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