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.