are the only part, and that but negative,
  which the spirit of man can have in working out its
  own salvation; but when led by the good spirit into
  this true fear, when given to wait, and held waiting
  at the feet of Jesus, it is made able, gradually, to _receive_
  the essential gospel of salvation; and so long
  only is it in the way of salvation as it is sensible
  of its constant dependence on the one Saviour of
  men.

  May Friends, above all, while distinctly maintaining
  the doctrine of the influence of the Spirit on
  the heart, be deeply and _personally_ sensible that
  there is but _one_ Saviour, even Jesus Christ, who
  came into the world to save sinners, of whom, as we
  are led to true repentance, I believe each one will be
  ready to think "I am chief." The distinguishing
  practices of Friends, as to dress, language, etc. are
  in no manner valuable, but when they spring from
  the _root_ of essential Christianity. This is certainly
  the great thing. "Cleanse first the inside of the cup
  and platter."

  I have been grieved to fear that some would resolve
  the vast meaning of "a religious life and conversation
  consistent with our Christian profession" into
  little more than "plainness of speech, behavior,
  and apparel:" then I do think it becomes a mere idol.
  The tithe of "mint, anise, and cummin" is preferred
  to the weightier matters of the law. But I am going
  from the point of my own condition in the warmth
  of my feelings, which have been deeply troubled at
  these things of late.

  _11th Mo. 18th_. I believe it is one and the same
  fallen nature which, at one time, is holding me captive
  to the world; at another, filling me with impatience
  and anxiety about my spiritual progress; at
  another, with self-confidence, and at another, with
  despondency. Oh, the enemy knows my many weak
  sides; but I do hope and trust the Lord will take
  care of me. "Past, present, future, calmly leave to
  Him who will do all things well." If the root be
  but kept living and growing, then I need not be
  anxious about the branches; but, above all, the root
  must be the husbandman's exclusive care.

  _11th Mo. 30th_. I believe I sincerely desire that
  no spurious self-satisfaction may be mistaken for the
  peace of God, that no activity in works of self-righteousness
  may be mistaken for doing the day's work
  in the day. Oh, who can tell the snares that surround
  me? Yet I have been comforted this morning,
  in thinking of the declaration, "His mercies are over-all
  his works;" which I believe may be very especially
  applied to the work of His Spirit in the soul of man.
  Over this He does watch, and to this He does dispense,
  day by day, His merciful protection from surrounding
  dangers; "I the Lord do keep it, I will
  water it every moment; lest any hurt it, I will keep
  it night and day." Oh, the blessedness of a well-founded,
  watchful, humble trust in this keeping!

  _12th Mo. 27th_. The mean self-indulgence of sleeping
  late has come over me again, though I found, a
  week or two since, after a firm resolve, the difficulty
  vanish. This morning I had no time for retirement
  before breakfast; and, should circumstances ever become
  less under my control, this habit may prevent
  my having any morning oblation. The weakness and
  sinfulness of my heart have been making me almost
  tremble at the thought of another year: how shall I
  meet its thousand dangers and not fall? In religious
  communications in our house, I am apt to look for
  any intimation that I could appropriate of a shortened
  pilgrimage; but very little of the sort has occurred:
  indeed, I expect my selfish wish will not be gratified,
  of escaping early from this toilsome world; but how
  rash and ungrateful are such thoughts! how much
  better all these things are in my Father's hands! Oh,
  if I may be there too in the form of passive clay,
  and receive all His tutoring and refining, this will be
  enough: and should my future way be full of sorrows,
  heaven will bring me sweeter rest at last; when the
  whole work is done, when the robes are quite washed,
  when the fight is quite fought, and the death died;
  when the eternal life, which shall blossom above, is
  brought into actual health here, and real fellowship
  is made with my last hour.

  _1st Mo. 10th_, 1845. I am inclined to set down
  the events of my little world for the past week; that
  in days to come, should it prove that I have been
  following "cunningly devised fables," I may beware
  of such entanglements again; and that if they be
  found a guidance from above, their contemptibleness
  and seeming folly may be shown to be in wisdom. I
  have, from my childhood, delighted in poetry: if
  lonely, it was my companion; if sad, my comfort;
  if glad, it gave a voice to my joy. Of late, I have
  enjoyed writing pieces of a religious nature, though
  I must confess the excitement, the possession which
  the act of composition made of my mind, did not
  always favor the experience of what I sought to express.
  Two pieces of this kind I asked my father to
  send to the _Friend_: he liked them, but proposed my
  adding something to one. I had had a sweet little
  season by myself just before: then, sliding from feeling
  to composition, I thought of it all the rest of the
  evening, and when I went to bed, stayed some time
  writing four lines for the conclusion; after I was in
  bed, my heart was full of it, and I composed four
  lines more to precede them, with which I fell asleep.
  In the morning I resolved not to think of them till
  I had had my silent devotions; they came upon me
  while I was dressing, and, having forgotten one line,
  I stayed long making a substitute: then I retired to
  read, and, if possible, to pray, but it was not possible
  in that condition: I did but sit squaring and polishing
  my lines; and having finished them to my heart's
  content, I gave them to my father about the middle
  of the day, conscious, I could not but be, that they
  had "passed as a cloud between the mental eye of
  faith and things unseen." Every time they passed
  through my mind, they seemed to sound my condemnation.
  My evening retirement was dark and
  sad; I felt as if any thing but this I could give up
  for my Saviour's love; "all things are lawful, but all
  things are not expedient;" and yet the taste and the
  power were given me, with all things else, by God.
  I had used them too in a right cause, but then the
  talent of grace is far better. Which should be sacrificed?
  Why sacrifice either? I could not deny that
  it seemed impossible to keep both. But it might be
  made useful, if well employed. "To obey is better
  than sacrifice." Now they _are_ written, they might
  just as well be printed; but the printing will probably
  be the most hazardous part. I shall be sure to write
  more, and nourish vanity: or else the sight of them
  will cause remorse rather than pleasure. If I should
  lose my soul through poetry? For the life of self
  seems bound up in it; and "whosoever loveth his
  life shall lose it." But perhaps it would be a needless
  piece of austerity; it would be a great struggle;
  it would be like binding myself for the future, not
  to enjoy my treasured pleasure. The sacrifice which
  is acceptable will always cost something. So I prevailed
  upon myself to write a note, and lay it before
  my father, asking him not to send them, trembling
  lest he should dislike my changeableness, or I should
  change again and repent it. My father said nothing,
  but gave me back the lines when we were all together,
  which was a mountain got over. I thought to have
  had more peace after; but till this First-day I have
  been very desolate, though, I believe, daily desiring
  to seek my God above all; and thinking, sometimes,
  that that for which I had made a sacrifice became
  thereby dearer.

After this striking and instructive account, which shows how zealously
she endeavored to guard against any too absorbing influence, however
good and allowable in itself the thing might be, it seems not amiss to
remark that Eliza's taste for poetry was keen and discriminating; and
that her love of external nature, and more especially her deeper and
holier feelings, found appropriate expression in verse. If some of
these effusions show a want of careful finish, it must be remembered
that they were not written for publication, but for the sake of
embodying the feeling of the occasion, in that form which naturally
presented itself.

The pieces alluded to in the foregoing extracts are the following:--

  "WHAT I DO THOU KNOWEST NOT NOW."


  Hast thou long thy Lord's abiding
    Vainly sought 'mid shadows dim?
  Lo! His purpose wisely hiding,
    Thee He seeks to worship him.

  Shades of night, thy strain'd eye scorning,
    Have they; long enwrapp'd the skies?
  He, whose word commands the morning,
    Soon shall bid the day-spring rise!

  Are ten thousand fears desiring
    To engulf their helpless prey?
  One faint hope, his grace inspiring,
    Is a mightier thing than they.

  Has the foe his dark dominion,
    As upon thy Saviour, tried?--
  As to Him with hastening pinion,
    Lo! the angels at thy side.

  Is thy spirit all unfeeling,
    Save to sin that grieves thee there?
  Thee He'll make, his face revealing,
    Joyful in His house of prayer!

  Hast thou seen thy building falter
    Can thy God thy griefs despise?
  'Mid the ruins dark, an altar
    Fashion'd by His hands, shall rise.

  Thee, to some lone mountain sending,
    Only with the wood supplied;
  He, thy God, thy worship tending,
    Will Himself a lamb provide.

  Has He made it vain thy toiling
    Fine-spun raiment to prepare?
  'Twas to give--thy labors spoiling--
    Better robes than monarchs wear.

  From thy barn and storehouse treasure
    Did He take thy hoarded pelf?
  Yes: to feed thee was His pleasure,
    Like the winged fowls--_Himself_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  "WHAT PROFIT HATH A MAN OF ALL HIS LABOR
  THAT HE TAKETH UNDER THE SUN?"


  Must we forever train the vineyard sproutings,
    And plough in hope of harvests yet to come,
  Nor ever join the gladsome vintage shoutings,
    And sing the happy song of harvest-home?

  Must we forever the rough stones be heaping,
    And building temple walls for evermore?
  Comes there no blessed day for Sabbath-keeping,
    No time within the temple to adore?

  In faith's long contest have life's quenchless fountains
    Bade calm defiance to the hostile sword?
  But when, all beautiful upon the mountains,
    Shall come the herald of our peace restored?

  Must we forever urge the brain with learning,
    And add to moral, intellectual woes?
  Nor hold in peace the spoils we have been earning,
    And find in wisdom's self the mind's repose?

  Long have we watch'd, and risen late and early,
    Rising to toil, and watching but to weep;
  When will the blessing come like dewdrops pearly,
    "On heaven's beloved ones even while they sleep?"

  Since life began, our life has been beginning,
    That ever-nascent future's treacherous vow;
  When shall we find, the weary contest winning
    A present treasure, an enduring _now_?

  Ten thousand nameless earthly aims pursuing,
    Hope we in vain the recompense to see,
  And must our total life expire in _doing_,
    And never find us leisure time _to be_?

  Has not our life a germ of real perfection,
    As holds the tiny seed the forest's pride?
  And shall its ask'd and promised resurrection
    In dreams of disappointed hope subside?

  Yes, all is hopeless, man with vain endeavor,
    May climb earth's rugged heights, but climb to fall;
  Ever perfecting, yet imperfect ever,
    Earth has no rest for man--if earth be all.

  Yet oft there dwell, in temples frail and mortal,
    Souls that partake immortal life the while;
  Nor wait till death unbar heaven's pearly portal,
    For heaven's own essence, their Redeemer's smile.

  _--12th Month_, 1844.

       *       *       *       *       *


From the Journal relating to daily affairs, at this time, kept
distinct from her spiritual diary, the following, and a few other
extracts, have been taken. Never suspecting that this would see the
light, she left it in an unfinished state. Had it been reconsidered,
portions of it would probably have been altered; but it sufficiently
shows her desire to understand the agencies of intellectual action,
and the philosophy of knowing and acquiring. She recognizes the
importance of systematic knowledge, questions the purpose and use
of every attainment, and manifests throughout a desire that all
the operations of the intelligence may subserve a nobler aim than
knowledge in itself possesses:--

  _5th Mo. 16th_. That life is a real, earnest thing,
  and to be employed for our own and others' real and
  earnest good, is a fact which I desire may be more
  deeply engraven on my heart. It is certainly a
  matter of spiritual duty, to look well to the outward
  state of our own house. There are already many
  revolutions in my mental history, passed beyond the
  reach of any thing but regrets. As a child, play
  was not my chief pleasure, but a sort of mingled
  play and constructiveness; then reading and learning;
  I well remember the coming on of the desire
  to _know_. In a tale, false or true, I had by no
  means, the common share of pleasure--Smith's Key
  to Reading was more to my taste. Poetry I have
  ever loved. History I am very dull at; a chain of
  events is far more difficult to follow, than a chain of
  ideas--causality comes more to my aid than eventuality.
  Well, the age of learning came: in it I
  learned this, that, and the other; but, alas! order,
  the faculty in which I am so deficient, was wanting,
  I had not an appointed place for each fact or idea:
  so they were lost as they fell into the confused mass.
  I am full of dim apprehensions on almost all subjects,
  but _know little_ of any. However, it may be
  that this favors new combinations of things. I
  would rather have all my ideas in a mass, than have
  them in separate locked boxes, where they must each
  remain isolated; but it were better they were on
  open shelves, and that I had power to take them
  down, and combine at will. The age of combining
  has come; I feel sensibly the diminution of the
  power of acquiring: I can do little in that, but
  lament that I have acquired so little; but I seem
  rebuked in myself at the incessant wish to gain--gain
  for what? I must _do_ something with what, I
  gain; for, as I said before, I have nowhere to put it
  away. I love languages,--above all, the expressive
  German; but I know too little to make it expressive
  for myself. But my own mother-tongue, though
  my tongue is so deficient to use thee, canst thou
  afford no other outlet to the struggling ideas that are
  within; may I not write? I did write poetry sometimes:
  is it presumptuous to call it poetry? It was
  certainly the poetry of my heart; the pieces entitled
  "The Complaint," and "What profit hath a man,
  etc." were certainly poetry to me. But the fate of
  my poetry is written before. Perhaps it was a
  groundless fear; but still it has given it the death-blow.
  But may I write prose? I will tell that by-and-by.
  This has brought down my history in this
  respect till now:--

      The constructive playing age,
      The learning age,
      The combining age,
    So far the intellect.

  * * * I am conscientious naturally, rather
  than adhesive or benevolent. This natural conscientiousness,
  independent of spirituals, has been like
  a goad in my side all my life, and its demands, I
  think, heighten. It is evidently independent of religion,
  because it is independent of the love of God
  and of man. For instance, I form to myself an
  idea of my reasonable amount of service in visiting
  the poor. Have I fallen short of this amount, I am
  uneasy, and feel myself burdened; the thing is before
  me, I must do it: why? Because I feel the
  love of God constraining me? Sometimes far otherwise.
  Because I feel benevolence towards the poor?
  No; for the thing itself is a task; but because it is
  my duty; because I would justify myself; because
  I would lighten my conscience. I have called this
  feeling independent of religion; but perhaps it is
  most intense when religion is faintest. This latter
  supplies, evidently, the only true motive for benevolent
  actions. Then they are a pleasure: then the
  divergence of the impulse of duty from the impulse
  of inclination is done away; and I believe the love of
  God is the only thing, which, thus redeeming those
  that were under the law, can place them under the law
  of Christ. Though it is little I can do for the poor,
  I ought to feel it both a duty and a pleasure to devote
  some time to them most days. To see the aged,
  whose poverty we have witnessed, whose declining
  days we have tried to soothe, safely gathered home,
  is a comfort and pleasure I would not forego; and,
  though the real benefit we render to them must depend
  on our own spiritual state, their cottages have
  often been to me places of deep instruction.

  The useful desire to learn, may be carried too far;
  we may sacrifice the duties we owe to each other, by
  an eagerness of this kind; nor, I believe, can we,
  without culpable negligence, adhere tenaciously to
  any plan of study. The moral self-training which
  is exercised by giving up a book, to converse with
  or help another, is of more value than the knowledge
  which could have been acquired from it. Indeed,
  I am convinced we are often in error about
  _interruptions_. We have been interrupted; in what?--in
  the fulfilment of our duty? That cannot be;
  but in the prosecution of our favorite plan. If the
  interruption was beyond our control, it _altered_ our
  duty, but could not interrupt it. Duty is the right
  course at a given time, and under given circumstances.

  A subject, which has of late been very interesting
  to me, is that of the Jews. I am convinced that
  much, very much, is to be done for them by Christians,
  and for Christians by them; but I think the
  interest excited in their behalf, in the world at large,
  is, in many cases, not according to knowledge. An
  historical view of their points of contact with the
  professing Christian world, has long been on my
  mind; and I think it needs to be drawn by an independent
  hand,--in short, by a Friend. That "He
  that scattered Israel will gather him, and feed him
  as a shepherd doth his flock," is confessed now on
  all sides. The when, the where, and the how, are
  variously viewed. But what will He gather them
  to? is a question not enough thought of. One
  wishes them to be gathered to the Church of England,
  another to the Church of Scotland; but I am
  persuaded their gathering must be to the primitive
  Christian faith. I say not to Friends; although I
  hold the principles of Friends to be the principles
  of primitive Christianity. For I do think a vast
  distinction is to be made between the principles of
  truth professed by Friends, and the particular line
  of action, as a body, into which they have been led,
  (I doubt not by the truth,) under the circumstances
  in which they were placed. My belief is, that the
  Jews are to be gathered to none but a Church built
  "on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, of
  which Jesus Christ himself is the chief corner-stone;"
  and that to such a Church they are to be
  gathered immediately and instrumentally, by the
  Spirit of God himself. A view of the manner in
  which they have been regarded and treated by professing
  Christians from the Christian era to the
  present time, and of their own feelings towards
  Christians and Christianity, if well drawn, would be
  valuable and useful.

This interest in the Jews led Eliza to devote much, labor, during
several years, in collecting information relating to their history
since the Christian era. Had her life been spared, she would probably
have made some defined use of the large mass of material collected,
which, whilst valuable as an evidence of deep research, is not
sufficiently digested to be generally useful.

  _7th Mo. 3d_. This evening I have finished copying
  the foregoing scraps, previously on sheets, into this
  book, that they may yet speak to me, in days to come,
  of His manifold mercies, whose "candle has ofttimes
  shone round about me," and "whose favor has made
  me glad."

  _7th Mo. 5th_. I desire gratefully to acknowledge
  the privilege of which we have this week partaken,
  in the occurrence of our Quarterly Meeting, and a
  most sweet visit from ----; full of love is ---- to
  his Master, and full of love to the brethren,
  and even to the little sisters in Christ. Most
  kindly and tenderly he and his wife advised us,
  and myself, when we happened to be alone, to wait
  and watch at the feet of Jesus, from whom the message
  will come in due time, "The Master calleth for
  thee." Manifold has been the expression of sympathy
  for us all this week, in the prospect of parting with
  our dear father on the Indiana committee, in about
  five weeks, and the comforting expectation expressed
  that his absence will be a time of sweet refreshing
  from the presence of the Lord. Oh, we have much
  to be thankful for in the grace that has been bestowed.

  _7th Mo. 9th_. I have been much blessed the last
  few days; not with high enjoyments, but with a calm
  sense of dependence and trust on my Saviour, and
  assistance in watching over my own heart. This
  morning I have been tried with want of settlement
  and power to get to the throne of grace; but faith
  must learn to trust through all changes in the unchangeable
  truth and love of Jesus. I am sensible
  that this has been a time of much renewed mercy to
  my soul; and oh that if, as ---- told me, the Lord
  has many things to say unto me, but I cannot bear
  them now, I may but be kept in the right preparation,
  both for hearing and obeying!

  _7th Mo. 27th_. I am sometimes astonished at the
  condescending kindness of my Saviour, that he should
  so gently and mercifully "heal my backslidings and
  love me freely." I think my chief desire is to be
  preserved _alive_ in the truth, and _growing_ in the
  truth; but sometimes, through unwatchfulness, such
  a withering comes upon me, I lose all sense of good
  for days together, and this nether world is all I seek
  pleasure in. Then there is but a cold, cheerless,
  condemning feeling, when I look towards my Father's
  house; but when all life seems gone, and I am ready
  to conclude that I have suffered so many things in
  vain, how often does the gentle stirring of life bring
  my soul into contrition, into stillness! and He, who
  upbraideth not the returning sinner, reveals himself
  as "the repairer of the breach, the restorer of paths
  to dwell in."

The following lines describe her feelings at such a time as this:--

  Then disconsolate I wander'd,
    Where my path was lone and dim,
  Till I thought that I was sunder'd
    Evermore from heaven and Him.

  Then it was my Shepherd found me,
    Even as He had of old,
  Threw His arms of mercy round me,
    Placed me gently in His fold.

  _7th Mo. 29th_. The expression, I think, of William
  Penn, "Let the holy watch of Jesus be upon your
  spirit," is a fitting watchword for me.

  _7th Mo. 30th_. Oh, this must be the watchword still.

  _8th Mo. 10th. First-day morning_. I was helped
  to cast away some of the weight of worldly thoughts
  last evening, and fervently to desire after the Lord.
  It is a blessing to have his manifested presence and
  love with us; but this is not at all times the needful
  or the best thing for us. To have the heart right
  with God, to commit my _all_ to him, to live in the
  very spirit which breathes, "Thy will be done," in
  and through me,--oh, this is to be alive in Christ;
  this is indeed the work of the spirit; this is to lose
  my life, that I may keep it unto life eternal.

At the Yearly Meeting of 1845 occurred the appointment previously
alluded to, under which John Allen became a member of the committee
which visited Indiana Yearly Meeting. As communication between Great
Britain and America was not so easy and frequent in those days as at
present, both he and his family very strongly felt the prospect of
separation. In allusion to the appointment, Eliza writes, "My father
allowed the business [of the Yearly Meeting] to proceed, but at length
said that he felt too much overwhelmed to speak sooner,--that the
subject touched his tenderest feelings, and that he felt very unfit
for such an engagement, but that the sense which had been and was,
while he was speaking, present with him, of that goodness and mercy
which had followed him all his life long and blessed him, was such
that he dared not refuse to do any little offices in his power for
those dear friends with whom he should be associated." She then gives
an account of the receipt at home of the unexpected intelligence of
this long journey, and of the calmness which eventually followed the
shock to the feelings which it occasioned. After he had set out, she
wrote an interesting account, too long to be given at full length,
of what had passed in the intervening time,--the hopes and fears, the
preparations, her father's parting with his friends and their words
of encouragement to him, with his own counsel and exhortations to his
children. A few words of his last address to them may not be out of
place:--"I earnestly desire for us all that when we shall meet again
we may all have made some progress in the heavenward journey and be
enabled to rejoice together in the sense of it. For you, my dear young
people, especially, I earnestly desire that you may be preferring
the best things, not setting your affections on trifling objects, but
valuing an inheritance in the truth above all those things that perish
with the using. * * * Be willing to be the Lord's on his own terms,
and prize above all things the sense that you are his; and you will
be his, if you are willing to walk in the narrow way--the way of
self-denial."

It does not pertain to this volume to give any further account of this
journey or of the mission in which he was engaged. The visit of the
deputation is probably fresh in the remembrance of many Friends in the
United States.

  _8th Mo. 24th_. The great parting is over: the love
  and mercy of our heavenly Father sustained my
  dearest father and mother beyond expectation. On
  this occasion, when I have been helped back from
  a sad, lone wandering on barren mountains, I may
  learn, more deeply than ever before, the safety, the
  sweetness, of dwelling in the valley of humiliation.
  Oh, let me dwell there long and low enough. I ask
  not high enjoyments nor rapturous delights; but I
  ask, I pray, when I can pray at all, for quiet, watchful,
  trustful dependence upon my Saviour.

  _8th Mo. 27th_. We have had a ride in the country
  this afternoon, and during a solitary walk of a mile
  and a half I had very sweet feelings. Jesus seemed
  so near to me and so kind that I could hardly but
  accept of him. But then there seemed some dark
  misgivings at the same time; as if I had an account
  to settle up first,--something I must do myself; the
  free full grace seemed too easy and gratis to accept
  of. But all this I found was a mistake. I thought
  of the lines--

    "He gives our sins a full discharge;
      He crowns and saves us too,"

  and of a remark I had seen somewhere, "Look at
  Calvary, and wilt thou say that thy sins are _easily_
  passed by?"

  This evening in my _andachtzimmer_,[1] I wished to
  pray in spirit; but not a petition arose that I could
  offer. I felt so blind, and yet so peaceful, that all
  merged into the confiding language, Father, _Thy will_
  be done!

  [Footnote 1: Devotional retirement.]

  _9th Mo. 2d_. On First-day, the twenty-first, I had
  a great struggle on the old poetry-writing question.
  I had written none since the great fight last winter;
  but now to my dearest father I ventured to write,
  thinking I had got over the danger of it. But when
  all was written, I was forced to submit to the mortification
  of not sending it. The relief I felt was indescribable,
  and I hope to get thus entoiled no more.
  My scruple is not against poetry, but _I_ cannot write
  it without getting over-possessed by it. Therefore
  it is no more than a reasonable peace-offering to
  deny myself of it. * * * "And now, Lord,
  what wait I for?" Enable me to say, "My hope is
  in thee." It seems as if the path would be a narrow
  one; but, oh, "make thy way straight before my
  face;" and, having enabled me, I trust, to _give some_
  things to "the moles and to the bats," leave me not
  till I have learned "to count _all_ things but loss, for
  the excellency of Christ Jesus my Lord."

The following is the unfinished piece just alluded to:--

  TO HER FATHER IN AMERICA.


  And thus it was, as drew the moments nearer
    That stamp'd their record deep oil every heart;
  As day by day thy presence grew yet dearer,
    By how much sooner thou shouldst hence depart.

  Love wept indeed, though she might seem a sleeper,
    Long ere descending tears the signs betray'd;
  And the heart's fountain was but so much deeper,
    The longer was its overflow delay'd.

  The page my unapt heart has learn'd so newly
    In the dark lessons which afflictions teach--
  Oh, it were vain to try to utter truly
    In the cold language of unapter speech.

  That hearts when thus their very depths are burning
    Alone should know their bitterness, is well;
  But, oh, my heart more joys than aches in learning
    Another lesson, would that words could tell.

  New depths of love in measure unsuspected,
    Ties closer than I knew, were round my heart;
  And half I thank the wrench that has detected
    How thoroughly and deeply dear thou art.

  And 'twas to tell thee this that I have taken
    The tuneless lyre I thought to use no more,
  Yet once at thy returning may it waken,
    Then sleep forever, silent as before.

  And not more narrow than the dome of ether
    Beams heaven's unbounded, earth-embracing scroll;
  Then be it thine and ours to read together
    Of Him who loves not less than rules the whole.

  And not more slow than was the bark that bore thee
    To an untried and dimly-distant land--
  Our hearts' affections thither flew before thee,
    And now are ready waiting on the strand.

  --_8th Month_, 1845.

  _10th Mo. 1st_. Much struck with the suitability of
  the expression, "under the yoke," truly _subjugated_.
  not merely offering this or that, but _being offered_ "a
  living sacrifice." Oh for a thorough work like this!
  This is "when the yoke Is easy and the burden
  light." I know almost nothing of it by experience,
  but think it is "now nearer than when I first
  believed." For a day or two I have been given to
  desire it earnestly.

  _10th Mo. 12th_. Evening. Many thoughts about
  faith in Christ. But oh for the reality, the living
  essence of it! We can be Christians, not because
  we believe that the blood of Christ cleanses from
  sin, but because we _know_ the blood of Christ to
  cleanse us from sin.

About this date, in the diary of daily affairs, is the following:--

  "A conviction has come upon me that, in all
  respects, now is the time to reform, if ever, the
  course I am now pursuing. Religion, the main
  thing, may it ever more be the main object; and
  then, as to moral, social, and other duty, oh, be my
  whole course reformed. ... From this time
  forth may I nightly ask myself these five questions.
  1. Has my employment and economy of time been
  right? 2. Has my aim been duty--not pleasure?
  3. Have I been quiet and submissive? 4. Have
  I looked on the things of others as my own? 5.
  Have propensities or sentiments ruled? I wish to
  give an answer, daily, to each; and now say for
  yesterday. 1. Some wasted time before dinner.
  2. Pretty clear, 3. No temptation. 4. Pretty well.
  5. Pretty [well] except at meals."

In this concise and simple manner are these questions answered, almost
daily, throughout the year, until, "finding that daily records of
employment are of little use, and that the intellectual and spiritual
could not well be longer separated," she discontinued the practice,
and recorded in the same book "any thing in either line that seemed
fit to reserve from oblivion."

Alluding to a religious magazine, she writes:--

  "It is always pulling down error--seldom building
  up truth. Surely Antichrist comes to oppose Christ,
  not Christ to oppose Antichrist. Is there, then, no
  positive Christian duty? Are we never to rest in
  principles and practices of actual faith and love? or
  are we to be always on the offensive and negative
  side, stigmatizing all who act contrary to our belief
  of the truth as doers of the work of Antichrist?
  Antichrist, I fear, cares little for orthodox doctrines,
  but fights against the Christian spirit."

  _9th Mo. 13th_. Conflicting thoughts again. I
  long that there may be no building on any sandy
  foundation. But oh, the fitness that appeared to me
  this evening in the blessed Saviour to supply all my
  need. The one sacrifice He has been, and the one
  mediator and way to God He ever is,--His own
  spirit the one leader, teacher, and sanctifier; whereby
  He consummates in the heart the blessed work of
  bringing all into subjection to the obedience of
  Christ. Oh for a personal experience, a real participation
  in all this, a knowledge that _He is my own
  and that I am His_.

  _16th_. Somewhat puzzled at myself. This has
  not been a spiritually prosperous day--passed just to
  my taste, much in reading, but not much, I fear, with
  the Lord. Yet I have had very loving thoughts of
  Christ this evening, and was ready to call Him _my
  own dear Saviour_, though I trust on no other terms
  than His terms, namely, that I should be wholly His.
  Some misgivings are come up that I am tempted to
  think Him mine when I am not in a state to be His;
  some fears lest Satan has put on the winning smiles
  of an angel of light; and yet where can I go but to
  Thee, Saviour of sinners? Thou hast the words of
  life and salvation; suffer me not to be deluded, but at
  all hazards let me be Thine.

  Thou who breakest not the bruised reed, oh, bring
  forth in me judgment unto truth, and let me wait for
  the _law of life and peace from Thee_.

  _9th Mo. 18th_. Rode to Lodge to get ferns. Enjoyed
  thoughts of the beauty of nature, imperfect
  as it is, because one kind of beauty necessarily
  excludes another. What, then, must be the essence
  of that glory in which all perfection is beauty
  united? Thus these things must be described to
  mortal comprehension under contradictory images;
  such as "pure gold, like unto transparent glass," &c.

  _9th Mo. 19th_. I think harm is done by considering
  a society such as "Friends," "a section of the
  Christian Church," as societies are so often called.
  It can be true only by considering the "Christian
  Church" to mean _professing Christians_; but surely
  its true meaning is the _children of God anywhere_.
  Of this body, there are no _sections_ to be made by
  man, or it would follow that to unite oneself to
  either section, is to be united to the body, which
  cannot be.

  _10th Mo. 1st_. I fear I have so long been _childish_
  and _thoughtless_, that I shall hardly ever be _childlike_
  and _thoughtful_. Oh for a little more _care_ without
  _carefulness!_

  _10th Mo. 2d_. Much struck with Krummacher's
  doctrine of "Once in grace, always in grace."
  "After the covenant is made," he says, "I can do
  nothing _condemnable_. I may do what is sinful or
  weak, but my sins are all laid on my Surety." _True,_
  if my will-spirit humbles itself to bear the reforming
  judgment of the Lord--but I think his doctrine
  utterly dangerous; his error is this, that "the
  covenant cannot be broken." Now, suppose a
  Christian, therefore, in the covenant; he sins, then
  the Lord would put away his sin by cleansing him
  from its pollution and power, by the blood of Christ,
  who hath already borne the punishment thereof.
  But he may refuse this cleansing, in other words,
  this judgment, revealed within; not against _himself_,
  as it must have been except for Christ's intercession,
  but against the evil nature in him, and in love to
  his soul. He may refuse this, because it cannot
  but be painful, it cannot but include repentance for
  his transgression, whereby he has admitted ground
  to the enemy. And if he refuse it, persisting in
  withdrawing his heart from that surrender, which
  must have been made on his adoption into the covenant,
  who shall say that the covenant is not at an
  end? Who shall say that the way of the Lord is
  not equal, in that, because he was once a righteous
  man, made righteous by the righteousness of Christ,
  "now, the righteousness that he hath had shall not
  be mentioned unto him, but in his trespass he shall
  die"? Far be it from me to say how long the Lord
  shall bear with man; how long he may trespass ere
  he dies forever; but I think it most presumptuous
  to suppose that God _cannot in honor_ (for it does
  come to this) disannul the covenant from which man
  has already retracted all his share; though this,
  truly, is but a passive one, a surrender of the will-spirit
  to the faith of Jesus.

  What good it does me to clear up my ideas on
  prayer! but there is a limit beyond which intellect
  cannot go. No one can fully explain the admission
  of evil into the heart. We say "it is because I
  listen to temptation;" but why do I listen, to temptation?
  Because I did not watch unto prayer. The
  Calvinist would say, perhaps, "Because I am without
  the covenant;" but he allows that a person may sin
  who is in it. Suppose I am one of these? The
  origin of evil must ever be hidden, but not of evil
  only; the _moral nature of man must ever be a mystery
  to his intellectual nature, for it is above it._
  There is a _natural testimony_ to the supremacy of the
  _moral_ in man above the intellectual.

  _10th Mo. 8th_. The charm of book and pen has
  been beguiling me of my reward; but now my soul
  craves to be offered a living sacrifice.

  _10th Mo. 19th_. The world was fearfully my snare
  yesterday,--I mean worldly objects, innocent, in
  themselves. These things only show the depth of
  unrenewed nature within. Though it slumbered, it
  could not be dead. My "wilderness wanderings,"
  oh, I fear they must be exceedingly protracted ere
  the hosts that have come out of Egypt with me fall;
  ere I can find _in myself_ that blessed possession of the
  promised inheritance, which, I believe, _in this life_ is
  the portion of the _thorough_ Christian: "they that
  believe _do_ enter into rest." Why, then, do not I?
  Oh, it is for want of believing; for want of faith; I
  fear to trust the Lord to give me my inheritance and
  conquer my foes, and will not "go up and possess
  the land." Then, again, in self-confidence, I _will_ go
  up, whether the Lord be with me or not; and so I
  fall. But surely, surely it _need_ be so no longer. I
  _might_ devote myself to Christ, and He would lead me
  safely through all. The shining of the fire and the
  shading of the cloud are yet in the ordering of the
  Captain of Salvation.

  _20th_. Exceeding poor; and yet I rejoice in what
  I trust is somewhat of the poverty of spirit which is
  blessed.

    "Nothing in my hand I bring;
    Simply to Thy cross I cling;
    To the cleansing fount I fly:
    Wash me, Saviour, or I die."

  _21st_. I feel myself in much danger of falling,--manifold
  temptations all round to love the world, and
  how little _stay_ within!

  _22d._ Yet the Lord was kind, most kind, to me in
  the evening, constraining me to say within my heart,
  "Surely I am united to Christ my Saviour." Oh,
  the joy of feeling that we are in any measure _His!_
  May I by no means withdraw myself from His
  hands, that He may do for me all that His mercy
  designs, and which I am well assured is but _begun._
  This morning a crumb of bread was given me, in the
  shape of a sense that Christ is yet mine, but that He
  will be _waited on_ in simplicity of heart to do His _own
  work._ Oh, the comfort of having a fountain to flee
  to _set open_ for sin! hourly have I need of it.

  _11th Mo. 2d_. I have felt deeply the necessity of
  the thorough subjugation of the _will_ to the Divine
  will: if it were effected, all must work for good to
  me. Little cross-occurrences, instead of exciting
  ill tempers, would serve as occasions for strengthening
  my faith in God. When He giveth quietness,
  what should make trouble? 'Tis wonderful to think
  what long-suffering kindness the Lord has shown
  me! I can compare myself only to the prodigal
  son saying, "Give me my portion of goods"--goods
  spiritual; as if I thought once furnished, never
  again to have recourse to a father's compassion. Oh,
  often have I wasted this substance in a very short
  time; but the Lord has reckoned better than I
  in my self-confidence. He saw how I should have to
  come back utterly destitute, and again and again has
  had mercy. Oh that I might no more ask for a portion
  to carry away, but seek to dwell among the servants
  and the children of His house, to be fed
  hourly by Him, learning in what sense He does say
  to those who are willing to have nothing of their
  own, "All that I have is thine."

  _12th Mo. 6th_. Nice journey to Falmouth. Here
  we have been since Second-day learning our own
  manifold deficiencies; but this, under a genial atmosphere,
  is, to me, never disheartening,--always an
  exciting, encouraging lesson. ----'s kind words
  on intellectual presence of mind, and his animating
  example of it, have determined me to make a vigorous
  effort over my own sloth and inanity. I believe
  the first thing is to be always conscious of what I am
  thinking of, and never to let my mind run at loose
  ends in senseless reveries.

  _12th Mo. 25th_. Seventh-day. I trust, now we
  are all together for the winter, there will be an effort
  on my part to help to keep up a higher tone of feeling,
  aim, and conversation: not mere gossip, but
  really to speak to each other for some good purpose,
  is what I do wish. What an engine, for good or
  evil, we neglect and almost despise! and if it is not
  employed properly, when at home, how can it be
  naturally and intelligently exercised when abroad?

  _Fourth-day, 31st_. Called on a poor sick man,--he
  quietly waiting, I hope, for a participation in perfect
  peace, and penetrated with the sense that man can do
  nothing of himself. Surely this must be a step towards
  knowing what God can do. I hope he will be
  able to see and say something more yet; but I would
  not ask him for any sort of confession. It is a fearful
  thing to interfere with one who seems evidently
  in hands Divine.

  Thus ended 1845. Oh that it had been better
  used, more valued, more improved in naturals, intellectuals,
  and spirituals! Oh that I had cultivated
  kindness and dutiful affection in the meekness of
  wisdom; and as an impetus seems to have been lately
  received to industry in study, etc., oh, may God
  give me grace to spend another year, so far as I
  live through it, in industrious Christianity too!

  _1st Mo. 7th_, 1846. I should gratefully acknowledge
  the loving-kindness and tender mercy which,
  after all my wanderings, has again been shown: "I
  will prepare their heart, I will cause their ear to hear,"
  was sweet to me this morning. Though sometimes
  lamenting that I hear so little of the voice of pardon
  and peace, I have felt this morning that I have ever
  heard as much as was safe for me in the degree of
  preparation yet known.

  _1st Mo. 19th_. Some earnest desires last evening,
  this morning, and in the night, to be set right in
  spirit. Struck with the text, "His countenance doth
  behold the upright,"--not that the upright always
  behold His countenance: that is not the thing their
  safety consists in. "Thou most upright dost weigh
  the path of the just," that is, of the truly sincere
  and devoted. Ah! how blessed that such an unerring
  balance should apportion the way of a finite and
  blind being!

  _3d Mo. 2d_. Little E.P. died last week, aged three
  years,--a child whom God had taught. I ventured a
  little poem for his mamma, I think without harm.
  The poetry-contest, some time since, was doubtless
  useful as a check, but I seem to have lost the prohibition,
  and enjoy, I hope, innocently.

  _Sixth-day_. School, more encouraged than sometimes:
  got on well with geography-class; visited
  various poor people,--feeling very useless, but some
  satisfaction. Oh, it were a sweet thing to do good
  from the right motive, as a _natural_ effect of love.
  I fear I do my poor share more to satisfy conscientiousness;
  and that is a dull thing.

  _3d Mo. 17th_. Faith small, world strong; but this
  evening something like grasping after "the childly
  life beyond." A childly life I want. Oh for simplicity,
  faith, quietness, self-renunciation!

  Yesterday rode alone to Wheal, Sister's mine. Gave
  W.B. tracts for the girls. Thence to Captain N.,
  to get his daughters to collect for Bibles. His nice
  wife seemed interested; said it was very needful.
  Many families had not a Bible there; the place a
  century behind the West. Rode home dripping, but
  glad that I had not been turned back. Learned part
  of the 42d Psalm in German.

  _3d Mo. 27th_. What testimony of gratitude can I
  record to that tender mercy which has drawn near to
  me this evening? Oh that the "Anon with joy"
  reception may not be united with the "no root in
  myself"! I have thought of the Israelitish wanderings,
  caused by faithless folly in refusing to "go up
  and possess the land." Oh, that lack of living appropriating
  faith may not thus protract the period
  ere my own passage through the spiritual Jordan, the
  river of self-renunciation, and death of the "old
  man," into the Beulah of a thorough introduction to
  the sheepfold! It is easy to say that it would be too
  presumptuous to venture on the final, full, childlike
  appropriation of Christ; but, oh, presumption, I do
  deeply feel, is more concerned in the delay. It is
  presumptuous to put off, till brighter evidences and
  clearer offers of mercy, the acceptance of grace to-day.

  _4th Mo. 14th._ The Lord has been kind to me
  beyond expression. Not rapturous feeling, but calm
  and peaceful confidence,--though sometimes almost
  giving way to "the world, the flesh, and the devil,"
  sometimes letting go faith; but, oh, He has been near
  through all; then when His face has shone upon me,
  how have I wondered that ever I loved the earth,
  more than Himself!

  _5th Mo. 3d. Bristol._ On the way to the Yearly
  Meeting. _First-day._ Most interesting meeting. I
  think the connection of evangelical doctrine with
  Christian worship is often not enough considered.
  The mere natural unsanctified dread or awe of the
  Lord's presence is very different from that worship
  of God which is through Christ our Lord, who has
  made a way of access for us to the Father, who Himself
  loveth us. If this be overlooked, there is little
  essential distinction between Christian worship, and
  Oriental gnosticism--the delusion of raising the soul
  above the natural, by abstraction and contemplation
  of the Divine. This is the distinguishing glory of
  the gospel, that whereas the children of Israel said
  to Moses, "Speak thou to us, but let not God speak
  to us, lest we die," Christ, his antitype, hath broken
  down for his people "the middle wall of partition,"
  hath abolished the enmity, and speaketh to us Himself
  as God, and yet as once in our flesh.

  _5th Mo. 10th_. Letter from father, from _Niagara_.
  Awful spectacle, and most edifying emblem of His
  unchanging word of power whose voice is as the
  sound of many waters.

  This evening had a nice meeting; my soul longed
  for light and life in the assembly.

  Of our dear father's safe arrival in Liverpool we
  heard on our way to the train in the morning, and
  now we settled in to expect him we had so long lost!

And, after meeting him in London and alluding to conversation with
friends who called to see him, she says,--

  "But with father the fact of presence, real
  meeting, actual talk, seemed more engrossing than
  the thing talked. Oh that I had a really grateful
  heart to the Lord for these His mercies!"

  _7th_. [Alluding to a meeting at Devonshire House.]
  It is, indeed, "looking not at the things which are
  seen," when we really accept with equal, nay, with
  greater, joy, His will to speak by the little as by the
  great, or by His Spirit only, when communion of
  truth is preferred to communication of the true.

  _5th Mo. 29th_. And now that my London experience
  is over, as to meetings, preachings, prayers,
  what, oh, what is the result on this immortal spirit
  of mine, which has on this occasion been brought,
  as it were, in _contact_ with some of the honorable
  and anointed messengers, with that which is good?
  And yet it is possible that contact may not produce
  _penetration_, and that _penetration_ may not produce
  _assimilation_. I can unhesitatingly say, the first and
  second have been produced; but then these are but
  transactions of the time, not abiding transformations;
  and if these are all? But, surely, it cannot be;
  surely, when my heart melted within me, especially
  on Second-day morning, and I heard the word "and
  anon with joy received it," some depth of central
  stone was fused into softness; some actual change,
  effected, that I might not have altogether "no root"
  in myself. Sometimes predominated a fear that intellectual
  interest interfered with spiritual simple
  reception of good, that _this_ would vanish when _that_
  was over; sometimes the responsibility of being thus
  ministered to was truly a weighty thought; for never
  more than on that morning did I so understand, "Go
  preach, baptizing." Sometimes I thought that God
  had indeed brought me to this Yearly Meeting to
  make me then and there his own; and when I heard
  of passing by transgressions as a cloud, I was ready
  to think my own were indeed dissolving as one. I
  felt strongly the superiority of religion to every
  other thing, not merely for its external aim, God,
  but for its internal power on self, how these masterpieces
  of the human creation were not only made the
  most of by religion, but that _it_ alone can make any
  thing of the _whole man_. How strongly do we feel,
  when with a clever, talented, irreligious man, that he
  has a latent class of moral powers which have not
  been called into action, that on this point he may be
  inferior to the veriest child; but God, who has made
  man for himself, has made in every man a royal
  chamber, for himself spiritually to dwell in; and if
  this be not reappropriated to him, (which is religion,)
  his capacity for the Divine is not exercised, and he
  is not only not made the most of, but his best nature
  is not even made use of. What a privilege to have
  intercourse with those in whom the very reverse is
  the case! What a stimulus to the little mind, to
  become not equal to the great, but proportionally
  Christianized--_i.e._ equally devoted! and this is
  Christian perfection; not to have arrived at the
  highest attainment of intercourse with God ever
  granted to man, but to have the will thoroughly willing
  God's will. This is, indeed, better far than a
  mere knowledge of what that will is. But in some
  whom I have seen, there is a beautiful union of a
  high degree of this knowing and willing; and these
  are they to whom it is given to edify the Church.

  * * * How shall I enough praise and thank the
  Lord, who has so condescended to my weak and
  sinful condition, that though my head perhaps knew
  all before, and my heart was disobedient, He has so
  brought me under the mighty ministry of His Word
  of life, that for a while _all_ seemed melted and subjected,
  and my heart longed to accept Him and his
  reconciliation to me on the blessed terms, _not_ the
  harsh terms, but the privileged terms, of my being
  reconciled to Him. Oh, what an error to think any
  thing harsh or hard in the requirements of the gospel!
  It is a mercy beyond man's conception, that we
  are commanded, "Be ye holy, for I am holy."

  _6th Mo. 12th_. Yesterday my twenty-third birthday.
  In the evening a song of praise seemed to fill
  my heart for the vast mercy shown me of late. God,
  who is rich in mercy for His great love wherewith He
  loved me when I was dead in sins, has truly begun
  to quicken my heart.

  _6th Mo. 12th_. Had a note from ---- of kind
  spiritual interest; but I think she mistakes my want,
  which is more of practical than of theoretical faith.
  Have ventured to tell her, in a note, what I feel and
  have felt. I think many who have left Friends, and
  become more decidedly serious since, remembering
  that when Friends, the gospel was not precious to
  them, fancy it is undervalued by the Society. My
  note is as follows:--

  My dear --- will, I hope, believe that I was not disposed
  to receive her affectionate lines in any other than
  that spirit of love in which they were written, and in
  which, I am persuaded, it is the will of our blessed
  Saviour for His disciples "that they all may be one."
  Yes, my dear ----, I believe there is not a sentence in
  thine in which I do not heartily join; and while we are
  both seeking to believe, as thou says, "with the heart"
  in Christ our Saviour, "in whom we have redemption,
  through His blood, even the forgiveness of sins," let us
  say not only, "Here is a point on which we can unite,"
  but here is the one bond of fellowship, which unites the
  whole ransomed Church, throughout the world, and
  especially those who love each other, as I trust we do.
  If we were more willing to let Christ be our all in all,
  surely we should more realize this blessed truth. Disputations
  on theoretical differences seem to me like disputes
  on the principles of a fire-escape among those
  whose sole rescue depends on at once committing themselves
  to it, since the most perfect understanding of its
  principles is utterly in vain if they continue mere
  _lookers-on;_ while others, with perhaps far less _head-_knowledge,
  are safely landed. This, it seems to me, is
  the distinction between head-knowledge and heart-knowledge,
  between dead creed and living faith; and every
  day, I think, more convinces me that it is "with the
  _heart_ that man believeth unto righteousness." As thou
  hast so kindly spoken of myself, and thy kind interest
  for me, may I add that what I have known, small though
  it be, of this faith, has been all of grace; nor do I hope
  or wish but that it may be, from first to last, of grace
  alone. If I love Christ, it is because He first loved me:
  because God, who is rich in mercy, has shown me the
  great love wherewith He loved me, when I was dead in
  sins; nor should I have had one glimpse "of the knowledge
  of the glory of God, in the face of Jesus Christ,"
  had not God, who "commanded the light to shine out of
  darkness," shined into my heart. And dark and sad
  has ever been the view of myself bestowed by that grace
  which brings salvation, long shining as it were to make
  my darkness visible; but this do I esteem one of His rich
  mercies, who will have no rival in His children's hearts,
  and teaches us our own utter depravity and sinfulness;
  that we may, without any reserve, fly to Him, "who has
  borne our sins in His own body on the tree, that we might
  be saved from wrath through Him." And if it is of
  grace, that while we were yet sinners, "we were reconciled
  to God by the death of His Son," it is by grace also,
  that "being reconciled, we shall be saved by His life."
  It is "not by works of righteousness which we have
  done, but according to His mercy He saveth us, by the
  washing of regeneration and renewing of the Holy
  Ghost." And here I find abundant need to take heed
  that I "receive not the grace of God in vain;" for truly
  Christ cannot be ours, if we will not be his. But though
  I have to lament many a revolt, and many a backsliding,
  and many a denial in heart of Christ my Saviour, yet
  the Lord, who turned and looked on Peter, has not forsaken
  me; the fountain set open for sin has been, I
  believe, set open for me; and still does He continue to
  "heal my backslidings, and to love me _freely_." For
  the future I have sometimes many a fear, because of
  this deceitful heart of mine; and at others I can trust
  it in His hands, whose grace will be sufficient for me to
  the end,--that end, when I may realize, what I now
  assuredly believe, that the "_gift_ of God is eternal life
  through Jesus Christ our Lord." And now, my dear
  ----, are we not one, essentially one, both one in Christ?
  I know that, uniting in the acknowledgment, and, above
  all, I trust, in the experience, of the great truths of the
  gospel, we differ in their applications and influences on
  subordinate points, and I believe this must be expected
  to be often the case while "we see through a glass
  darkly;" but we shall, I trust, "see eye to eye, when
  the Lord shall bring again Zion;" and He will keep that
  which we have committed unto Him against that day.
  The Lord's "commandment is _exceeding broad_," and it
  is no wonder that our narrow minds cannot adequately
  appreciate the whole, or that, while we believe the same
  things, we sometimes view them in different order and
  proportion, often being nearer each other than we are
  aware. I fear much good is not done by discussing differences;
  at least, _I_ find it calls up feelings which are
  not good, and I lose more practically than I get or give
  theoretically. May the Lord bless us both in our pilgrimage,
  and guide us in a plain path to a city of final
  habitation, where we shall not want sun, or moon, or any
  other thing than the glory of God and the Lamb, to be
  our everlasting light.

  I could not be satisfied without replying to thy kind
  remarks and inquiries about myself and my hopes; but
  now, having said so much, I hope thou wilt not think it
  strange that I cannot _argue_ on things about which we
  differ. I have not adopted opinions without reflection,
  and it has fully satisfied myself; but I have nothing to
  spend in controversy, which I always find does me a
  great deal of harm. I hope we now know enough of
  each other to rejoice in each other's joy.

  _6th Mo. 16th_. Last evening alone in the plantation.
  Sought the Lord. It was beautiful. Was not
  nature meant by Him to work in concert with His
  spirit on our hearts? Or is the calming and soothing
  power a thing confined to sense and sensibility? I
  suppose the latter, but that religion appropriates these
  as well as all other faculties and parts of man's nature,
  and, where he would have praised nature, bids him
  praise God, his own God in Christ.

  _6th Mo. 18th_. I have thought this summer a time
  of critical importance for my soul, for eternity. I
  have felt, and sometimes spoken, strongly, but always,
  I believe, honestly, unless I have imposed upon myself.
  Thought I had accepted Christ. I thought He
  was my salvation and my all. "Yet once more" will
  the Lord shake not my earthly heart, but also my
  heaven, my hopes, my expectations, in Him. Will
  He convict me still of holding the truth in unrighteousness?
  How else can I explain to myself the
  pride which revolts from censure, the touchy disposition,
  the self-justifying spirit, the jealousy of my reputation,
  the anxiety to keep up my character? How
  else can I explain the inaptitude for the divine, the
  unwillingness to have the veil quite lifted from my
  heart, to display it even to my own eyes? Ah! is it
  not that there is still a double mind and instability in
  all my ways, still a want of that simplicity of faith,
  that humility, and poverty, and meekness of spirit,
  that can accept the gospel, still the self-righteousness
  (worse than "I am of Paul") which assumes to itself
  "_I_ of Christ"? Ah! if I may yet lift my eyes
  through Him who hath borne even the iniquity of
  our holy things, keep me, O Lord, from a wider
  wandering, till Thou bring me fully into the fold,
  the "little flock," to whom it is Thy good pleasure to
  give thy kingdom.

  _7th Mo. 5th_. * * * It is useless to conceal from
  myself that I have felt grieved at some, whom we
  might suppose grounded in the faith long since, appearing
  to keep the expression of sole reliance on the
  mercy of God in Jesus Christ, as a sort of death-bed
  confession. I know full well that religion must be an
  actual transformation of soul; but then the ground
  of our hope that this will be _perfectly_ effected ere
  we depart, is the mercy of God in Christ, quite as
  much as our hope of forgiveness of actual sin, and
  final salvation. Oh, some do separate things too much,
  as if it were possible to err by too full a reliance
  on Christ; as if there was a danger that He or
  we should, by _that_ means, forget the work of grace.
  Grace is grace throughout, not of works, but of Him
  that calleth. Still, I believe there must and will be
  variations in our modes of viewing the great gospel,
  the "exceeding broad" commandment. May we, as
  S. Tuke so beautifully said, "know one another in
  the one bond of brotherhood, 'One Lord, one faith,
  one baptism;'" without entering into nice distinctions
  and metaphysical subtleties. And may I, to
  whom temptations of this kind are naturally so accessible,
  be preserved in my own spirit from the snares
  of death, cleansed "from secret faults," kept from
  "presumptuous sins," and hidden in the Lord's
  pavilion from the strife of tongues.

  _7th Mo. 9th_. I have been thinking much of the
  young women at the Union, and yesterday went to
  see them. A sad spectacle; but they seemed willing
  and glad to be visited, and I hope to go once a week
  to read to them, and to teach a few of them to read.
  Oh that my life were more useful than it is!

  _7th Mo. 18th_. Oh, why was I induced to allow
  thoughts and reasonings to supplant worship! How
  they plead their own utility, and how like good is the
  thought about good! but then the dry, barren, unsatisfied
  unrest of soul that followed! Strange, that
  thought employed to so little purpose at other times
  should pretend to be so edifying in meetings. Reveries
  on probability, as being a mere relation between a
  cause and a spectator, or bystander; not between cause
  and effect. Thought it important touching free will
  and foreknowledge. God is certain of futurity--we
  are uncertain. Futurity is certain in relation to God,
  uncertain in relation to us--probable or improbable in
  relation to us, neither in relation to God; but neither
  the certainty nor the probability exists in future non-existent
  fact, therefore I take it they do not influence
  the fact. This, perhaps, is profitless; but I am glad
  to find that thought on this point always tends to confirm
  what I believe is the true scriptural doctrine in
  opposition to Calvinism. This was a natural reaction
  on the minds of reformers from the Romish doctrine
  of justification by works. They no sooner found that
  man cannot make his own salvation, than they fancied
  he could not reject it. They learned that it was freely
  given to some, and fancied that it could not have been
  freely offered to all.

  _7th Mo. 20th_. Mere carnal conscientiousness is a
  poor substitute for love of God. The constant inquiry,
  "What must I do to keep an easy conscience?"
  is no proof of high Christian attainment; rather
  says the Christian, "What can I render for all His
  benefits?"

  _7th Mo. 30th_. A visit to J. Harvey's corpse. [A
  poor man whom she had frequently visited.] I have
  been much concerned about him in days past, and
  now can a little rejoice in his exceeding joy. An
  emaciated, sallow countenance, but speaking perfect
  rest. He spoke scarcely at all for some days. I saw
  him three days before his death, and could but commend
  him to one of the "many mansions;" but he
  could scarcely answer.

A few passages about this period, record Eliza's desire for a
friendship with some sympathizing mind out of her own family,--some
one whose views, whilst tending to the same point as her own, would
yet have the freshness of an altogether different experience. Not
that she undervalued home affections, for that would have been quite
contrary to her nature, but, after alluding to them warmly, she says,
"At the same time, we want a friendship for the rest of our faculties
and minds; and it cannot be, I believe, that _one_ family should
supply to any one of its members all that it is capable of
appreciating and experiencing in the way of friendship." Another entry
states, "I have a new friendship with M.B., which promises substantial
comfort. Just the thing I have wished for all my life. We have
exchanged two letters on each side." This acquaintance ripened into
a connection which was afterwards steadily maintained,--although
the intercourse of the two friends was principally by letter. That
circumstance, however, has caused the preservation of thoughts and
sentiments which otherwise would have been unrecorded; and, as the
letters offer much of an interesting character, copious extracts from
them are hereafter given:

  _8th Mo. 2d_. Letter to M.B.

  * * * Surely, whoever is not a true friend to himself
  and to his own best interests cannot be such to
  another. Here, indeed, if I may hope to have part or
  lot in the matter, the thing aimed at is high; but this
  does not insure its attainment, and there is great cause
  for care that the humiliating discovery of the discrepancy
  between the two, does not lead us to lower the one rather
  than seek to elevate the other. I have a strong belief
  of the importance of self-scrutiny and honesty with one's
  own heart, of real willingness to know and feel the
  worst of one's self, and sincerity of application to the
  true means of remedy. Perhaps the very sense of deficiency
  in this particular, makes me believe the more its
  value; but I dislike what I think to be the false humility
  of some persons, who, while seeming to claim the
  _blessings_ of religion, would think it presumption to profess,
  or even expect, conformity to its standard. The
  presumption always seems to me on the other side; and
  yet who is free from it altogether? Very long it takes
  some persons--of whom I am one--to get through the
  seventh chapter of Romans. Many a time they get to
  the twenty-fourth verse, and stick in the twenty-fifth,
  looking wishfully over the barrier which divides them
  from the eighth chapter; and yet, if thoroughly willing
  to know the worst of themselves, they would perhaps
  find that it is because a _part_ of a man's nature may go
  so far, while it requires the _whole_ spirit to make this
  last transition. I think I long for true humiliation in
  the evidence of my own deficiency here.

         *       *       *       *       *

  I did, indeed, enjoy the Yearly Meeting's Epistle: it
  is a wholesome one in these days. How refreshing is
  it in thought, to abstract ourselves from the words and
  doings of men, and think of that _one_ eternal unchanging
  truth, which can never be inconsistent with itself and
  which, though hid from the wise and prudent, is revealed
  to babes! Here I think the belief of the identity
  of our own character hereafter, comes in well, and
  should lead us to consider whether we love truth absolutely,
  and not only relatively to the circumstances
  which will not exist then; and whether we can be happy
  in a land where righteousness and peace forever kiss
  each other. And may I, without vanity and just in
  illustration, quote from a rhyme of my own?--

  While thus we long, in bonds of clay,
    For freedom's advent bright,
  Upbraid the tardy wheels of day,
    And call the slumbering light,

  Do we no willing fetters wear
    Which our own hands have made,
  No self-imposed distresses bear,
    And court no needless shade?

  While our departed friends to meet
    We often vainly sigh,
  To hold in heaven communion sweet,
    Communion large and high,

  Do we, while here on earth we dwell,
    Those pure affections show
  For which we long to bid farewell
    To all we love below?

  For no unhallow'd footstep falls
    Upon that floor of gold;
  Those pearly gates, those crystal walls,
    No earthly hearts enfold.

  And if our voice on earth be strange
    To notes of praise and prayer,
  That voice it is not death's to change,
    Would make but discord there.

  _8th Mo. 10th_. Strange vacillations of feeling; at
  one time on the point of trusting the Lord for
  eternity, at another, cannot trust him even for time.
  At one time would cast my whole soul on him; at
  another, will bear the weight of every straw myself,
  till I become quite overloaded with them. Oh,
  what a spectacle of folly, and weakness, and sin!
  A soul immortal spending all her powers, wasting
  her strength in strenuous idleness!

  _8th Mo. 16th_. Very busy making things tidy,
  and resolved, almost religiously, to keep them so.
  I think I would not, for any consideration, die with
  all my things in disorder. Disorder must be the
  result of a disordered mind, and not only so, it
  reacts on the mind and makes it worse in turn.

  _8th Mo. 18th_. People do not say enough of the
  need of _consistency_, when they speak of trusting in
  Providence instead of arms. It was consistent in
  William Penn, but it would not have been consistent
  in his contemporaries, who took the Indians'
  land for nought. Providence is not to be made a
  protector of injustice, of which arms are the fitting
  shield. Oh that consistency, earnestness of character,
  were more valued!

  _8th Mo. 23d_. Some true wish, may I say prayer,
  that Christ may now, _now_, blot out as a cloud my
  sins, even on his own terms, which, I am more convinced,
  do not consist of things required of us to
  give in exchange for his mercy, but are a part of
  that mercy, a part of that redemption. Yes, when
  sin becomes thoroughly a burden, as sin, then we see
  that grace would be indeed imperfect, if it was not
  to be a deliverance from the _power_, as well as the
  punishment, of sin; and if we ask for grace, and yet
  cherish sin, truly we know not what spirit we are
  of, we wish not for complete salvation while we are
  asking for it. Mercy is a broader thing than our
  most earnest prayers suppose; yea, it is "above all
  that we can ask or think."

  _8th Mo_. Letter to M.B.

  * * * How little it avails to know the theory of
  wisdom and folly, right and wrong, etc., just so as to
  occupy only the perceptive and reasoning faculties!
  What we want, what the world wants, I think, is the
  _Christian_ version of the present so fashionable idea of
  _earnestness_, or, as I have thought it may imply, _consistency_
  of character. We get ideas and opinions in a _dead_
  way, and then they do not _pervade_ our characters; we
  have but half learned them; they have influenced not
  our feeling, but only our knowing faculties, and then
  perhaps it had been better not to have known the way
  of truth. A full response is in my heart to the difficulty
  of keeping things in their right places, neither can I at
  all agree to the idea "that where the love of the world
  perverts one, the fear of it perverts ten;" at least, understanding
  the world to mean "whatever passes as I
  cloud between the mental eye of faith and things unseen."
  Many a time has the book-shelf and the writing-desk
  been made a substitute for the oratory. As to
  friendship taking this place, surely the whole idea of a
  _Church_ is based on that of Christian fellowship in its
  strict sense. Be it ours to know what _that_ means, and
  then, if our love to Christ is the main bond of union,
  while that continues, we shall love him the more rather
  than the less on that account. But I know that friendship
  includes various other elements, and may we be
  sensible that if these are made the main things in our
  esteem, not only our faith, but our friendship too, becomes
  debased.

  Respecting the seventh and eighth chapter of Romans,
  a believe I agree with thee; but lately I have had
  stronger feelings than I used to have about the distinction
  between _defective_ religion and _infant_ religion.
  The full feeling of our corruption must certainly precede
  the full reception of the Christian's joy; and I believe
  we ought not to be too anxious to reduce to regular
  theory what is so much above our finite understandings
  as the work of the Holy Spirit in the heart. Still, I
  think there is, when it goes on as it ought to do, unobstructed,
  a completeness in all its stages. There may
  and ought to be a perfect infant, then a perfect youth,
  then a perfect man, and I don't know how to apply to
  the advanced stage only; that blessed declaration which I
  sometimes think expresses the sum of Christian liberty,
  "There is, therefore, now no condemnation to them which
  are in Christ Jesus." Still, it will be quite time enough
  to reason about this when we have attained such an entirely
  childlike state; nor, I suppose, shall we be long
  in discovering the privilege of which we shall then be in
  possession--"Of such is the kingdom of heaven." Then,
  doubtless, we shall be furthest from reasoning at all.

  We have been much interested with the last volume
  of D'Aubigné. The imperfection of all the instruments
  is strikingly shown. Luther's obstinate transubstantiation
  or consubstantiation doctrines, Melancthon's timid
  concessions to the Papists, and Zwingle's carnal warfare,
  ending in the tragedy of Cappel, and, as it seems, in the
  long delay of the establishment of the Reformation in
  Switzerland. D'Aubigné appears very sensible of this
  inconsistency: even the loss of Ecolampadius by a peaceful
  death he represents as a happy encouragement to
  the Church after the blow it had received; but I don't
  think D'Aubigné a thorough peace advocate. He makes
  so much distinction between the Churchman and Statesman,
  that I fear he would allow of _mere_ rulers and
  magistrates taking up arms on _merely_ secular affairs,
  though he does not wish the Church to be defended by
  such. I should like to know thy impression of the early
  Christians' opinion on war. Neander allows that a _party_
  objected to it, as in the case of Maximilian, A.D. 229;
  but says that very sincere Christians were soldiers in
  the Roman army, till Galerius required all soldiers to
  take part in the heathen ceremonies.

  _8th Mo. 26th_. Oh, how shall I set forth His
  tender compassion, who has blessed me this evening
  with, I was going to say, the abundance of peace
  and truth? Oh, how near He has been, helping me
  to cast my all on Him, helping me to leave the
  things that are behind, yes, and the things that are
  before too, as far as self is concerned, and commit
  my future way and safety to Him! When His love
  has been made known, how have I been grieved by
  fears of future folly, fears, too, that have been grievously
  fulfilled. What a pretest this for harassing
  myself with fears that it will be so again! But, oh,
  these fears are very far from that fear which the
  Lord will put into His children's hearts, that they
  shall not depart from Him. They have no preserving
  power over me; they are "of the earth, earthy," and
  solely come from distrust of that grace which is ever-sufficient;
  from a desire to have a share myself in
  that victory which is Christ's alone. Oh, if my incessant
  regards were to Him alone, He would take
  all care on Himself. "He is the same yesterday, to-day,
  and forever," and His faith _is_ "the victory
  which overcomes the world." Humility, true watchfulness,
  and self-distrust are diametrically opposed
  to this careful spirit: their language ever is, "I am
  nothing, Christ is all."

  _8th Mo. 27th_. Changed indeed; not any light to
  be seen in my dark heart. Yet I look up, I trust
  singly, to Him from whom it came yesterday; and
  thither may I look till again the day break. Can I
  say, in full sincerity, "_more_ than they that watch
  for the morning"? Alas that I am so versatile!
  Christian and worldling within a day. Oh for a
  deeper sense that I am not my own,--that I have no
  right to disturb the sanctuary of my own spirit
  when God has made it such,--that there is no other
  way than whole-hearted and honest-hearted Christianity
  to attain the heavenly kingdom!

  _9th Mo. 9th_. Letter to M.B.

  * * * Our wily foe finds every thing which produces
  strong emotion and commotion of mind a good
  opportunity for trying new temptations, and, at any
  rate, tries hard to keep us from committing all to a
  better hand than ours. I feel quite ashamed of the
  measure of his success with me; but surely we want a
  new sanctification every day,--a new recurrence to the
  grace that will _set_ "all dislocated bones," as J. Fletcher
  calls unsanctified feelings and affections. I was much
  pleased with this comparison, which I found in his life
  the other day. I think it is an admirable exemplification
  of the uneasiness and pain of mind they cause.
  But how very uncertain our frames of feeling are;
  sometimes thinking there is but _one_ thing which we have
  not _quite_ given up to God, and sometimes, with perhaps
  correcter judgment, lamenting, "_all my bones_ are out
  of joint." May we, my dear M., encourage each other
  in seeking help of Him who received and healed all
  that had need of healing.

  _9th Mo. 20th_. Finished most interesting review
  of John Foster's life. * * * Foster was a very
  deep thinker. He thought the boundary of the
  knowable wider than the generality do. This may
  be; but I fancy he does not always admit sufficient
  weight in his arguments to the manifest relations
  and actings of the unknown upon the known. He
  was Calvinistic; this, joined to a strong view of the
  moral perfection and benevolence of God, led him
  to the natural result of denying _eternal_ punishments.
  Could he have seen more of the essence of a human
  spirit, as he doubtless now sees it, I venture to think
  that that mysterious personality, by virtue of which
  man may be said to choose his destiny, _i.e._ to embrace
  destruction, or to submit to be saved by the Saviour
  in his own way, that the perception of this personal
  image of God in man might vindicate the Divine
  perfection and benevolence, and make it evident that
  our "salvation is of God, and our destruction is of
  ourselves."

  _10th Mo. 2d_. Oh to be permitted any taste of
  that grace which is free--ever free; which brings a
  serene reliance on eternal love; which imprints its
  own reflection on the soul! Oh, be that reflection
  unbroken by restless disquiets of mind; be that
  image watchfully prized, and waited for, and waited in.

  _10th Mo. 5th_. Some sweetness in thinking how
  much akin is "having nothing" to "possessing all
  things."

  _10th Mo. 14th_. Talk with James Teare on the
  immorality of drinking. Query:--Is it _per se_ a _sin_
  to drink a little? He does not affirm it in pure
  abstract, but says that no _action_ can be purely
  abstract; and that as to uphold an immoral system
  is immoral, as the drinking system is immoral, as
  moderate draughts uphold the drinking system, and,
  in fact, cannot be drunk by the community without
  giving birth to drunkenness--_ergo_, moderate drinking
  is an immoral practice. He does not at all judge
  those who do not see it; only says they ought to
  accept light and knowledge, and he cannot doubt
  what would then be the result.

  _10th Mo. 17th_. The above talk with J. Teare was
  a great satisfaction to me; we went that evening to
  his meeting, and after two hours of deep interest in
  a crowded meeting I signed the pledge, with a hand
  trembling with emotion. I could not trust myself to
  tell S. that the pleasure he expressed was but a faint
  reflection of mine. I have been expending two days
  in a letter to the _Friend_ on "Distillation," which I
  ardently hope to get inserted.

  _11th Mo. 3d_. Last evening sweetly realized in
  some degree being in the Lord's own hands; and
  this morning again enabled to cease from my own
  vain attempts and trust the Lord. Oh, the folly of
  the long trials I have made to _do_ something, when I
  come before Him! It is all in vain. If I am ever
  saved it will be His doing, His _free grace_; and this
  moment can I call Jesus _my_ Saviour. On Fifth-day
  I read Barclay's fifth Proposition--pleased and
  satisfied almost entirely with it.

  _12th Mo. 5th_. I have got my letter inserted in
  the _Friend_; the editor says my zeal has carried me
  too far as to _means_; he agrees as to the evil of the
  system. Oh that it were seen as it deserves! But
  how talk of abolition by _law_, and keep spirit-merchants
  in the Church? [See _Friend_, vol. iv. page
  232.]

  _12th Mo. 11th_.--Letter to M.B.

  * * * _Nothing_, I think, loses by its foundation
  being tried. We see that in yet higher things it is needful
  and right often to try whether principle is firm; and,
  though sometimes we may tremble lest faith should fall
  in the trial, perhaps it would be more just to fear lest
  the trial should merely show it already to have fallen.
  What thou sayest about laying aside reasoning is very
  true; but how hard to do so! Saul's armor doubtless it
  is, as says the little tract. How easy, comparatively, to
  let any want go unsatisfied, rather than that imperious
  reason which urges its claim with so many good pretences,
  which tells us truth will always bear investigation,
  and that if we cannot explain by our small faculties
  experiences in which the highest mysteries are involved,
  the experiences must have been fallacious! How different
  is _this sort_ of voluntary and almost presumptuous self-investigation
  from submitting all to the unerring touchstone!
  It is, indeed, very instructive to observe that our
  Saviour's rejoicing in spirit was not over the subjects of
  some wondrous apocalypse, or over those endowed with
  miraculous power, but over "babes;" and that in the
  same way His lamentation was not that the Jews had
  refused His offers of any thing of this kind, but that
  they "would not" be "gathered" by Him as "chickens
  under their mother's wing."

  It was the fault of my obscure expression, that when
  I spoke of my "painful reason" I did not make it apparent
  that I meant it of the _faculty_ of reason, which
  has been a very unquiet occupant of my mind for some
  years past, and which has led me to the conclusion that
  our mental atmosphere, the whole system of feelings,
  affections, hopes, doubts, fears, perplexities, etc., is one
  which it is dangerous _needlessly_ and wilfully to disturb.
  When once we have carelessly wrought up a storm it is
  not in our own power so quickly to lay it, and the poor
  mind is almost compelled to endure passively the disturbance
  till these unruly elements spontaneously subside,
  or something better interferes for its help. Surely,
  if there has been any resting-place given us, if our eyes
  have ever seen the "quiet habitation," we ought to fear
  the excitement of any thing which, naturally breaks the
  equilibrium. I believe some people think _imagination_
  the unruly member among the mental parts; but with
  me it is the aforesaid offender decidedly. I hope I do
  not tease thee about teetotalism: it lies near my heart,
  and has done so for a long time; and though I too find
  it an effort sometimes to give up an evening to a meeting
  of that sort, it is such a comfort to be able to do any thing
  to show on which side I am, that I think I ought not to
  mind that.

  _1st Mo. 4th_, 1847. Yesterday, and the day before,
  gently blest in spirit with having things placed more
  in their right position in my heart than for some
  time before. One evening I had toiled long in vain,
  could not overcome a sad sense of spiritual deficiency.
  It occurred to me that this might be the very best
  thing for me: then I opened my heart and welcomed
  it; and, oh, how did a smile of compassion beam
  upon me, and the grace that would not be purchased
  came in full and free! But it is infinitely important
  to watch for more.

Thus experiencing both "how to be abased" and "how to abound," she
learned to be satisfied with poverty, and recognized in barrenness,
as well as in richness of joy and love, a guiding and purifying grace,
leading on to the perfect life in Christ.

  _1st Mo. 10th_. Letter to M.B.

  * * * Oh for that simple faith which thou speaks
  of as mastering mountains of difficulty, and that not by
  might or power, but by its intrinsically victorious
  nature! I have sometimes been struck by the way in
  which this is asserted in the text, "This is the victory
  which overcometh the world, even our faith." It is
  taken for granted that there will be a contest and a
  victory; but if there is true faith the world will certainly
  be overcome: I mean provided the faith is held fast. It
  may be abandoned, or foes within may betray the
  citadel; but it will not otherwise yield to pressure from
  without. May we, if possible, encourage one another
  not to let go that small, and, it may be, famishing and
  almost expiring confidence, which _hath_, not only is promised,
  great recompense of reward. I little thought to
  come to any thing so encouraging when beginning a sort
  of lamentation over myself. But really there is so
  much that is deceptive in the deceptive heart; so many
  things, even our humility, that we once thought of the
  right kind, turn out to have been some refined manifestation
  of spiritual pride, that we may daily find, at least
  I do, that the question "Who can cure it?" follows its
  judgment as "desperately wicked," with emphasis full
  as great as that of "Who can know it?" is prompted by
  the discovery that it is "deceitful above all things."

  * * * Job Thomas's death-bed has long been an
  interesting one to me; and I think his parting address,
  especially seeing it is a translation from Welsh, conveys
  remarkably the impression of a mind beginning to be
  shone upon from the other world. On the other hand,
  death-beds of opposite characters, such as "Altamont"
  in Murray's Power of Religion, carry a no less convincing
  evidence of the dark realities to come. When
  my father was in America he was much interested with
  hearing from a friend, a female connection of whom had
  lived in the house with Tom Payne, some account of the
  last hours of that wretched man, who appears to have
  become so fully sensible of his fatal errors as to have
  written a recantation, which some of his infidel friends
  destroyed. The account they gave to Cobbett was entirely
  false; as the friend related that he expressed to
  her the greatest sorrow for the harm that he had done,
  and, on hearing that she had burned some of his books,
  he expressed a wish that all had done the same.[2]

  [Footnote 2: For a farther account see Life of Stephen Grellet,
  vol. i. p. 163, Amer. edit.]

  * * * Total abstinence, as well as many other good
  Causes, and _the_ good cause, have lost a noble advocate in
  our honored and lamented friend J.J. Ghirney. It is
  hard to reconcile one's mind to so sudden a summons;
  so little time for his sorrowing friends to receive those
  ever valuable and precious legacies, "dying sayings."
  We have heard of nothing of that kind; and perhaps he
  was not conscious of the approach of death at all. So
  much the brighter, doubtless, the glad surprise of the
  transition. Oh, how one longs for permission to look
  in at heaven's opened door-way after the entrance of
  such souls!


  _1st Mo. 23d_. To-day, writing rhyming Irish,
  appeal. It got the upper hand and made me sin--so
  unhappy about it. When I believe sincerely
  desiring to offer it up to the Lord's, will, I grew
  easy to continue it. Perhaps it was a selfish and
  self-pleasing influence, but I think not so. I felt
  very glad afterwards to be able to ask to have all
  my heart consecrated by the Lord's spirit; and I do
  believe that to rectify, not extinguish, the beat of
  oar facilities, is religion's work.

  This appeal on behalf of the poor Irish was
  never made public. It had occupied her
  thoughts very deeply, and, had she seen fit to
  publish it, might have been an auxiliary to the
  material efforts on behalf of the sufferers in
  which she, in common with many others at that
  period, was warmly engaged.

  Many visits to poor people. In some I felt able
  to talk to them of heavenly things. I believe it is
  right to speak in love and interest, but never to out-strip
  our feelings. "I was sick, and ye visited me,"
  refers to a duty; and surely, when we are blessed
  with a knowledge of the way of salvation, and feel
  anxious for the salvation of others, it is right to do
  our endeavors; at the same time well knowing that
  God only can touch the heart. I believe that indifference
  and indolence do much shelter themselves
  under pretence of leaving God's work to Himself.
  I have often learned salutary lessons in doing my
  little.

  _2d Mo. 19th_. I have been musing upon "_my
  sorrow was stirred_." Can it be that every heart is a
  treasury of sadness which has but to be stirred up
  to set us in mourning? Is it proportionate to the
  amount of evil? Does a certain amount of evil
  necessarily bring a certain amount of sorrow soon or
  late? Do we suffer only by our own fault, unless
  a grief is actually inflicted upon us? I think not.
  There may be mental storms, over-castings of cloud
  in the mind's hemisphere, independent of the exhalations
  from the soil.

  _2d Mo. 23d_. Letter to M.B.

  * * * The truth is, that I was once fonder of reading
  than of almost any thing else. * * * I don't
  know how to tell thee about the strangely sad impression
  that has followed, that "this also is vanity." I
  know it is our duty to improve our minds, and I wish
  much that mine had been better cultivated than it has
  been, and yet some utilitarian infirmity of mind has so
  often suggested, "What use is it?" while I have been
  reading, that my zest for the book has been almost destroyed,
  and the very thought of the volume has been
  saddened by remembering what I felt while reading it.
  So that what E. Barrett says of light reading is true to
  me of Schiller and some others:--

  "Merry books once read for pastime,
    If we dared to read again,
  Only memories of the last time,
    Would swim darkly up the brain."

  I hope these feelings are not infectious, or I certainly
  would not inflict on thee the description. But do not
  take this as a _general_ picture of me. It is a morbid
  occasional state of things; consequent, by reaction, on
  the exclusiveness of aim with which those things were
  followed. I learned sooner than I suppose many do,
  the earnestness, coldness, reality of life; and there has
  come an impression of its being _too late_ to prepare for
  life, and quite time to live. However imperfectly, I have
  learned that to live _ought_ to be to prepare to die; but,
  without stopping to describe how that idea has acted, a
  secondary purpose of being of some use to others has. I
  might almost say, tormented my faculty of conscientiousness.
  Don't suppose that this is any evidence of religion
  or love. I believe it rather argues the contrary. Every
  attempt to do good ought to spring naturally from love
  to God and man; not from a wish merely to attain our
  _beau-ideal_ of duty. Now, though I so much like reading,
  I did not seem able to make any use of it; for
  strangely confused were long my ideas of usefulness,
  and there has followed many a conflict between these
  two unsanctified tendencies. Perhaps they have done
  some good in chastening each other and chastening their
  owner. Do not think I prospered in either, for I have,
  as I said, a poor memory; and then I wanted to see
  fruits of my labors, and spent a great deal of time in
  making charts; one of the history of empires, one of
  the history of inventions and discoveries; the latter,
  especially, was not worth the labor. I have had a taste
  of many things, and yet, to speak honestly, excel in
  hardly any thing: the reason of this is partly a great
  want of order. I never attempted any thing like a
  "course of reading:" but, when I began a book, _the_
  _book_ was the object more than my own real improvement.
  I read often D.E.F., before I had read A.B.C.,
  and so grew confused, and then, if it is to be confessed,
  the childish pride of having read a book was not without
  its influence. Poetry in modern times has certainly
  become diluted in strength and value; but,
  though I have not at all a large acquaintance, I think
  there are many good modern poets. I much admire
  Wordsworth's "Intimations of Immortality," as well as
  many of his shorter and simpler pieces--"The Longest
  Day," for instance. There is a great deal of good
  instruction, as well as deep thought, in his poetry; but
  there is not, I think, very clearly an evangelical spirit;
  indeed, the "Excursion," which is beautiful, is unsatisfactory
  to me in this respect. Longfellow I think not
  _clearly_ influenced by religious principle, but I do not
  see any thing contrary to it. Some of his short pieces
  are like little _gems_,--so beautifully _cut_, too. Elizabeth
  Barrett's [Browning] deep thoughts, rich poetical ideas,
  and thoroughly satisfactory principles, when they appear,
  [1846] make her a great favorite with me and with us
  all. Even her fictions, though so well told, are not
  wrought up, or full of romantic incident; but the tale
  is plainly used merely as a thread on which to string
  rich thoughts and lessons. How much this is the case
  with the "Lay of the Brown Rosary!" Even the sad
  pieces, such as the "Lost Bower," end generally with a
  gleam of light, not from a mere meteor of passion or
  sentiment, but from a day-spring of Christian hope.
  Perhaps I am too partial, for I know that taste, which in
  me is particularly gratified with E. Barrett, will influence
  our judgment. Some of Trench's poems, too, I think,
  are worth learning; his "Walk in the Churchyard" I
  particularly like.

  _3d Mo. 25th._ Letter to M.B.

  * * * But, oh, I do believe that if people did but
  accustom themselves to view small things as parts of
  large, moments as parts of life, intellects as parts of men,
  lives as parts of eternity, religion would cease to be the
  mere adjunct which it now is to many. * * * I am
  convinced that till it be made _the one_ object of our
  earnest love and endeavors, till we have an _upright_
  heart, till the leader of the fir-tree points direct to
  heaven, and all lateral shoots not merely refrain from
  interfering, but mainly grow in order to support, nourish,
  and minister to it, we shall never have that perfect
  peace, that rest of spirit, that power to "breathe
  freely,"--conscious that we are _as_ if not _all_ that we
  ought to be,--which constitute the happiness of a
  Christian. But enough of this: don't think I pretend
  to any such attainment, though I can sometimes say, "I
  follow after."

  I much admired that part of Jane Taylor's "Remains"
  which describes her cheerful and unmurmuring
  acceptance of a humble quiet life, and her dislike of
  mere show and machinery in benevolence. I do not
  think the best public characters are those who accept
  formally, and for its own sake, a prominent station, but
  those who, following their individual duty, and occupying
  their peculiar gifts, are _thereby_ made honorable in the
  earth. To them, I fancy, _publicity_ is often an accident
  of small moment; and they who walk in the light of
  heaven mind little whether earthly eyes regard or disregard
  them. I do not, however, _covet_ for any one whom
  I love a conspicuous path. There must be many thorns
  and snares.

  _4th Mo. 4th_. Much interested with Hester
  Rogers's life. The Methodist standard of holiness is
  full as high as Friends'--_viz_. the gospel standard.
  Struck with the accordance with G. Fox's experience.
  He was asked if he had no sin, and answered, "Jesus
  Christ had put away his sin, and in Him (Jesus) is
  no sin." This was a young man. He grew much
  afterwards, doubtless, in faith and knowledge. What
  would be thought of a person, especially young, who
  should profess so much now? Is the gospel changed?
  It is, or we lack faith in its principle. We do not
  _perseveringly_ seek, _determinately_ seek, to know for
  ourselves what this high attainment is.

  Nice visit at the Union on First-day. Congregation
  enlarged, notwithstanding substitution of Bible
  for Tract, and very quiet. Cornelius, a helpless sick
  man, seeming near death, melted my heart with his
  talk. I felt quite unfit to be called a "sister" by
  such a saint.

  _4th Mo. 10th_. "To have had much forgiven" is,
  I can joyfully yet reverently record this evening, my
  blessed portion; and in the sense, which as a cloud
  of warmth and light now dwells in my heart, of the
  loving-kindness and tender mercy of God in Christ
  Jesus, I have been ready to say, in effect, "Bless the
  Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his
  holy name," "who forgiveth all thine iniquities,
  who healeth all thy diseases, who redeemeth thy life
  from destruction, who crowneth thee with loving-kindness
  and tender mercies." How is all given me
  gratis, without money and without price! Nothing
  is mine but confusion of face for my oft-repeated
  rebellions.

  Oh, it is not that we can get salvation for ourselves;
  it is that we hinder not, refuse not, turn not
  from, but accept, wait for, pant for the free gift of
  our Saviour's grace. "To Him who is able to do
  exceeding abundantly," the work belongs. He can
  cause that even as sin hath reigned, so shall grace
  reign; and that as death hath triumphed, so shall
  spiritual and eternal life triumph also. Amen and
  amen.

  _4th Mo. 17th_. How short-lived were the feelings
  I recorded at the close of last week! I believe an
  earnest talk with a chatty caller on minor matters,
  recalled my heart that same evening from its happy
  abiding-place. I have thought of the words, "Jesus
  Christ _the end_ of your conversation," and fear he is
  but a _by-end_ of mine. It is hard to analyze our
  feelings: perhaps when discomfort from excitement
  and discontent is greatest, my sin is no greater than
  when in listless apathy and earthly-mindedness my
  thoughts are bounded by the seen and the temporal.

  _5th Mo. 24th_. A solemn warning from Uncle R.
  on Fifth-day did me good. I was blessed with some
  degree of ability to use the words, "Into Thy hands
  I commit my spirit," and though I feared to add,
  "Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord of truth," in its
  full sense, yet I have felt how precious were the
  words, "as unto a _faithful_ Creator." Oh, does He
  not say in _these_ days, "Open thy mouth wide, and I
  will fill it"? Is His hand shortened at all? Can
  we not have faith in our principles?

The following lines were written about this, time, in allusion to the
marriage of her eldest, sister, and the funeral of John Wadge, an old
and valued friend of the family. It was hoped that the cactus which
had belonged to J.W. would have blossomed in time for the wedding; but
the first flower only opened a fortnight afterwards, on the morning of
his own funeral: and when, in a few years, the marriage of the beloved
writer of the lines was so speedily followed by her own decease, the
striking appropriateness of these touching verses could not fail to be
remembered.

  TO A CACTUS FLOWER.


  Firstling blossom! gayly spreading
    On a long-nursed household tree,
  What unwonted spell is shedding
    Thought of grief on bloom of thee?

  For a morning bright and tender
    They had nursed thee glad and fond;
  Nay, the bud reserved its splendor
    For a funeral scene beyond.

  Who shall tell us which were meeter,--
    Marriage morn, or funeral day?
  What if nature chose the sweeter,
    Where her blooming gift to lay?

  Set in thorns that flower so tender!
    Marriage days have poignant hours;
  Thorny stem, thou hast thy splendor!
    Funeral days have also flowers.

  And the loftiest hopes man nurses,
    Never deem them idly born;
  Never think that deathly curses
    Blight them on a funeral morn.

  Buds of their perennial nature
    Need a region where to blow,
  Where the stalk has loftier stature
    Than it reaches here below.

  Not like us they dread the bosom
    Of chill earth's sepulchral gloom;
  They will find them where to blossom,
    And perhaps select a _tomb_.

  Yes, a _tomb_; so thou mayst deem it,
    With regretful feelings fond;
  _Not_ a _tomb_, however, seems it,
    If thou know'st to look _beyond_.

                          10th of 7th Month, 1847.

  _8th Mo. 8th_. We alone. Pleasant and quiet
  schemes have arisen (partly from reading Pyecroft,
  partly from having felt so much my own deficiencies)
  for thoroughly industrious study, and for keeping, if
  possible, externals and mentals in more order. Order,
  I believe, would enable me to do much more than I
  do in this way, without lessening those little "good
  works" which my natural, unsanctified conscience
  requires as a sedative; (alas that this is so nearly
  all!) but I have got such an impression of selfishness
  in sitting down to read to myself, that this, added to
  unsettlement from company, etc., almost puts study
  out of sight.

  _8th Mo. 16th_. Letter to M.B.

  * * * Though not only inability for, but even
  natural repugnance to good thoughts is often a prominent
  feeling, let us not think this a "discouraging
  experience." What will be discouraged by it, except
  that self-confidence and self-reliance which are the bane,
  the very opposite, to the idea of faith? Surely it is for
  _want_ of such a feeling, and not _because_ of it, that faith
  is feeble. It is because we try to make those good
  thoughts and holy feelings of which Thomas Charles
  says so truly, "we are no more capable than we are of
  creating worlds." I hope I do not presume too much in
  writing thus. How little can I say of the blessings of a
  contrary state! But how much would my heart's history
  tell of the exceeding vanity and folly, and may I not add
  _presumption_, of attempting to do what Divine grace alone
  can do! How many a painful and gloomy hour might
  have been cheered by the Sun of Righteousness, but for
  my obstinacy in trying to light farthing candles! But
  I believe there are generally _other_ obstacles at the same
  time. We _will_ have some beloved indulgence, some
  pleasures, of which perhaps the _will_ is the chief sin,
  and which, if but willingly resigned, might be
  reconsecrated for our use and enjoyment; and then darkness
  and gloominess of mind follow, and we light matches
  and farthing candles to comfort us, while these very
  resources keep us back from seeking the radical remedy.
  How easy it is to write or tell the diagnosis of such a
  case! but to be reconciled to the true mode of treatment,
  the prognosis, as doctors say, _there_ is the difficulty, while
  I doubt not Cowper speaks the truth:--

    "Were half the breath thus vainly spent
    To heaven in supplication sent,
    Your cheerful song would oftener be,
    Hear what the Lord hath done for me."

  I have been much interested with Thomas Charles's
  life; such an example of spiritual-mindedness, faith, and
  love. Dr. Payson's death-bed is indeed a deeply interesting
  history. How we should all like to choose such
  an one! and yet, if but prepared to go, whether we depart
  as he did, or as poor Cowper, how true are the words
  of the latter, "What can it signify?" I have often thought
  these words very significant.

  Of phrenology I have heard such conflicting opinions
  that only my own small experience would satisfy me of
  its general truth. I think only very weak minds need
  be led by it to fatalism. The very fact of so many propensities
  and sentiments balancing each other seems to
  show that the result is to be contingent on some other
  thing than themselves, as the best-rigged vessel on an
  uncertain sea, in varying winds, is under the control of
  the helmsman and captain, and may be steered right or
  wrong; and surely no vessel is built by an all-wise Hand
  which cannot be steered aright with grace at the helm.


  _8th Mo. 19th_. Solemn thoughts yesterday in
  reading that solemn tract, "The Inconvenient Season."
  In visiting I met with another affecting
  illustration of the unfitness of old age for beginning
  religion, in the senseless self-righteousness of poor
  old Mary N. She says every night and morning the
  prayers she learned when a child, which she evidently
  thinks an abundant supply of religion,--saying, "if
  people only do the best they have been brought up
  to, that is all they can need; and she never did any
  harm to any one." Then there was poor Alice, who,
  notwithstanding her rank Calvinism, seemed refreshing
  in comparison. She knew she could not do any
  thing for herself; it was all grace; but then,
  "whatever I am, or whatever I do," she said, "I am safe,
  unless I have committed gross sin, which I never
  shall." Then poor M.L., whose only fault, she seems
  to think, is not having learned to read, though she
  knows she is a great sinner, but then as good as says
  she never did any thing wrong. It was a sweet
  change to E.S., with her thankful and trustful
  spirit, and poor S., with his deep experience in the
  things of God. "It is a long time to suffer," he
  said, "but the end must come, the time must wear
  away. I hope I shall have patience to the end, and
  I have great need to ask that the Lord will have
  patience with me. I hope I shall be fully purified
  before He calls me away." He spoke solemnly on
  the tares and the wheat, as showing the mixture of
  good and evil growing _together_; that our being
  outwardly among the righteous will not secure our not
  being tares.

  _9th Mo. 2d_. Went to see a poor woman at the
  Workhouse; she is full of joy in the hope of heaven,
  and possession of the present mind of Jesus. I said,
  "Many wish for it who have it not;" she said,
  "Perhaps they are not enough in earnest: it costs a
  few groans, and struggles, and tears, but it is sweet
  to enjoy it now." Could the stony heart in me help
  melting, seeing her exceeding great joy?

  Pleased with the sweet spirit that was in poor
  Alice, her trust, I think, in Christ alone, amid all her
  (as I think) mistaken thoughts of the church, sacrament,
  certain perseverance, &c. &c. I did not argue,
  but wished for us both the one foundation.

Of a peculiarly sensitive disposition herself, Eliza's heart abounded
with sympathy for the trials and sufferings of the poor. She was a
welcome visitor at their cottages, where her kind and gentle though
timid manner generally found access to their hearts; and whilst
herself receiving lessons of instruction at the bedside of the sick
and the dying, she was often the means of imparting sweet consolation
to them.

In her desire to promote the spiritual welfare of others, she wrote
two tracts, which were printed by the York Friends' Tract Association.
The first is entitled Richard Nancarrow, or the Cornish Miner, and
traces the Christian course of a poor man whom she had frequently
visited, and who had claimed her anxious solicitude as she watched his
slow decline in consumption. In the second, entitled "Plain Words,"
she endeavored to convey the simplest gospel truths in words adapted
to the comprehension of even the least educated. She was warmly
interested in the Bible Society, in connection with which, for some
years, she regularly visited a neighboring village, besides attending
to other objects of a similar character nearer home.

  _9th Mo. 10th_. Letter to M.B.

  * * * Setting our affection above is indeed the
  first thing of importance; and yet how utterly beyond
  our own power! We are so enslaved to sense and sight
  till He, who alone is able, sets us "free indeed," that
  things around us can take that disproportionate hold on
  our hearts which makes work for the light of heaven to
  reduce things to their proper proportion in our view. I
  have thought often of the text, "Thy will be done on
  earth as _it is in heaven_." Oh, how much that implies,
  both of love and joyfulness to be aimed at in our service
  of our heavenly Father _on earth_. How high a standard!
  Can we hope ever to attain it? Surely we are to ask it,
  not as a millennial glory for the world only, (if at all,)
  but also as our own individual portion. It is more to be
  lamented that we do not realize this than that we do not
  realize Foster's idea of the world to come, in which we,
  yes, we, our very selves, will be actually concerned.
  But I believe the two deficiencies are more connected
  than we are sometimes aware of; and perhaps the joys
  of a happy death-bed, the foretaste of heaven, of which
  we sometimes hear, are as much connected with the
  completeness of religious devotedness, often not till then
  attained, as with the nearness in point of _time_ to a world
  of purity and joy. How striking is the earnestness
  shown in John Fletcher's "Early Christian Experience,"
  in seeking mastery over sin, not as "uncertainly," or as
  "beating the air," but as one resolved to conquer in the
  might of that faith which "_is_ the victory;" and how
  wonderfully was his after-life an example of "doing the
  Divine will as it is in heaven"!

  _9th Mo. 17th_. Distress in the country great.
  What will all issue in? Surely in this, "the Lord
  sitteth on the flood; yea, He sitteth King forever."
  Oh! if He be King in our hearts we shall not be
  greatly moved. There is comfort to the Christian,
  immovable comfort, in having his affections, his
  _patriotism_, in heaven. My own heart, I ardently
  hope, is not a totally devastated land. There is a
  rudiment still there which God looketh upon, and
  perhaps, though I know it not, his eyes and his
  heart are there perpetually. It is not meant to
  remain a rudiment: oh, no; as "sin hath reigned,
  even unto death, _so_ grace should yet reign, even to
  eternal life."

  _9th Mo. 27th_. Perplexed about Irish knitting,
  because it is slave-grown cotton. It does not seem
  consistent to buy it; and yet I don't know what to
  recommend.

  _9th Mo. 30th_. Another month is at an end. Oh
  that I knew whereabouts I stand in the race! "'Tis
  a point I long to know." Sometimes I have joy of
  heart, and then I tremble lest it be not rightly
  founded; sometimes tenderness of heart, and then
  I fear it is only natural feeling; sometimes fervent
  desires after good, and then I fear lest they are only
  the result of fear of punishment; sometimes trust in
  the merits of Jesus, and can look to Him as a sacrifice
  for sin; then I fear lest it is only as an escape
  from danger, not deliverance from present corruption;
  sometimes wish to fulfil actively my duties, then
  these same duties have stolen away my heart. Oh,
  how do I get cumbered with cares and many things,
  entangled with perplexity, or elated with cheer! I
  think I have honestly wished to be fed with convenient
  food. Oh to be at the end of the race, or so
  near it as dear E. Stephens, by whose bed of pain
  and joy I could not but mingle tears. But why
  thus? Surely, O Lord, Thou hast heard the desire
  of thy poor creature. Thy help must have been
  with me when I knew it not, or life had been quite
  extinct ere now. Extinct it _is_ not; and for this will
  I bless Thee, even that I am not yet cast out as an
  abominable branch, though so unfruitful. I fear it
  can be only by much tribulation that the enemy of
  my own house will ever be quelled; and perhaps salutary
  pains are sent, in the very perplexities of things
  which might be more ensnaring if all went on smoothly.
  I have declined more cotton goods from Ireland, and
  asked for woollen, which is one burden gone.

  _10th Mo. 7th_. I believe study and taste must be
  kept very subordinate to duty. Enough, yea, heaven
  is this, to do my Father's will, if it were but as it is
  done in heaven--all willing, loving, joyful service! Oh
  to be more like my Saviour! Surely I love Him!

  _10th Mo. 20th_. If Martha should not have been
  cumbered with the outward attention to Christ Himself,
  cares for others on plea of duty can never be
  enough excuse for a peaceless mind. "They which
  believe _do enter_ into rest." Oh for rest this hour
  in Jesus' bosom!

  _10th Mo. 21st_. This book will present no fair
  account of my state if I write only in hours of comfort.
  I have passed through dark and sinful days--no
  hope, no love. I thought I must have wearied
  out the Saviour--that He had given me up for lost.
  Perhaps some self was in the feelings described in
  my last, and so this faithless sorrow came to teach me
  what I am. Oh that nothing impure might mix in
  the consolation which has visited me last evening
  and this morning, when the gracious regard of my
  all-merciful Saviour has been witnessed, some blessed
  sight of "the water to cleanse and the blood to
  atone." Oh, how fervently I wish to be _kept_ by faith
  in Him, in still deepening humility!

  _11th Mo. 27th_. What would be my present
  condition but for the unchangeable faithfulness of my
  God and Saviour? Ah! how well may He say,
  "Thou hast destroyed thyself," and yet how constantly
  add, "but in me is thine help." Yes, though
  we ofttimes believe not, yet "He abideth faithful, He
  cannot deny Himself;" and so, where there is any
  thing of His own left in a wandering heart, again
  and again returns, "upbraiding not," or else only
  in accents of the tenderest love: "O thou of little
  faith!" Often have I admired not only His great
  love as shown in the main features of redemption,
  but, if such a word is allowable, His _minute_ loving
  kindness. Kindness--such a tender regard for the
  comfort and peace of the soul. Oh, the spiritual
  sorrows are far more from ourselves, our own wilful
  work, than from Him whose language is, "I the Lord
  do keep it, lest any hurt it."

  _12th Mo. 4th_. Yesterday, in going to Plymouth
  with father and mother, read in my Testament of
  the Prodigal Son. Had no time to read before setting
  out, and was dull. Thought it no use to take out
  the book; but, oh, such a sweet contrition came over
  me, such a sense of being invited to return to my
  Father's house, such a soft and gentle peace!

  _1st Mo. 15th,_ 1848. On the First-day before N.
  and F. left us, we had a sweet address (in meeting)
  from Uncle Rundell, on the grace which had been
  his "morning light, and which he trusted would be
  his evening song;" ending with his hope that all
  would be willing to "bear the cross," that finally
  they might "wear the crown," for it is the end that
  crowns the action. We thought it a farewell-sermon;
  and the joyful assurance in which it was uttered is
  precious to think of. On Third-day he walked with
  me in the meadow, but on Fourth-day sickness confined
  him to bed, and on Fifth-day he had lost all
  power of standing. Since then, he has been a patient
  helpless invalid, and constant and most interesting
  has been our occupation by turns, in waiting on him,
  gathering up his really precious words, and witnessing
  the yet more precious example and evidence of
  all-sufficient grace. Never may this season be forgotten
  by me, though not privileged to witness its close.
  To visit F., I left home in the First month, after
  a farewell to our precious uncle, which is not to be
  forgotten. He asked me if I was going the next
  day. I said yes, and that I was very sorry to leave
  him. He said, "Well, as thou art enabled, pray for
  me." I said, "And I hope thou won't forget me."
  He replied, "It is not likely." In the evening, as
  he sat by the fire, and spoke of my going to N. and
  F., he said, "Desire them, as they are enabled, to
  pray that I may be favored with patience and resignation
  to the end." When I said I must try to bid
  him farewell, hard as it was, he said, "May the Lord
  go with thee. Keep to the cross; despise not the
  day of small things. The Lord may see meet to
  employ thee in His service, and I wish that every gift
  that He dispenses to thee may be faithfully occupied
  with." A loving farewell followed, and I left--doubtless
  for the last time--our honored patriarch.

  At Neath I spent more than three weeks, enjoying
  the great kindness of my brother and sister, and
  the beauty of the country, then dressed in its winter
  garb, and the feeling of being in some measure useful.
  I was also blessed, at the beginning of my visit,
  with more than a common portion of spiritual blessing;
  and I think the first meeting I was at there
  was a time never to be forgotten--silent; but my
  poor soul seemed swallowed up of joy and peace such
  as I had never before known, at least so abidingly.
  The calmness and peace, and the daily bread, with
  which I was blessed in my little daily works and
  daily retirements for some days, make the time sweet
  to look back on, but grievous that I kept not my
  portion, and again wandered from mountain to hill,
  forgetting my resting-place.

She afterwards accompanied her brother and sister to their new home at
Ipswich.

From a letter to one of her sisters.

  Ipswich, 3d Month.

  My mind has been so full of you to-day that, though
  it is First-day evening, I must spend a few minutes in
  this way before I go to bed. The thought of father's
  going homewards to-morrow and seeing you all, seems a
  stirring up and drawing tight of the interests and connecting
  bonds of our scattered race. Oh, I do dearly
  love you in my inmost heart,--though some of my letters
  may seem as if I had lost some home affections to root
  amongst strangers; but surely the new scenes of life
  which I have witnessed, since that cold frosty morning
  when I left you, have tended to make me value more
  than ever that precious treasure of household love. Oh,
  what were life without it? a wilderness indeed! and
  well is it worth all the pangs which it may cost us in
  this cold world. It is cheering to think of them as
  caused by contact of something warm within, as with
  the cold without; and far better it is to bear, than to be
  cooled down to the temperature of earth's raw air. Thou
  wilt wonder perhaps at my writing in this way; but with
  me, though I may seem cold and dull in the common
  way, there comes a day, every now and then, when I find

    "New depths of love, in measure unsuspected,
    Ties closer than I knew were round my heart."--

  And though they are saddened by many a regret for
  neglects and omissions and commissions toward you all,
  and that old petrifying selfishness which only grace can
  cure, I would not be without such days, and almost
  thank "each wrench which has detected how thoroughly
  and deeply dear you are." I can hardly tell you what
  the thought of leaving N. and F. is to me, but this dark
  day begins to shadow itself.

  * * * Poor dear old A.G.! What a change from
  her dark corner to everlasting day!--but not less from a
  kingly palace, if we knew the truth; and her shadowy
  abode had more light than many a palace, if we knew
  the truth of that too.

She remarks in her Journal, after her return home:--

  I stayed at Ipswich three weeks after the birth
  of my precious little niece, Frances Elizabeth; rejoicing
  in her daily growth, and calm trustful fearlessness--a
  lesson which nothing ever preached to
  me so loudly before. Respecting my spiritual state
  at Ipswich, I would say that great blessings, and I
  would fear great ingratitude, must be acknowledged.
  Some evening hours in my chamber were exceeding
  sweet, and some meetings solemn indeed. * * *
  I returned in rich and flowing peace. Many a lesson
  I had through my four months' absence, but none
  like that which awaited my return. My father met
  me at Plymouth; we reached home about eleven
  o'clock at night, and went at once to the chamber,
  where four months previously I last heard the voice
  of my uncle, and, though he still breathed, I was
  not to hear it again. He had sunk gradually for
  weeks, and now, though his lips moved a little, a
  word could not be heard. His face was sunk and
  pallid, his breathing uneasy, and his eyes were closed.
  After a short time we left, and at four o'clock in the
  morning, without a struggle, his spirit passed quietly
  away to his "eternal inheritance." "They that turn
  many to righteousness shall shine as the stars for
  ever and ever." I never, I believe, shall forget how
  forcibly came to my mind, as I sat beside his lifeless
  form, the words, "To this end Christ both died, and
  rose, and revived, that He might be Lord both of
  the dead and the living," and my thoughts turned
  on many a solemn and blessed trust implied in them.

Her uncle, Samuel Rundell, died on the 4th of 5th Month, 1848, at the
age of eighty-five. In the _Annual Monitor_ for the following year is
a short Memoir of his life.

It had been for some years a frequent occupation with Eliza, together
with her sisters and cousins, to spend the long winter evenings with
her aged uncle and aunt, and after the decease of the former these
attentions were more constantly needed by the survivor. It was
striking to notice Eliza's cheerful alacrity to relinquish, when her
turn came round, her favorite pursuits, often for some weeks together,
in order to comfort and enliven the declining days of this aged
relative.

  _7th Mo. --th_. My mental condition a quiet but
  not painless one. I had been much favored, though
  in pain and trouble, amidst which I had a kind note
  from J.T., who says, "When at Liskeard, and since,
  I have believed that it might be said unto thee, 'The
  Master is come, and calleth for thee;' and I wish, if
  thou hast been made sensible of this, it may be thy
  very earnest concern to sit at His feet in great humility
  of mind, that thou mayst hear from season to
  season the gracious words that may proceed as out
  of His mouth. It may be that in the ordering of
  His gracious designs, He may see fit, as He has done
  with many others, to allure thee and bring thee into
  the wilderness; but I have no doubt that He will
  also give thee vineyards from thence, and thou wilt
  be made sensible that indeed it is His own right
  arm that has and will bring salvation unto thee"
  Though at present incapable of feeling as I have
  done, yet, being desirous of finishing up my Journal,
  I must acknowledge that great and gracious have
  been the dealings of my heavenly Father with me,
  causing me to rejoice in Him who has done for me
  "exceeding abundantly above all that I could ask
  or think," chiefly in the way, which I have found a
  very blessed way, of enabling me to give up my own
  will to His, and to be subject in things little and
  great to Himself. As far as I have known the yoke
  of Christ, it is indeed a sweet and easy yoke; and
  the chiefest sorrow which I have found during my
  endeavor to bear it has been from my aptness to
  throw it off. The worst of snares are the most
  secret.

  We are now quietly and unexcitedly at home; and
  I wish industriously to do my little duties, and follow
  my little callings: of these the Workhouse women supply
  one of the most satisfactory to myself. They are a
  sad sight; but I feel that my small labors with them
  are not rejected, but desired, and I hope to a few at
  least they may be of some use. On First-days I now
  first read a short tract, then read in the Testament
  two or three chapters, verse by verse, with the women,
  then hear them say hymns,--which three or four learn
  gladly: this fills the hour. And once in a week I like
  to go in and try to teach those who cannot read. I
  have much felt, lately, that it is vain to try as a mere
  satisfaction to conscience to do these things, because
  we _ought_: it must be from a better motive--true
  keeping of the "first and great commandment," and
  the second, which "is like unto it." No busy doings
  at home or abroad will ever do instead.

  _8th Mo. 5th. 7th-Day_. I must in thankfulness record
  free and great mercies this week. First-day was
  a happy one. In the morning rain and a cough kept
  me at home. I read the crucifixion and resurrection
  in different Evangelists, and cannot tell how meltingly
  sweet it was. Surely I did love Jesus then because
  He had first loved me. Sundry sweet refreshing
  brooks have flowed by my wayside, and some dry lonely
  paths I have trodden, (since,) but think He who is
  alone the foundation and corner-stone, immovable
  and undeceiving, has become more precious. Oh, how
  shall I be enough careful to trust him alone? I have
  got on a little with Gibbon's Rise and Fall, and have
  begun Neander on the Emperors, finished one volume
  of Goethe with L., and begun Milton with M., and
  English history with R.

  _9th Mo. 2d_. The week tolerably satisfactory; but
  how truly may we say, "A day in thy courts is better
  than a thousand"! This evening's unexpected, unsought,
  unasked, free, gratuitous mercy has made the
  last two hours worth more than some whole days of
  this week. Oh, how kind is He who knows how to
  win back and attract to Himself by imparting ineffable
  desires after what is good, even to a heart that has
  grown dry and dead and worldly! I have thought
  that some measure of our growth in grace may be found
  in the degree in which our carnal natural reluctance
  to receive Christ back into our vessel, come how He
  may, is diminished. How full of significance is the
  inquiry, "To whom is the arm of the Lord revealed?"
  Blessed revelation; and well is it for those who feel
  ready to adopt the prayer, "Awake, awake, O arm of
  the Lord," if they know the way of its coming. Oh,
  how does its acceptance presuppose an experience of
  something of the kind, so awfully set forth as from
  Omnipotence Himself!--"I looked, and there was no
  man, therefore mine own arm brought salvation unto
  me." Yes, it is when He sees that we have no human
  expectance or confidence left, and are, as it were,
  at our wits' end; it is then that His own arm brings
  salvation, that He says, "Stand still, and see the salvation
  of God; for the Lord shall fight for you, and ye
  shall hold your peace." Oh, how great the condescension
  which has given me a glimpse of "so great
  salvation"! But I have remarked that it never has
  been in answer to any questionings or searchings of
  my own. Some great perplexities I have had lately,
  being so unable to satisfy myself how far religion or
  its duties should be the act of ourselves--so confused
  about prayer, etc. Difficulties, hardly capable to be put
  into words, put me in real distress; but the good seems
  to be _revealed_, if I may use such a word, to another
  part of me; or, as I. Pennington would say, "to
  _another eye_ and _ear_ than those which are so curious
  to learn." The Lord grant that I may at last become
  an obedient and truly teachable child; for that faculty,
  whatsoever it be, that asks vociferously, seems not to
  be the one which, as I.P. says, "_graspingly receives,"_
  but is rather a hinderance to its reception.

  _10th Mo. 14th_. Outwardly, the chief variety in my
  experience has been an interesting visit with my
  mother at Kingsbridge and Totness. A solitary walk
  in the garden at Totness, on First-day afternoon, I
  think I can never forget. No sunshine--though not
  mere darkness--was upon me during nearly all the
  week: yet I wondered to find that at Kingsbridge,
  though visiting was a constant self-denial, in withdrawing
  me from the earnest search in which I was
  engaged, I got on more easily than common, and felt
  much more love than usual to my friends. The first
  gleam of sunshine did not come through any man's
  help, but in my lone matin the day after our return.
  I tried to cast my care on God, and on Seventh-day
  morning was favored with a blessed evidence that He
  did care for me. Since then it has not been repeated;
  but earnest have been my cries in secret to my heavenly
  Father, whose mercies indeed are great; and
  my lonely hours have been employed mostly in seeking
  Him, having little taste for reading of any general
  kind. One morning in particular, at Trevelmond, in
  the plantation, waiting for my father, was my heart
  poured out to God. Calmness has often succeeded;
  and then I dread the coming of indifference and coolness.
  Oh, this is surely the worst of states! I had
  rather endure almost any amount of anguish.

  Yesterday, the probability that my course on earth
  may be short occurred forcibly. I recurred to the
  words quoted by J.T., "The sting of death is sin,"
  with encouragement to hope for "the victory." However,
  the future is not my care. May I be the care
  of Him whose care the future is, and then----

  _10th Mo. 22d_. At home with a cold, and may
  just record my poor spirit's lowness and poverty
  amid, as I trust, its honest desires to become wholly
  the Lord's. "Ye ask, and have not, because ye ask
  amiss, that ye may consume it upon your lusts," is
  surely true of spiritual food. We should desire it
  that we "may grow thereby," not from mere spiritual
  voluptuousness; and, oh, in my own desires for the
  will of God to be done, how often have I not known
  what spirit I was of! How often have I been tenaciously
  standing on the very ground that I was asking
  to have broken up and destroyed! A short lone
  meeting in the parlor, blest chiefly with humiliation,
  and this I would regard as a blessing.

  Letter to ----.

  I am tempted to spend a few lonely minutes in thanking
  thee for thy truly kind salutation, advice, and encouragement;
  though I fear to say much in reply. I hope
  and trust thou art not altogether mistaken in me: in one
  respect I know thou art not,--that I have seen of the
  mercy and love of a long-suffering Saviour, whom I do
  at times desire to love and serve with all my heart; and
  not the least of His blessings I esteem it that any of His
  children should care for me for His sake. I dread depending
  on any, even of these, which, as well as the fear
  of man, I have found does bring a snare; and as far as
  experience goes, I seem to have tasted more of the "tree
  of the knowledge of good and evil" than of the "tree
  of life;" which, however, I would fain hope, "yielding
  its fruit every month," has some for the wintry season
  of darkness and of frost. Yes, my dear friend, thou hast
  rightly judged in this also, that the winter is sometimes
  very cold, and the night very dark. May thy desires
  for me be accomplished, that these may indeed work for
  my good; much as the utter absence of feeling would
  sometimes tempt me to think it the result of that worst
  of all sentences, "Let her alone;" to which the added
  memories of many a "mercy cast away" are very ready
  to contribute. Am I in this repining? I hope not; for
  every day brings fresh cause to acknowledge that because
  my enemies, though lively and strong, "do not
  quite triumph over me," therefore I may still trust that
  He favoreth me. It is seldom that I write or speak in this
  way of myself. May we learn more and more of the
  utter insufficiency of any earthly thing, or of any power
  of our own to do what is essential for our salvation, and
  then, when we hang solely and entirely on the Lord
  Jesus, we shall be safe. Of this I feel no doubt or fear:--the
  fear is of having confidence in any thing besides, of
  spiritual pride, of self-sufficiency. Yes, I find self
  has many lives, and the very sorrows and humiliations
  of one day, if we do not beware, may become the idols
  of the next. "We have eaten and drunk in thy presence:"
  can such a language ever be used in vain-glory,
  while we remember "the wormwood and the gall," which
  we now see to have been administered in fulfilment of
  His own words, "Ye shall indeed drink of my cup"?
  Indeed, it seems to me that nothing is too high, too good,
  or too pure for Satan to make use of, if he can but get
  us and it into his hands. May the Lord be pleased to
  rebuke this devourer for our sakes, and give at length to
  the often-desponding heart to know that Himself hath
  promised, "when the wicked are cut off, thou shalt see
  it," and that the "God of peace shall bruise Satan under
  our feet."

  _12th Mo. 4th_ To the same.

  * * * I am sorry for thy physical state, yet doubtless
  it is but the inverted image of a counterbalancing
  mental good, which is, or is about to be, perhaps to signify
  that

    "God doth not need
    Either man's works or His own gifts; who best
    Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best;
    They also serve who only stand and wait."

  It is surely not for the value of the service itself, that
  He calls for it so long and so repeatedly, till at last the
  iron sinew gives way: no, but for the sake of bending
  the iron sinew itself, and when it _is_ bent in one direction,
  I conclude He does not mean to stiffen it there, but
  would have it bend perhaps back to the very same position
  as at first it was so hard to bend it _from_, with this
  one wide difference, that in the first case it was so in its
  own will, but now in His will. Perhaps thou thinkest I
  am darkening counsel: I do not wish to do so, but write
  just how things have happened to me in my small way.
  Ought we not to be willing to be bent or unbent any
  way? and if a bow is to "abide in strength," it must be
  unbent when it is not wanted. But as we have all different
  places to fill, and different dispositions and snares,
  and besetments, we must not measure ourselves among
  ourselves.

  It is indeed very good, as thou sayest, to be sometimes
  alone, and at times I trust I have found it so; but it has
  its dangers also, especially to me, who am perhaps more
  apt to make self of too much importance than to shrink
  from "due responsibility and authority." Indeed, this
  latter word belongs not to me at all, and if I may but
  keep life in me, (or have it kept,) well indeed will it be.
  Oh, till we have grace enough willingly to do the smallest
  matters, thankfully to "sit in the lowest room," meekly
  and patiently to be put out of our own way, and see our
  plans and intentions frustrated, and find ourselves of
  small account or value in the Church or in the world,
  yes, till we have grace enough to forget self altogether,
  "content to fill a little space, so thou art glorified," I
  know not where is our claim to be followers of Him
  "who made Himself of no reputation." I am very far
  from this. Couldst thou have seen how much hold the
  many small duties of my lonely week have taken on my
  mind, how little time I have found for the purpose for
  which we both value solitude, and how much my "lightly
  stirred" spirit has been hurried about from one object to
  another, I fear thou wouldst scarcely think even this
  note other than presumptuous. Oh, how should I be rebuked
  by the thought,

    "One thing is needful, and but one:
    Why do thy thoughts on many run?"

  _12th Mo. 30th_. To-day ends the week, and to-morrow
  the year. Very unfit am I to speak of it as I
  would. I have felt very happy on some occasions,
  yet I have feared lest what should be on a good
  foundation is yet but built of "hay and stubble."
  If so, who can tell the fierceness of the fire that
  burns between me and my wished-for rest? There
  is no way to true safety but through it; and, oh, to
  part with all combustibles is very hard; but why
  waste a thought on the hardness, could it but be
  speedily and simply done? My old difficulty--what
  is duty when the sensible help of grace is out of
  sight--renews its strength. Doubtless to wait for it,
  and perhaps ask for it also; but how? Oh that I
  had crossed the great gulf from myself to my
  Saviour! Oh that I were in His hands and out of
  my own!

  _2d Mo. 3d_, 1849. I have been sorely tried with
  apparent desertion and darkness; "yet not deserted"
  is my still struggling faith; and some consoling
  thoughts have visited me of days still I trust in
  store, when, "as one whom his mother comforteth,"
  the Lord will comfort me. Dear J.T.'s counsel has
  seldom been absent from my thoughts; but, manifold
  as have been my heavenly Father's instrumental
  mercies, I never was more impressed with the absolute
  need of His immediate preserving care.

  "Can I trust a fellow-being?
    Can I trust an angel's care?
  O thou merciful All-Seeing,
    Beam around my spirit there."

  And not less _here_, in this shady vale of life, than in
  the deep of death. Oh, how desirable, how infinitely
  sweet, to sleep in His arms, on His bosom! An early
  translation, if it were His will, would indeed be a
  blessed portion; but I do not expect such indulgence,
  and desire not to wish it. It is enough if I may
  know that "to live is Christ," and that to die will
  at length be "great gain."

  _2d Mo. 13th_. Seldom does any appeal to my heavenly
  Father seem more fitting than this, "Thou
  knowest my foolishness;" and, oh, may His arm of
  mercy and compassion be one day revealed.

  _3d Mo.--th_. Letter to ----.

  * * * Oh, how desirable it is to be willing to be
  made of much or of little use!

  "And careful less to serve thee much,
  Than to please thee perfectly:"

  and, very far back as I feel in the race, and insensible of
  advance, I think we may be encouraged to believe that
  we make some approaches to the "mark for the prize,"
  if we have a clearer and more desirous view of the yet
  far-distant goal. "Thine eyes shall see the King in his
  beauty, they shall behold the land that is very far off,"
  must have been addressed to one still "very far" from
  the promised land. Thus I scribble to thee the musings
  with which, in my now shady allotment, I try to encourage
  myself to hope; and which perhaps are as incorrect
  as the lament which the beautiful spring will sometimes
  prompt, "With the year seasons return, but not to me."
  It would, however, be most ungrateful to complain. To
  live at all is a _great_ favor--an undeserved and unspeakable
  favor; and though it be a life of pain and weariness,
  and even grief, may it never become a life of
  thankless ingratitude! We who have tried our heavenly
  Father's patience so long, dare we complain of waiting
  for Him?

  _4th Mo. 13th_. Letter to M.B.

  * * * However high be the capacity of the mind,
  it is humiliating to find what small things can distract
  it, if its anchor-hold be not truly what and where it
  ought to be; and who does not find the need of this
  being often renewed and made fast? The little experience
  I have had, that even a life comparatively free
  from trial, except as regards its highest significance, "is
  but vanity," and the belief that it is so infinitely surpassed
  by another, has much modified to me the feeling
  of witnessing (might I venture to say of _anticipating?)_
  the transition for others or for myself. I nevertheless
  cannot say much from experience; for it has not yet
  been my lot to lose one of my own intimate or nearly
  attached friends, except where the course of time had
  made it a natural and inevitable thing; and I know
  there must be depths of sorrow in such events only
  fathomed by descending to them.

  _4th Mo.--th_. Letter to M.B.

  What a privilege it is to be permitted to
  expect and look for a better guidance than our own
  judgment or inclination, even in the small things of our
  small lives; small though they are, compared with the
  great events which are ruled by our heavenly Father's
  will, how much is involved in them as far as _we_ are concerned!
  and we need not measure the controlling care
  of Providence by the abstract greatness or littleness of
  any event. Compared with His infinity, the fate of an
  empire would be not more worthy of His care than the
  least event of our lives; but it is _love_--the same wonderful
  love that can comfort and bless the dying-pillow of
  a little one, in which we want more practical faith for
  our safe conduct through this uncertain life. Did we _live_
  in such a faith, it would be sweet and easy to _die_ in it.

  _4th Mo. 30th. Bristol_. Yesterday was a memorable
  day to me; the evening meeting found me very
  sad and burdened; when I thought I was made sensible
  of something like an offer from One who is infinite
  in power and love, to take this burden away,
  to bear it Himself, and to do in me His own will.
  There seemed something like a covenant set before
  me, that all this should be done for me on condition
  of my acquiescence with and subjection to that
  supreme will, that I should refuse neither to suffer
  His own work within me nor to do His manifested
  will. It may be that I stamp too highly what was
  most gently and calmly spread before my heart. It
  may be that the relief, the peaceful calm, which
  followed my endeavor to unite with this precious proposal,
  was a mistaken thing; but I believe not.
  Strikingly in unison with all this was the evangelical
  and practical sermon of S. Treffry which followed,
  and my feelings in returning home and sitting down
  alone for a few minutes to seek a confirmation, were
  like a seal to all that I had heard in meeting. This
  morning I am far from rich or lively, but seem
  bound neither to doubt nor to complain; but only
  and constantly to endeavor to submit every thought
  of my heart to my dear Saviour's will; and thus,
  after many a tossing, I have been enabled to say,

    "I rest my soul on Jesus,--
    This weary soul of mine."

  There may I ever be, O Lord.

  _5th Mo. 13th. First-day evening_. Oh that here
  I might once more set up my Ebenezer, and say,
  "Hitherto Thou hast helped me, O Lord." "My
  Father's arms, and not my own, were those that held
  me fast." Ah! my own hold in the last fortnight
  has often relaxed, though many a heart-tendering
  evidence have I had that "He is faithful that hath
  promised." Yesterday morning when I awoke, dead
  as ever in myself, some sweet whisper of goodness at
  hand saluted my ear, and, oh, it was but a sound of
  the abundance of heavenly rain that soon made my
  heart overflow.

  _8th Mo. 4th_. Letter to ----

  * * * At our Monthly Meeting, only a few words
  from ----, advising young ones to be patient and submissive.
  And surely we may well be thankful to learn
  so wholesome a lesson, seeing how many sorrows we
  have often brought upon ourselves by the contrary disposition,
  and how faithful is the promise that "the
  meek He will guide in judgment and teach His way."
  How contemptible, as well as sinful, that rebellious spirit
  sometimes appears (when we honestly weigh it) that
  wants to make in its own special favor exceptions to
  the wise management of our kind and gracious heavenly
  Father! Oh, why should we prolong our woes by such
  perversity, when we feel at times as if it would be our
  highest joy to be what He would have us to be, and our
  very meat and drink to do His will?

  _8th Mo. 13th_. This evening we had a precious
  meeting indeed. A solemn silence, in which much
  had been felt, was followed by a fervent prayer from
  ----. Truly my heart's response was, "Let thine
  own work praise thee." Do I write too much if I
  record the blessing of ability to crave for myself this
  evening an increased knowledge of and obedience to
  the Shepherd's voice, and that no disguise of Satan
  may ever impose on me for this?

  _9th Mo. 7th_. Letter to M.B.

  * * * I often wonder at the attractions so many
  find in merely following the multitude in their recreations.
  * * * Do we not sometimes find, if our
  honest wish is to refresh ourselves for duty, and not to
  escape from it, that even our rest and recreation is
  owned by a blessing to which one would not for all
  the world be strangers? How kind was He who had
  welcomed back his faithful twelve from their labors for
  others, when He said, "Come ye _yourselves_ apart into a
  desert place, and rest a while; for there were many coming
  and going, and they had no leisure so much as to
  eat." But even then they were to learn no selfish indolence,
  and rest was quickly laid aside to share their
  morsels with thousands. If we were always His companions,
  did "all our hopes of happiness stay calmly
  at His side," how would our sitting down to rest and
  rising up to toil be alike blessed! And then, when the
  scene is changed, and sorrow and care become our portion,
  the same who was our joy in prosperity will be
  our refuge in adversity; and "because thou hast made
  the Lord thy habitation, there shall no evil befall thee."

  I write my wishes for us both; may it be thus with
  thee and me, and when it is well with thee, think of
  one who longs sometimes to know these things for herself.
  But how well it is that our safety is in other
  hands than ours! how often, had it depended even on
  our continued desire for that which is good, had all been
  over with us!

  "Thy parents' arms, and not thy own,
  Were those that held thee fast."

  _11th Mo. 4th_. "Hunted with thoughts," as J.
  Crook so truly describes it, "up and down like a
  partridge on the mountains," often feeling in meeting
  as if nothing could be compared with the joy
  of _resting_ in Jesus, a rest to which I am still much
  a stranger; no more able to command the mob of
  unquiet thoughts than to hush the winds. At other
  times, as this evening in my chamber, a sort of
  strained anguish of soul, wherein my desire has been
  that my eyes might he ever toward the Lord, that
  He, in His own time, may pluck my feet out of the
  net. The mental pain I have passed through makes
  _some_ escape seem most desirable. If to lay down
  the body were all I needed to escape, and I were fit
  for it, how willingly would I accept such an invitation!
  But I dare not ask it, nor any other thing,
  but only that He who alone can, may make me in
  His own time what He would have me to be; and
  this evening I have been thinking that the painful
  feelings I suffered might be the means appointed for
  freeing me from the bondage of the worldly mind,
  and from those tormenting, hurrying thoughts. Oh,
  be it so; whether by means utterly incomprehensible
  to me, or not, be the needful work done. I trust the
  comprehension is not needed; and that the simplicity
  and submission which _are_ needed may be granted
  me; and that still [if] my enemies be expelled, as I
  hope they will be by "His own arm," (as dear J.T.
  said,) their presence will not be laid to my charge.
  Alas, that I am so often guilty of dallying with
  them! What wonder that the wilderness is so long
  and tortuous, when I reckon the molten calves, the
  murmurings, the fleshly desires?

  _1st Mo. 17th_, 1850. Letter to M.B.

  * * * Canst thou feel any sympathy or compassion
  for one who pleads guilty to the folly of a flurried
  mind, "wasting its strength in strenuous idleness," and
  that, too, with open eyes, seeing its own weakness and
  despising it? One of the worst things such a folly includes
  is that it allows no leisure to the mind; whereas,
  I believe well-ordered minds, however much care may
  be placed upon them, can throw this aside, when not
  necessarily engaged, and repose in the true dignity of
  self-command. This is, I believe, some people's natural
  gift; but it surely ought, by supernatural means, to be
  within every one's reach if only the government were
  on the shoulders of the "Prince of Peace." Oh, how
  much that means! What "delectable mountains!"
  What "green pastures!" What "still waters!" What
  "gardens enclosed!" What "south lands," and "springs
  of water," are pictured in that _beau-ideal_ "on earth as
  it is in heaven"! Well my second page has spoken of a
  land very far off from the haunted region described in
  the first; but to "turn over a new leaf" is easier in a
  letter than in a life. Thy idea of the next ten years
  altering us less than the last will perhaps prove true;
  but, oh, the painful doubts that force themselves on me,
  whether the present channel is such that we can peacefully
  anticipate it only as deepening, and not as having
  an utter change of direction! How much harder to live
  in the world and not be of it than to forsake it altogether!
  So lazy self says; and, in turning from present duty,
  tries to justify itself by the excuse that it would willingly
  leave this world for another.

  _2d Mo. 4th. First-day evening_. Little as I have
  felt inclined to put pen to paper of late, I thought
  this evening that some small memento might be left,
  as it were, at this point of the valley, just to say,
  Here were the footsteps of a weary halting pilgrim at
  such a time--one that brought no store of food or
  raiment, no supply of wisdom or subtlety, no provision
  for the way, nothing but wounds and weaknesses,
  household images, secret sins; but by favor
  of unspeakable long-suffering, continuing unto this
  day--and, as she would fain hope, not deserted. A.
  troop of thoughts doth grievously overcome her, and
  faint is her hope that she shall overcome at the last;
  yet does she desire to set up the Ebenezer, if not of
  rejoicing, which as yet cannot be, yet of humble hope,
  in a cloudy and dark day, that He who has said,
  "Light and gladness are sown for the upright in:
  heart," will yet verify His promise in the day-spring
  of the light of His countenance, if any measure of
  integrity remain within. Oh, that He may keep, as
  the apple of His eye, that which a troop of robbers
  are watching to spoil, and may provide it with a
  hiding-place in His pavilion of love! And for one
  thing is my earnest wish directed to Him, that, unable
  as I am to direct my own steps aright, He would
  provide a leader for me, and a willing heart within
  me, and grant me _enough_ of His guidance to keep
  me in the way, and enough of a willingness to walk
  therein and not stumble.

  _3d Mo. 7th_, Letter to M.B.

  * * * I know well that impatience will sometimes
  put on the pretence of something much better, and that
  we shall never run to good purpose unless we "run with
  patience." Unhappily, a slow gradual progress is sadly
  opposed to my inconstant nature, and after one of the
  many interruptions it meets with, how prone am I to
  wish for some flying leap to make up for the past! It
  seems so hard a thing to get transformed, and therefore--strange
  inconsistency indeed--one would be translated.
  But truly it might be said, "Ye know not what ye ask."
  * * * I have been interested with reading the early
  part of "No Cross, no Crown," and especially the chapter
  on lawful self, where the receiving back again, as
  Abraham did Isaac, the lawful pleasures which had been
  resigned to the Divine will, is so nicely spoken of; and I
  do believe it explains the cause of half the gloom of
  would-be Christians. They do not quite refuse, nor
  quite resign their hearts, and so they are kept, not only
  without true peace, but without the enjoyment of those
  earthly goods which have been called for, not to deprive
  their owners of them, but to be restored in _this life_ "an
  hundredfold." How is it to be wished that these half
  measures were abandoned, and that if we have put our
  hand to the plough, we might not look back, as we so
  often have done, to the unfitting ourselves for that kingdom
  which is not only righteousness, but peace and joy.
  "That your joy may be full," is plainly the purpose of
  our Saviour towards His children; and yet how many,
  as Macaulay says, "have just enough religion to make
  them unhappy when they do wrong, and yet not enough
  to induce them to do right."

  _5th Mo. 28th_. It is an unspeakable blessing to be
  permitted and enabled to pray. How can I be sufficiently
  thankful that it has been mine? Last night
  my heart was fervently engaged towards my God;
  and this evening, though the sense of my utter destitution
  and weakness was very painful, was it not a
  blessing if it led me to Him? I have thought of the
  test, "In quietness and confidence shall be your
  strength." There is danger in fleshly confidence;
  yet there is no strength, but a new danger in fleshly
  fear. Oh, I would be stripped of _all_ fleshly dispositions
  of whatever kind, or however specious: they
  war against the soul; but because mine enemy has
  not quite triumphed over me, may I not believe that
  _He_ favoreth me in whose favor is life, and whose is
  a faithful love? Oh for its perfect dominion in me!
  His will is my sanctification, my perfection. It is
  His "good pleasure to give me the kingdom"--even
  to me. Amazing grace! What in me but my greatest
  foe could hinder the full adoption of the prayer,
  "Thy will be done"?

  _6th Mo. 3d_. The little measure of faith I have is
  not worn out, but rather purified and strengthened;
  but, oh, when I think of the reality, the momentous
  import, of the change of nature from sin to holiness,
  which has to be effected, what a baptism may I not
  have yet to be baptized with, and what perils to pass
  through! Oh, if it might please my heavenly Father
  to shorten and hasten the process, and deliver me
  from earth and its dangers into a changeless state of
  safety and peace in His dear presence! But I do
  believe He would rather be glorified by living Christians
  than by only dying penitents. A watchful,
  holy life is His delight. Oh that this high calling
  may not be slighted or cast away! The near approach
  of my birthday has led me to look back over
  the brief notes of twelve months. The interesting
  details we have received of the Yearly Meeting
  remind me of what I felt at the conclusion of the
  last. The Lord has again been with the Church's
  gathering, faithful as of old, and, where seats were
  vacant, hath filled His people with joy.

  _6th Mo. 5th_. I wish simply to record how last
  night, when in bed, I was favored with a calm, watchful
  frame, and lay enjoying the mental repose till
  long after my usual hour of sleep. This morning at
  breakfast-time it was renewed, with a sweet sense of
  the willingness of our heavenly Father to enable His
  children to serve Him. He made them for that end:
  it is His will that they should do so. It cannot be
  that He will refuse them the indispensable assistance.
  How sweet was this feeling! but hurry, and too much
  care about little things, sadly dissipated me in the
  day. This evening I have had a gracious gift of
  some of those _Sabbath_ feelings again, after reading
  the seventeenth chapter of Jeremiah. The verses
  referring to the Sabbath-day, and bearing no burden
  therein, were solemnly instructive. The utter inability
  of my natural heart to attain or retain such a
  state shows me the necessity of all being done for
  me through faith in Divine power, "His name,
  through faith in His name." Oh for watchfulness
  unto prayer continually, and that the cumber of
  earth may be cast away! "Take heed that your
  flight be not in the winter," has been my watchword,
  though how imperfectly obeyed! and if, through
  infinite mercy, the season be changing, if He who
  has faithfully kept me from utter death there-through
  is beginning to give me more of rest, oh,
  let me never forget the solemn addition, "neither on
  the Sabbath day."

  _6th Mo. 13th_. * * * I wish now to record
  the very solemn and encouraging visit of James
  Jones from America to our meeting this day. How
  wondrously did he speak of trials and afflictions, and
  the necessity of entire resignation through all!
  Though oceans of discouragement and mountains of
  difficulty loom up before thee, thou wilt be brought
  through the depths dry-shod, and be enabled to
  adopt the language, "What ailed thee, O thou sea,
  that thou fleddest, and ye mountains, that ye skipped
  like rams?" Thou wilt be "led through green pastures,
  and beside still waters," speaking of the call
  to service in the Church, which he believed was to
  some in an especial manner in the early stages of
  life. I heard all; but such was my dejection that I
  seemed to _receive_ little, though I could not but feel
  the power. I seemed incapable of taking either
  hope or instruction to myself. J.J. left us after
  dinner, and, on taking leave, took my hand in a very
  solemn manner, and, after a few minutes silence,
  said, tenderly, but authoritatively, "If the mantle
  falls on thee, wear;" words which will long live
  in my heart. Would that the power which sent
  them may fulfil them! None other can.

  _7th Mo. 1st_. Last week at Plymouth Quarterly
  Meeting. An interesting time. I trust that which
  silenced and solemnized my spirit was something
  better than myself. What could I do but endeavor
  to lie down in passiveness under it, and crave that
  nothing might interfere to mar the work of the
  Lord? Much was said to encourage the hope that
  those who truly love the Lord will at length be
  brought into more peace and liberty in Him; that
  He will qualify them to fill just that place He designs
  for them in His house. Oh, how I long to
  become that, and that only, which pleases Him, that
  neither height nor depth might separate me from
  His love! And when I think of the deceitfulness of
  my heart, the danger of being lifted up seems so
  appalling that the former deliverance seems yet
  greater than the latter.

  _7th Mo. 23d_. I have been glad to be released
  from some of my charges and cares, as well as to
  share the loving interests of home with all my dear
  sisters, and trust it is not all laziness which makes
  me shrink from engaging in new though useful
  objects. I seem to have much need of quiet, and
  have enjoyed many hours with dear F.'s precious
  children. Often, as now, I am very destitute, and
  sometimes very sad; but sometimes, though rarely,
  "all is peace." Long shall I remember a moonlight
  half-hour, on Sixth-day, in the fields and garden,
  where I sat down to enjoy the cool of the day, and
  for a time all sorrow was far away, and the very
  "Prince of Peace" did seem to reign. Then did I
  feel I had not followed "a cunningly-devised fable,"
  and the precious words did comfort me, "If children,
  then heirs." But, oh, how otherwise I often am!
  how utterly destitute! This day we have had a
  sweet little visit from ----. His encouragement to
  the tribulated children saluted my best life, overborne
  as it felt with the burden of unregenerate
  nature--ready to say, "Who shall deliver me from
  the body of this death?" and, amid many a giving
  way to the worryings of earthly thoughts, struggling
  to say, "Lord, I believe: help thou mine unbelief."
  Often have I remembered dear Sarah Tuckett's
  encouraging words, "But through all, and underneath
  all, will be the everlasting Arms." Amen, and
  amen.

  _8th Mo. 4th._ Still, still amen, says my poor weak
  spirit, in the remembrance of "goodness tried so
  long," of the faithful love of my heavenly Father,
  which melted my spirit on the morning of Fifth-day
  week, with the blessed hope that I had not followed
  "a cunningly-devised fable" in seeking a nearer
  union with my Saviour. I little thought what was
  awaiting me that day--a very important proposal
  from ----, put into my hands by my father. After
  glancing at the contents, I laid it aside, to seek for
  a little calmness before reading it, and needed all
  that morning's manna to strengthen my conviction,
  "Thou art my Father." Into _His_ hands I have
  sought to commit myself and my all, trusting that a
  covenant with everlasting love will not be marred by
  aught beneath the skies. Some precious feelings
  have I since enjoyed; "And one of them shall not
  fall to the ground without your Father," "Ye are of
  more value than many sparrows," have been almost
  daily in my heart. On Sixth-day, after spending
  the afternoon in the country with a cheerful party,
  before going to bed, such a blessed sense of my
  heavenly Father's presence and love was vouchsafed
  me, that every uneasy thought was swallowed up
  in-the precious conviction, "I know in whom I
  have believed." This love did indeed appear the
  "pearl of great price," and all else as "dust in the
  balance."

  _8th Mo. 20th_. Last week I was once or twice
  favored with a precious feeling of Divine love. At
  one time my earnest sense of need and desire to seek
  Him to whom I could appeal amid many a recollection
  of past transgressions, in the words, "Thou
  knowest that I love thee," was most sweetly followed
  by the remembrance of the words, "I remember
  thee, the kindness of thy youth, the love of thine
  espousals; when thou wentest after me in the wilderness,
  in a land that was not sown." At another
  time the precious promise, "Because thou hast made
  the Lord thy habitation, there shall no evil befall
  thee," came livingly before me, and then I felt how
  far short of the terms I had fallen. Oh, how preciously
  did I feel the worth of an atonement! how
  my Saviour's pardon did not only remove the burden
  of guilt, but really reinstate me in the privileges
  which my backslidings had forfeited, so that the
  promise of safety was still mine! * * *

  _9th. Mo. 20th_. [Alluding to a visit from some
  friends.] How precious are these marks of our Father's
  love! His eye is surely on us, and His hand
  too, for good. May we never, may _I_ never, do any
  thing to frustrate His merciful designs! Very various
  has been my state--so dead and earthly, sometimes,
  that I may indeed feel that in me "dwelleth no
  good thing," but now and then so filled with desires
  after God, that I feel assured that they come from
  Himself.

  _9th Mo. 26th_. This afternoon, in a lonely walk,
  my sorrow was stirred, and I hope I prayed for
  mercy; but it has been hard to keep any hold of
  the anchor. But what! shall I leave my only Helper
  because of my evil case--my only Physician because
  of my desperate disease? I can take comfort in the
  thought that He knows the worst, and that He has
  sworn eternal enmity to sin. Then, if He loves me,
  a sinner, He must be willing and able to save me;
  and Jesus Christ is the mediator between God and
  man, that He may be the perfect divider between
  the sinner and his sin. Oh, what a work is this--which
  none but Omnipotent grace can do! Oh, be
  it done for me.

  _11th Mo. 20th_. Letter to M.B. [Alluding to
  her prospect of marriage.]

  * * * How does such an occasion teach one the
  weakness of human nature, and our utter dependence
  on our heavenly Father's preserving care, who "knows
  our frame and remembers that we are but dust." And
  if we can in truth say, "If Thy presence go not with
  me, carry me not up hence," and endeavor to decide in
  His fear. I hope we may trust, that if it be not of Him,
  something will be provided for our rescue, and that if
  it be, He will remember His ancient promise, "My presence
  shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest."

  _1st Mo. 4th_, 1851. So very much has happened
  since I made my record here, that I scarcely know
  where to begin. Never did a year end thus with
  me. I had almost called it the most important of
  my life; and certainly it is so as regards time, and
  also a very important one as regards eternity. Now
  I find my hopes, my interests, my anticipations, my
  every feeling and affection, have a strong reference to
  another than myself--one whom I believe the
  Providence of a merciful, heavenly Father has led
  me to regard with esteem and love, as a sharer in the
  future portion of the path, of life.

  Surely it has been a serious thing, much as I have
  fallen short in the duties of my present favored and
  sheltered lot, to consent to undertake responsibilities
  so weighty and untried; and yet I have cause to
  hope in the mercy of Him who has helped me
  hitherto, whose covenant is an everlasting covenant,
  even a covenant of peace, that shall never be removed
  by any earthly change. Oh that it may never
  be forsaken by me! Oh that every breach may be
  forgiven me! Oh that the wisdom that is from
  above may be my safeguard and director! How has
  it comforted me, in thinking of leaving such dearly-loved
  ones behind, to feel that one Friend above
  all others, whose love has been the most precious
  joy of my life, will go with me, and be with me
  forever, and, I trust, bind in that bond of heavenly
  love, even more and more closely, the spirits He, I
  trust, has brought together, and make us one another's
  joy in Him!

  Now that we are at home in the quiet round of
  duties and employments which have filled so many
  (outwardly at least) peaceful years, and that perhaps
  my continuance among them reckons but by months,
  oh for a truly obedient, affectionate, filial spirit,
  both to my heavenly Father and the precious guardians
  of my childhood! I have strongly felt that my
  highest duty towards him with whom my future lot
  may be linked, as well as my own highest interest,
  is to live in the love and fear of God. Many deficiencies
  I shall doubtless be conscious of! but if I
  may live, and we may be united in the love and fear
  of God, all, all will be well. Oh, then, to be watchful
  and prayerful!

  _1st Mo. 25th_. Letter to M.B.

  * * * There is much, very much, connected with
  any experience in these matters calculated to teach us
  that this is not our rest; and often have I thought, when
  pondering the uncertain future, that but for the small
  degree in which the hope of things beyond, steadfast
  and eternal, keeps its hold, I should be ready to sink;
  and then I think of kind rich promises on which I try
  to lay hold, "Thy shoes shall be iron and brass," and
  "As thy day, so shall thy strength be." And so, dear
  M., I trust it will be with us all, if our trust be but
  rightly placed; and in this I fear I have sometimes, perhaps
  often, been mistaken. I am sure it is well to have
  this sifted and searched into, and none of the pains
  which must attend such a process are in vain. When
  we have learned more fully what and how frail we are,
  then we can better appreciate the help that is offered,
  and the abundant blessing of peace when it does come.
  The depth of our own capacity for suffering is known to
  few of us; and when we have made a little discovery of
  it, some short acquaintance with the dark cold caverns
  of hopeless woe into which it is possible to fall, even
  when all externally is bright and apparently prosperous,
  how thankful then should we feel for the daylight of
  hope!

  Perhaps I am using strong language. I would not use
  it to every one, but I think thou knowest that words are
  feeble rather than strong to express what may be the
  real portion of one whom spectators look on as very
  happy; and I do feel sure that not a grief that can befall
  us even in this hidden world of ours, but _may_ be the
  stepping-stone to a joy with which also a stranger doth
  not intermeddle; and how shall we sooner find it than
  by "casting all our care on Him who careth for us"?
  "He knoweth our frame, and remembereth that we are
  dust, and is touched with a feeling of our infirmities."

  _3d Mo. 14th_.--Letter to M.B.

  * * * I am abundantly convinced that if we can
  find the right place and keep it, and endeavor to fulfil
  its duties, whatever they may be, _there_ is our safety, and
  _there_ is our greatest peace; and what a blessing to know
  in any degree where the knowledge and the power are
  both to be obtained! * * *

  _6th Mo. 21st_. After a fortnight's visit to my dear
  aunts, I followed Louisa to Tottenham. Many an
  occasion of deep instruction was offered to us at the
  Yearly Meeting; and yet from all this what remains?
  A solemn inquiry for all; and how much so for me,
  now that every principle of the heart and mind
  must prepare to encounter unwonted exercise and
  trial, now that I daily need all that I can have in
  a peculiar manner, and now that the future, amid
  the hopeful calm which it sometimes assumes, will
  sometimes almost frown upon me with lowerings of
  fear? Fear it is, not of others, but of myself, and
  fear of the ignorance or precipitancy of my yet but
  very partially regulated mind. Oh for that other
  fear which only "is a fountain of life, preserving
  from the snares of death!" Oh for that love which
  casteth out the slavish fear, and maketh one with
  what it loves--first with that God from whom it
  comes, and then with those in whom it dwells!
  Dwell, oh, that it may, in our two hearts, their best,
  their first, their strongest, dearest bond, and dwell,
  too, in the hearts of those I leave behind, and cause
  that still and henceforth we may be "together though
  apart"!

  The responsibility of having so important an office
  to fulfil towards any fellow-being as that of sharing
  in, influencing, and being influenced by all his wishes,
  actions, and tendencies, has felt very serious. * *
  * * Never before had I so strong a sense of the
  identity of our highest duty towards ourselves and
  towards each other; and that _to live_, and _to be as_ and
  _what_ we ought, in the best sense, is the chief requisite
  for influencing one another for good.

  _6th Mo. 24th_. Though I have this morning been
  helped and comforted, I must confess much unsubdued
  evil has manifested itself even within these few
  days. The bitter waters within, the tendency to what
  is evil, the corrupt root, have sadly appeared.--Oh,
  there is the one cause, not minding enough the good
  part which shall not be taken away, and so disquieted
  at the loss or disturbance of lower things. "How
  shall we escape if we _neglect_ (not only _reject_) such
  great salvation?" I was made mercifully sensible,
  last night and this morning, that such is our Father's
  love, that His aim is chiefly to bestow, our duty to
  receive, that He calls and invites; but it is not that
  we may work a performance of our own, but receive
  His own good things. Oh, the folly, the ingratitude,
  of being inattentive to such a blessing! Oh, the rebellious
  pride of choosing our own self-will, and our
  own way, when the privilege may be ours of becoming
  the obedient and loving children of God--of receiving
  from Him the willing and the obedient heart
  which we may offer up to Him again, and which He
  will accept!

  _6th Mo. 30th_. Letter to M.B. [Alluding to
  various engagements.]

  * * * These "fill the past, present, and future"
  of these last months at home with many and various
  occupations and meditations. It is a blessing not to be
  more disturbed within, if it be but a safe calmness. Oh,
  that is a large condition; but how unsafe is all calmness
  resulting from shutting our eyes from the truth of our
  worst side! Yet I think when we can really be glad at
  the thought that our worst side is seen and known, there
  is some hope of remedy and of peace, and (may I not
  say?) _alliance_ with the Physician who has all power and
  skill. Then only can we welcome any thing, however
  trying, which we can believe comes from His hand, or
  may tend to make us any nearer the pattern we strive
  for, or any more likely to fulfil rightly the serious part
  we have to take in life.

  _7th Mo. 16th_. I hope I do sincerely desire to seek
  for strength to cast my many burdens on Him who
  careth for me; and, oh, if I did but live in the spirit,
  and walk in the spirit, more faithfully, surely I should
  know more of what it is to "be careful for nothing,"
  but in every thing to make known my requests unto
  God. Quiet is most congenial. Oh that the few
  weeks remaining to me here, may all be given to Him
  who alone can bless! But this desperate heart--might
  it not well be despaired of? I trust I have
  got to this point, "God be merciful to me a sinner."
  "Let me fall now into the hands of the Lord, for
  His mercies are great," and not into-human hands,
  nay, _not my own_. I thought I saw some sweetness
  in the words, "By His stripes ye are healed."

  _7th Mo. 17th_. Why do I not feel that nothing I
  can _do_ is so important as what I _am_, and that things
  without had better be ever so much neglected, than
  things within set wrong for their sake?

  _7th Mo. 21st_. Had very comfortable feelings
  yesterday in meeting. Oh, it was joyful to believe
  that God was near to bless and to forgive. This
  evening, I have longed to commit my soul and its
  keeping into my Father's hands. Oh for a little
  more faith in His infinite, everlasting mercy! To
  come even boldly to the throne of grace, is the high
  calling even of those most in need of mercy.

  _7th Mo 26th_. Letter to C.B.C.

  * * * I hope that so far I have been favored with
  a measure of real help and good hope, though often
  sensible of multiplied difficulties and dangers, amid the
  desire to maintain such a state of mind and feeling as I
  ought. Perhaps the strong light in which I have often
  perceived how the best earthly hope may be blighted or
  blasted, even when all seems outwardly favorable, is a
  true blessing; and would that it might lead me oftener
  where all our wants can be best and only supplied! I
  know that _self_ is the foe to be dreaded most, and that is
  so ever near, sticks so close, that there can be no remedy
  effectual that is not applied with the penetrating power
  and all-wise discretion which are no attributes of ours.
  And yet how often do we vainly try to help ourselves!

Two days after this, she wrote to her friend M.B. and alluded
very feelingly to the prospect of leaving her old home and its
associations. Ever taking a humble view of herself and of her fitness
for the duties she was expecting to assume, she writes of

  "feeling increasingly my deep unfitness and lack
  of qualification for so very responsible an undertaking
  as sharing in and influencing and being influenced
  by all that concerns another. May I be permitted
  the privilege of which thou hast spoken, that the
  Lord's presence may go with us, and give us rest, and
  be to us a little sanctuary wheresoever we may come.
  _Then_ all will be right. * * * So thou seest
  just where I am,--in need of faith and hope, and
  sometimes wanting all things, even amid circumstances
  which I can find no fault with. Farewell,
  dear M.; and if thou nearest that I get on well, or
  am in any way made happy or useful, one conclusion
  will be very safe, respecting thy unworthy friend,--that
  it is not in _me_."

This closes a correspondence which appears to have been attended with
much comfort and profit to the two friends.

  _8th Mo. 11th_. The time flies, and then the place
  that has known me will know me no more, except
  as a sojourner and pilgrim to my father's hearth;
  and yet I cannot realize it: could I, how should I
  bear it? This day, much as before, weak in body,
  death-like in mind; but this evening had such a desire
  for retirement--so undesired before--and such
  precious feelings then. Oh, I could go through much
  with _this_ to sustain me, but I cannot command it for
  one instant; and, oh, how I felt that He alone can
  keep my soul alive, whose is every breath, natural and
  spiritual! Oh, what a joy to feel His Spirit near,
  the thick, heavy wall of separation melted away.
  Would that the way could, be kept thus clear to God--my
  life, my strength, my joy, my all!

  Much that is very interesting has passed,--chiefly
  a visit from T.E. and his wife, of Philadelphia. The
  day they left us, we sat in silence round the dinner-table,
  till he said that words seemed hardly needful
  to express the precious feeling of union that prevailed.
  * * * It was very sad to lose them; and yet I
  never felt before so strongly how the individual
  blessing to each soul is not a merely being present,
  and recognizing, and rejoicing in such times as these.
  How the words of one that hath a heavenly spirit
  and a pleasant voice may be heard in vain!

  _8th Mo. 20th_. How can I describe these eventful
  days? One lesson may they teach me, that God is
  love, and that whatever good thing I am blessed with
  is not in me. He has been so kind, so gracious, and
  I so very perverse, frequently so distrustful, so easily
  wounded; but He, as if He will not take offence,
  again and again has pity on me. How was I met
  and saluted with the words, "_By Myself have I
  sworn_," as part of some promise! Then I felt and
  rejoiced in His faithfulness to all in me and in all
  the universe that is His. _By Himself_, then _He_ will
  never fail; and I hope I shall be preserved by Him.

  _8th Mo. 21st_. I was so grievously stupid last
  week, so unable to realize any thing--feared when
  I should come to myself that it would be terrible;
  but no, it is not so: I have love for all, and I hope
  it will grow for all and take in all. It is not that
  one love swallows up another, as one sorrow does:
  yet I am very weak, and need daily help. Oh that
  it may not be withheld!

With this record her Journal concludes; and, in reflecting upon it as
a whole, the reader can scarcely fail to observe the evidence it gives
of progress in the Divine life, of growth, as it were, from the
blade to the full corn in the ear, now early ripened for the heavenly
garner; and perhaps in nothing is this progress more discernible than
in the manner in which through many fluctuations she was enabled
to look away from the suggestions of unresting self, which were so
painful to her sensitive and conscientious spirit, and to stay her
mind on her Saviour, entering into that rest which the apostle says
is the portion of those who believe,--"a rest which remaineth for the
people of God," and which they only realize in its fulness who have
accepted Christ as all sufficient for every need of the soul, not only
pardon of past sins, but also of daily recurring transgressions, and
whose trials and provings of spirit have led to the blessed result of
increased oneness with their heavenly Father.

_8th Mo. 21th_. To her sister F.T. she writes, the day before her
marriage,--

  "I am still a wonder to myself,--so thankful for dear
  mother's cheerfulness, and for the kindness and love of
  all around. I have taken leave of nearly all. Last
  evening we had a nice walk. Then for the first time I
  felt as if the claims of past, present, and future were
  perfectly and peacefully adjusted, to my great comfort."

The walk to which this allusion refers is very fresh in the
remembrance of her sister and of her (intended) husband, who
accompanied her. Her manner was strikingly calm and affectionate; and
as they returned home, after a pause in the conversation, she said,
taking a hand of each,--

  "I have heard of some people when they are
  dying feeling no struggle on going from one world to
  the other; and I was thinking that I felt the same
  between you. I don't know how it may be at last."

Strangely impressive were these words at the time; and when we
remember that she never saw that sister again after the morrow, can we
doubt that this preparation was permitted to soften the bitterness
of the time, so near at hand, when this should have proved to be the
final parting on earth?

In looking back to this time, there is a sweet conviction of the peace
which was then granted her, which did seem something like a foretaste
of the joys of the better home which was even then opening before her
and upon which her pure spirit had so loved to dwell.

She was married, at Liskeard, to William Southall, Jr., on the 28th
of 8th month, 1851. She was anxious that the wedding-day should be
cheerful; and her own countenance wore a sweet expression of quiet
satisfaction and seriousness; and the depth of feeling which prevailed
in the whole party during that day was afterwards remembered with
satisfaction, as being in harmony with what followed.

In a tenderly affectionate note, written from Teignmouth the same
evening, she says, "I can look back without any other pang than the
necessary one of having stretched, I must not say broken, our family
bond;" and then she adds the sincere desire for herself and her
husband, "Oh that we may be more humble and watchful than ever before,
and that my daily care may be to remember those sweet lines which
helped me so this morning,--

    "When thou art nothing in thyself,
    Then thou art close to me."

A fortnight spent among the lakes of Westmoreland and Cumberland was
a time of much happiness. It was her first introduction to mountain
scenery; and her letters to the home circle she had just left, contain
animated descriptions of the beauties around her. A few extracts from
these, showing the healthy enjoyment she experienced, and the cheerful
and comfortable state of her mind, particulars which acquire an
interest from the solemn circumstances so soon to follow, may not be
unsuitably inserted:--

  BOWNESS, 9th Month, 1st, 1851.

  MY DEAR L.:--

  * * * We had a lovely ride and ferrying over Windermere
  to Colthouse meeting on First-day. * * *
  I am almost well, and able to enter into these beauties.
  Will you be satisfied with seven sketches, such as they
  are, for this day?

  I thought, as we passed Doves' Nest, and read in the
  guide-book F. Hemans's description of her dwelling
  there for twelve months, and how many sad hearts,
  beside hers, had come thither for a refuge from sorrow,
  what cause we had to be thankful for (so far) another
  lot; and yet, dear L., with all I see around me, my
  heart is very often with you, and turns

  From glassy lakes, and mountains grand,
    And green reposeful isles,
  To that one corner of the land
    Beyond the rest that smiles.

  Beyond the rest it smiles for me,
    Thither my thoughts will roam--
  The home beloved of infancy,
    My childhood's precious home!

  And yet somehow it is not with a reproachful smile that
  it looks on me, nor with a regretful heart that I think
  upon it. It is delightful to think of dear father and
  mother's coming to Birmingham so soon, and of meeting
  R. this day fortnight.

To her Mother.

  GRASMERE, 3d of 9th Month, 1851.

  MY DEAR MOTHER:--

  We have had a lovely day, and I scarcely
  know where or how to begin the tale of beauty. If
  there be any shadow of truth in the notion that "a
  thing of beauty is a joy forever," we must have been
  laying in a store of delight which may cheer many a
  busy and many a lonely hour. Truly, as we have gazed
  upon the glorious mountains; looked down from the
  summit of Silver How, on the green vale of Grasmere,
  and the far-off Windermere; looked with almost awful
  feelings on the black shadowy rocks that encompass Easdale
  Tarn, (all that yesterday,) and to-day, passed from
  waterfall to waterfall, through the solemn and desolate
  Langdales, under the twin mountain _Pikes_, "throned
  among the hills," dived into the awful recess of Dungeon
  Ghyll, where the rock, with scarcely a crack to
  part it, stands high on each side of the foaming torrent,
  which dashes perpendicularly down the gorge, then out
  upon the sunny vale, and home through the brotherhood
  of mountains to our quiet dwelling of Grasmere; surely
  all this, and much, much more, has made the days very
  precious for present enjoyment and for future recollections.
  The moon is bright as ever I saw it, and we have
  lately returned from the smooth, still Grasmere, where
  there was hardly ripple enough to multiply its image;
  and where we could have sat for hours, nourishing the
  calm and solemn thoughts we had just brought from the
  quiet corner of the churchyard where we had sat by
  Wordsworth's grave. It was growing dark, but we
  could just read on the plain slate head-stone the sole
  inscription, "William Wordsworth."

  * * * But I cannot make you fully imagine these
  scenes, so varied, so picturesque. How little pleasure I
  had in anticipating this journey, while those formidable
  things lay between! The thought of the mountains
  seemed not worth a straw, and now looking back to only
  this day week is wonderful. Home still smiles upon
  me like a lake that catches a sunbeam; and sometimes
  I feel truly thankful that the way that I knew not has
  led me here. * * *

  The thought of seeing you is bright indeed.

  Thy loving daughter,

  ELIZA.

To her Sister.

  LODORE INN, 5th of 9th Month, 1851.

  MY BELOVED M.:--

  * * * I am glad to say that we still have very fine
  weather. At Keswick we were planning how we could
  see Frederick Myers, but that evening his widow was
  returning to the parsonage with her three fatherless
  children, and we could only look on the family vault in
  the lovely churchyard, the school-room, library, etc.,
  and think of his anticipations, now no doubt so happily
  realized, of the "'well done,' which it will be heaven to
  hear." A fine black storm hung over Skiddaw and
  Saddleback, and _such_ a rainbow spanned it. The western
  sky was full of the sunset, and the lake lay in lovely
  repose beneath. Of the clouds we really cannot say
  more than that they are often very beautiful, and sometimes
  dress up the mountains in grandeur not their own;
  but I have seen none that might not be Cornish clouds.

  I am quite well. * * * For my sake be cheerful
  and happy.

  Thy very loving sister,

  E.S.

To her Father.

  SCALE HILL HOTEL, 8th of 9th Month, 1851.

  MY BELOVED FATHER:--

  On Seventh-day, after breakfast at Lodore,
  we set off for a treat indeed--a canter up Borrowdale.
  The morning splendid. Keswick Lake sparkling behind
  us. The crags of Borrowdale in the blue misty sunshine
  of morning overhung by not less beautiful shades.
  We were quite glad to get to this sort of mountain
  scenery again, which we had so enjoyed at Grasmere,
  and leave smooth, bare, pyramidal Skiddaw and its
  "ancient" fellows behind. We at last ascended the
  steep zigzag which begins Sty Head Pass, confirming
  our resolution now and then by admiring the plodding
  industry of our mountain horses. It was indeed pleasant
  when the last gate was opened and we were safe
  within the wall of rough stones which headed the steep
  ascent, and we could wind more at leisure beside the
  foaming "beck" which runs out of Sty Head Tarn.
  This desolate mountain lake was soon reached, and the
  noble dark Scawfell Pikes--the highest mountain in
  England, (3166 feet)--were its majestic background.
  But that we had been gradually inured to such scenes,
  this would indeed have been the most impressive we
  have beheld. On we rode till deep shady Wastdale
  opened below us, and we found ourselves at the head
  of the Pass.

  I have enjoyed this journey very much more than I
  expected, and the weather, on the whole, has been favorable.
  I think of you all with double affection,
  which accept very warmly from

  Thy affectionate daughter,

  E.S.
To her Sister.

  PATTERDALE, 11th of 9th Month, 1851.

  MY BELOVED L.:--

  * * * This delightful morning, Ulleswater, which
  we admired as much, if not more than any lake which
  we have seen, was of the brightest blue, and the valley
  behind as rich in loveliness, when we set off for Helvellyn.
  The top is just five miles from the Inn. At
  last the pony was tied to a stake, and we wound up the
  Swirrel Edge. The rocks are almost perpendicular, and
  strangely shivered, and we looked down on the Red
  Tarn sparkling in the sun with, as it were, thousands
  of stars. At last we reached the top, a bare smooth
  summit, whence the wide misty landscape stretched all
  around us. Six lakes should have been visible; but we
  were obliged to be content with the whole stretch of
  Ulleswater, eight miles behind us, Bassenthwaite to the
  north, and perhaps a bit of Keswick; but I would not
  have missed the scene for any reasonable consideration.
  Scott, of course, stood on the top of the hill looking
  down on the Tarn, with Striding Edge on his right.
  Alas! no "eagles" are ever "yelling" on the mountain,
  nor "brown mountain heather" is in sight--only common
  mountain grass.

On the top of Helvellyn she wrote the following lines in a
sketch-book:--

  How softly the winds of the mountains are saying,
    "No chamber of death is Helvellyn's dark brow;"
  On the "rough rocky edge" are the fleecy flocks straying,
    And "Red Tarn" gleams bright with a thousand stars now.

  The "huge nameless rook" has no gloom in its shadow;
    It catches the sun, it has found it a name;
  And the mountain grass covers like the turf of the meadow
    The arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecan.

  There is not on earth a dark city's enclosure,
    Or vast mountain waste, where the traveller may roam,
  That peace may not soothe with its balmy composure,
    And love may not bless with the joy of a home!

To her sister.

  ULVERSTON, 15th of 9th Month, 1851.

  MY BELOVED M.:--

  Thy very welcome letter yesterday met me
  soon, after returning from Swarthmore, where, of course,
  we had a very different assembly from yours.

  It was very interesting, having been at Pardsey Crags
  last week, where the thousands had listened to George
  Fox's preaching, now to see Swarthmore and remember
  how things used to be when he "left the north fresh
  and green;" but G. Fox never saw the meeting-house.
  It was built, I believe, after his death, though the inscription
  "_Ex dono G.F._" is over the porch. His black-oak
  chairs stand in the meeting-room, and his two bed-posts
  are at each side of the foot of the stairs. Swarthmore
  Hall is an ancient-looking, high farm-house, with
  stone window-frames, as we have seen it drawn. The
  Hall, where the meetings used to be held, looks very
  antique: black-oak panels remain in parts. Judge
  Fell's study is just inside, and his desk in the window,
  whence he could hear what passed, though he never went
  to the meetings. The house is in sad repair. It seems
  strange to lay aside our daily companions, the map and
  the guide-book, and tarn our backs wholly on the mountain
  land, for the level and busy plains of England, with
  their "daily round and common task." But I know that
  the bright and beautiful mountain-scenes will often come
  again before the mental eye--"long-vanished" beauty
  that "refines and paints in brighter hues;" and I hope
  the pleasure will long be gratefully remembered.

The new home was reached on the 16th, from whence she writes,--

To her sister.

  EDGBASTON, 20th of 9th Month, 1851.

  MY BELOVED L.:--

  * * * I do not like to end this eventful week
  without trying to send you a few lines. * * * Please
  tell mother, with my dear, dear love, how very acceptable
  her note was, and how much I hope that her kind good
  wishes may be realized, and how frequent a thought of
  pleasure it has been while we have been setting things
  in order, that before long I may enjoy to show our little
  territory to her and father,--to have her kind advice and
  opinion about my little household. * * * I yet feel
  as strongly as ever a daughter's love to the home of my
  childhood. When I think of you, I can fully share in
  the illusion thou spoke of, fancying that before long I
  shall be among you just as before. * * *

To her sister, P. Tregolles.

  YEW-TREE ROAD, 9th Month, 1851.

  * * * I could not have thought I should have felt
  so easy amongst so many, lately, such strangers; but
  every day I feel more strongly that on one nail "fastened
  in a sure place" many things may hang easily;
  and truly all treat us with such kindness, that I should
  be ungrateful not to value highly my connection for its
  own sake, whilst that on which it hangs grows firmer
  too. * * *

The remembrance of the cheerfulness with which Eliza Southall entered
into the duties and cares of her new position in her adopted home has
afforded cause for much gratitude on the part of those dear relatives
who welcomed her there. Newly made acquainted with some of them,
she won their love and esteem by her unaffected simplicity and the
geniality of her sympathies; but, whilst she showed true conjugal
solicitude in her plans for domestic comfort and social enjoyment, it
was evidently her first desire to have her heart and her treasure in
heaven. It was designed in the ordering of Divine providence that a
cloud should very soon overshadow the bright promises of her arrival;
and the following account of the illness which so speedily terminated
her life will, it is hoped, convey a correct impression of the
peacefulness of its close. It is compiled from memoranda made very
soon after her decease, but is of necessity imperfect; the attention
of those who contributed from memory portions of her conversation
being so much absorbed by their interest in the conflict between life
and death, and by the overwhelming feelings of an hour of such moment
to some of them. Whilst it is hoped that nothing inserted may appear
to go beyond the simplicity of the truth, it may be added that it
seems impossible to convey in words a full and faithful idea of
the holy serenity of her last hours, which showed that the work of
religion had not been in vain in her heart.

With the exception of a slight cold, which soon left her, she appeared
to be in her usual health and spirits. But it was so for only two
weeks, and on Third-day, the 30th of 9th Month, on returning from a
visit at Woodfield, she complained of not feeling well. The next day
she was more poorly, and medical advice was obtained. The following
morning she suffered much pain, but the remedies used soon relieved
her; and, though she was not able to leave her bed, the symptoms did
not continue such as to excite much uneasiness. She enjoyed hearing
another read, and not unfrequently Isaac Pennington's letters, or
some other book, was in her own hand, and during occasional pain and
uneasiness she would request to have some chapter in the Bible read,
or a hymn of comfort. There was always an air of cheerfulness in her
chamber, and the affectionate greeting with which each relative who
visited her was welcomed was very precious. Few words passed of a
religious nature, or such as to induce the supposition that in four
more days earth would be exchanged for heaven, except one short remark
to her husband in the evening: "I have been thinking of the text,
'Then whose shall these things be which thou hast provided?' they may
not be mine much longer." This was touching to his feelings, but was
viewed as her wonted cautious manner of speaking of temporal things.
There was nothing further in her remarks which showed that she
regarded her case as a critical one.

On Sixth and Seventh days she seemed decidedly better--entering into
the varied interests around her. The evening of the latter day was
particularly bright and cheering, when she conversed cheerfully with
her husband and sister and spoke of her plans for the future. She also
listened with pleasure to some pieces of poetry which were read, and
amongst them appeared to derive comfort from the hymn beginning,--

  "Nearer, my God, to Thee--
    Nearer to Thee!
  E'en though it be a cross
    That raiseth me;
  Still all my song would be,
  Nearer, my God, to Thee--
    Nearer to Thee!"

Early on First-day morning she seemed rather depressed, and requested
her sister to repeat the hymn, "'Tis a point I long to know," [Olney
Hymns.] In the course of the morning she wrote a touching note to her
beloved mother: it was her last effort of the kind:--

  5th of 10th Month, 1851.

  My beloved Mother:--

  I have got permission to use a pencil in thanking thee
  for thy kind sweet lines which this morning's post
  brought me. I am thankful for being so remembered
  by my own precious mother now so far away. * * *

  It is a new experience to me to lie here so long; but,
  now that I am much better, and what pain I have is
  transient and easy to be borne for the most part, it is my
  own fault if the days are profitless. I quite hope, by the
  time father comes, to be able to enjoy his visit--and so
  I could now; but then it could only be in this chamber,
  already become quite familiar. * * *

  We are so thankful to hear of thy amendment to this
  hopeful stage! I trust nothing will prevent thy being
  able to leave home with father; and then how soon we
  shall rejoice to see thee here!

  Thy ever loving, and trying to be submissive,

  ELIZA.

Her medical attendant still took an encouraging view of her case, and
she was so nicely in the afternoon that her husband left her to go to
meeting. The evening was passed pleasantly, and the family retired to
rest as usual. She continued very comfortable till about mid-night,
when a very sudden attack of violent pain came on, which continued
without intermission for about three hours.

Very affecting, during this time, were her earnest cries for patience
and strength. "Oh that I had been more faithful! It is because I have
been so unfaithful!" She was reminded that these sufferings ought not
to be regarded in the light of punishment, but that "whom the Lord
loveth he chasteneth." Some texts were read at her request. "They are
very nice," she said, "but I cannot receive them all now." Truly this
was a time when all human help was felt to be unavailing, and when
none but the Ruler of the waves Himself could speak a calm; and, if we
may judge from the subsequent altered and tranquil expression of her
countenance, her petitions were mercifully granted. "Do not cry, my
dear," she said; and then, "Oh, how kind to speak cheerfully!" adding,
"I hope this illness may be made a blessing to us all in time to
come." When the doctor, who was hastily called, arrived, she said, "I
hope I shall be able to bear the pain: I will try to bear it." Whilst
in much suffering, she requested to have the forty-sixth Psalm read,
which had always been a peculiar favorite with her. On her mother
S. entering the room, she greeted her with the words, "Dear mother!"
saying, "What a comfort it is to have some one to call mother!"

The remedies resorted to, afforded temporary relief; and great was
her thankfulness for the alleviation from what she described as
anguish--anguish--anguish! But her strength was greatly prostrated,
and for some hours she dozed--being only occasionally conscious.
About nine or ten o'clock on the morning of Second-day, the pale and
exhausted expression of her countenance convinced us that the time
for letting go our hold of this very precious treasure was not far
distant. Overwhelming as was this feeling, the belief that she
was unconscious of her state added to our anxiety. We longed to be
permitted an evidence from her own lips that she felt accepted through
Christ her Saviour; though her humble walk with God through life would
have assured us, had there been no such expression. Our desires were,
however, mercifully granted, to our humbling admiration of that grace
which had made her what she was.

About noon she roused a little, and, one of the medical men having
stated that a few hours would probably produce a great change for
better or for worse, her beloved husband concluded it best to inform
her that she was not likely to continue long amongst us. She replied,
with striking earnestness, "What! will it be heaven?" He asked if she
could feel comfortable in the prospect, and she replied, "I must wait
a while." A few minutes of solemn silence followed, in which it is
impossible to convey in words the earnest prayerful expression of her
countenance and uplifted eyes, when it seemed as if, regardless of any
thing around her, she held immediate communion with her God. She then
said, "I feel a hope, but not assurance." Her husband said, "Trust in
thy Saviour, my dear." "Yes," she replied.

Soon after this, being asked if she would like her medical attendants
to come into the room, she answered, "Oh, any one who wishes. I could
speak to the queen." After acknowledging their kindness to her, she
addressed them in an earnest manner on the importance of devoting all
their talents to the glory of God, so that their chief aim in their
profession might be to serve Him. She alluded to the insufficiency of
human skill and the emptiness of earthly attainments at such a time as
this; adding, "But above all things serve the Lord." They were deeply
impressed with her great calmness and resignation.

She spoke to those around her in a striking manner on the unsatisfying
nature of all things here. "Oh, they are nothing--less than nothing
and vanity--nothing to me now;" earnestly encouraging all to prepare
for heaven--to serve the Lord; quoting very fervently and beautifully
our Saviour's words, "'I ascend unto my Father and your Father, unto
my God and your God.' * * Upwards! upwards! upwards!--I hope we may
all meet in glory."

A short time afterwards, appearing a little discouraged, she asked,
"Do you feel assured for me? can you trust for me?" And on being told
that we felt no doubt, her diffident mind seemed comforted; "but," she
added, "I want assurance: I hope; but I don't feel sure--I do _hope_
in Christ." The text was repeated, "'Lord, I believe: help thou mine
unbelief.'" She was reminded that He died for all. She rejoined, "Then
for me; but I have nothing of my own--not a thing to trust in, only in
the mercy of God. I don't feel any burden of sin--only of neglect. I
hope it is not a false peace. Do you think it is?" Her aunt repeated,
"'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear
no evil.'" "Oh, precious!" she exclaimed: "though He hideth His face,
yet will I trust in the Lord; I will trust in the Lord, for He is
faithful--faithful--faithful! I have a humble trust, but _no rapture_.
But I don't feel sure that I shall die now; I cannot see how it may
be." Again and again were her eyes turned to heaven in earnest prayer,
"If I die, oh, receive me to Thyself."

Throughout her illness a holy feeling of serenity and love pervaded
the sick-chamber: she affectionately acknowledged every little
attention, and frequently expressed a fear of giving trouble, saying,
one night, "What won't any one do for love?"

No expression of regret escaped her lips at leaving her earthly
prospects. Her possessions in this world were loosely held, and
therefore easily relinquished for those enduring treasures which had
long had the highest place in her heart.

Her heart overflowed with love to all around her, saying, "All is
love;" and many were the messages she sent to her absent relatives and
friends. "Give my dear love to father and mother: tell them how glad
I should have been to have seen them; but how glad I am mother was not
here! I know she could not have borne it. Tell them how thankful I
am they brought me up for heaven. Tell them, not raptures, but peace.
Tell them not to grieve, not to grieve, not to grieve! Tell them how
happy I have been here; that I wanted for nothing." To her sisters,
"All love--nothing but love;" adding that she might have had much more
to say, had she been able, "but I must not; I must be quiet."

As the different members of her husband's family surrounded her bed,
she addressed each with a few appropriate words. Taking her mother
S.'s hand, she said, "Thou hast been a kind mother to me: I can never
repay thee. * * *" To her father S., who was absent, she sent her
love. He, however, returned in time to see her. From his having left
her so much better on Seventh-day, she feared he might be alarmed
at the change, anxiously inquiring whether he was aware of it, and
affectionately greeted him when he came, saying, "I am _so glad_ to
see thee!" To one she said, "Dear ----, seek the Lord; seek Him and
serve Him with a perfect heart.

    'Why should we fear youth's draught of joy.'[3]

Tell her that verse from me. * * * " She inquired for J.H.; and, on
his coming into the room, being rather overcome with her exertions,
she said, "I am too weak to speak now;" but, waving her hand, she
pointed her finger towards heaven with an almost angelic smile.

After a short pause, she renewed her leave-taking, adding, at its
close, "Farewell--my best farewell! now I have nothing more to say.
Farewell!" And a little after, turning to her sister, "Now, my dear
R., there seems nothing to say--nothing but love--all love!"

She then asked for a few minutes alone with her dear husband, and took
a calm and tender leave of him also.

Difficulty of breathing now became very trying to her; but again
and again she tried to cheer us by the assurance that she had no
pain--"only oppression: don't think it pain." The lines being repeated

  "Though painful at present,
    'Twill cease before long;
  And then, oh, how pleasant
    The conqueror's song!"

she responded with a sweet smile, and exclaimed, "Oh, glorious!" She
dwelt with comfort on the text, "Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth,"
and once, commencing to repeat it herself, asked her sister to finish
it.

No cloud now appeared to remain before her. "I don't see any thing in
the way," she said. Her sister reminded her that the everlasting arms
were underneath and above her, waiting to receive her. "Dear R.," she
replied, "she can trust for me." * * She spoke at intervals until a
few minutes before her departure, but not always intelligibly. On her
dear husband's asking her if she felt peaceful, she assented with
a beaming smile, and soon after, resting in his arms, she ceased to
breathe.

She died on Second-day evening, the 6th of 10th month, 1851. Thus, at
the age of about twenty-eight years, and within six weeks after
the happy consummation of a marriage union which promised much true
enjoyment, was this precious plant suddenly removed, to bloom forever,
as we humbly trust, through redeeming love and mercy, in a celestial
paradise. The funeral took place at Friends' burial-ground at
Birmingham, on the following First-day; being only three weeks from
the time she had first attended that Meeting as a bride. It was
a deeply solemn time; but, amidst their grief, the hearts of many
responded to the words expressed at the grave-side: "Now, unto Him who
hath loved her, and washed her from her sins in His own blood, unto
Him be glory and dominion, for ever and ever, Amen."


  [Footnote 3:
  "Why should we fear youth's draught of joy,
    If pure, would sparkle less?
  Why should the cup the sooner cloy
    Which God hath deign'd to bless?"]


THE END.