_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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d;" 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 G.o.d 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 c.u.mbered; 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 G.o.d."

_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 a.s.sent 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 t.i.the of "mint, anise, and c.u.mmin" 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 G.o.d, 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sive 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 subst.i.tute: 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 "pa.s.sed as a cloud between the mental eye of faith and things unseen." Every time they pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d.

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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 h.o.a.rded 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?"