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!