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.