innermost workings of her mind. Nor has it, in this case, been by a violation of the sanctity of private papers, as the departed gave permission for any use to be made of her Diary, which should be judged likely to promote her Redeemer's cause.

Elizabeth Fry was born in Norwich, May 21st, 1780. She was the third daughter of John Gurney, Esq., of Earlham. Her father belonged to the Society of Friends, but he had much intercourse with those of other denominations, and was extremely liberal in his sentiments towards them. Mrs. Gurney died when Elizabeth was but twelve years old: she was a woman of talent and piety, and an unspeakable loss to her daughters, who were left, without a mother's care, to tread the dangerous paths of early womanhood. Education was spreading to a great extent amongst females of the higher class; but, alas! it was accompanied with a fearful leaven of infidelity, and even persons of piety associated freely with those, whose principles they could not but condemn. These influences, for the time, told injuriously on Mr. Gurney's young family, all of whom were afterwards brought to a knowledge of the truth as it is in Jesus. While wandering on thus in darkness, Elizabeth seems, from an early age, to have had a longing for something better: the childlike confessions of her youthful journal are deeply interesting, as a specimen of the craving of a mind that was accustomed to watch its own progress, but had not yet found rest in God.

'Dec. 1797.-A thought passed my mind, that if I had some religion, I should be superior to what I am: it would be a bias to better actions. I think I am, by degrees, losing many excellent qualities. I am more cross, more proud, more vain, more extravagant. I lay it to my great love of gaiety and the world. I feel, I

know I am falling. I do believe, if I had a little true religion, I should have a greater support than I have now; in virtue, my mind wants a stimulus; never, no never, did mind want one more but I have the greatest fear of religion, because I never saw a person religious, who was not enthusiastic.

'Jan. 1798.-I must die! I shall die! wonderful! death is beyond comprehension. To leave life and all its interests, and be almost forgotten by those we love. What a comfort must a real faith in religion be in the hour of death; to have a firm belief of entering into everlasting joy. I have a notion of such a thing; but, I am sorry to say, I have no real faith in any sort of religion it must be a comfort and support in affliction, and I know enough of life to see how great a stimulus is wanted to support through the evils that are inflicted, and to keep in the path of virtue. If religion be a support, why not get it?

• 14th.—I think it almost impossible to keep strictly to principle, without religion; I do not feel any real religion; I should think those feelings impossible to obtain; for, even if I thought all the Bible was true, I do not think I could make myself feel it: I think I never saw any person who seemed so totally destitute of it. I fear I am, by degrees, falling away from the path of virtue and truth.'

It pleased God soon to give, what his wandering child thought it impossible to obtain. The following month, her mind was deeply impressed by the preaching of William Savery, an American friend.

'I wish (she writes) the state of enthusiasm I am now in may last, for to-day I have felt that there is a God; I have been devotional, and my mind has been led away from the follies that it is mostly wrapt up in.

We had much serious conversation; in short, what he said and what I felt, was like a refreshing shower falling upon earth that had been dried up for ages.'

After this, her father offered her a visit to London; she wished to see and judge for herself, with regard to the gaieties of life, and her youthful remarks are a strange contrast to the dignified simplicity with which, in after-days, she held intercourse with princes and nobles.

'Mr. Opie, Amelia, and I, went to the Opera concert. I own I do love grand company. The Prince of Wales was there; and I must say, I felt more pleasure in looking at him than in seeing the rest of the company, or hearing the music. I did nothing but admire his Royal Highness; but I had a very pleasant evening indeed.'

Though she might, for a moment, be carried away by the gaiety around her, the permanent impression on her mind was very different.

'I saw and entered (she says) various scenes of gaiety; many of our first public places; attended balls and other places of amusement. . . . . I consider one of the most important results was, the conviction of these things being wrong, from seeing them and feeling their effects.'

Such a testimony is worthy the attention of those young persons who, sheltered by those fences with which religious parents strive to separate them from the pleasures of the world, think their lot hard, and the restrictions imposed on them harsh and unnecessary.

Elizabeth Gurney had as yet but dim views of the great doctrines of the Gospel; but she walked faithfully up to the light she had, and many who boast of the fulness of their knowledge, may blush when they

hear the statement she made to one of her daughters on

her death-bed.

'My dear I can say one thing: since my heart was touched, at the age of seventeen, I believe I have never awakened from sleep, in sickness or in health, by day or by night, without my first waking thought being, how best I might serve my Lord.'

Many struggles now went on in her mind; dancing and music had been allowed at her home, and she began to feel scruples about them. For her own sake, she would willingly relinquish them, but she could not do so without paining those most dear to her. If some of her scruples were needless, her conduct at this period, as a sister and daughter, is a most interesting example to those who, for conscience' sake, may have, in any measure, to isolate themselves in the midst of a large and beloved circle we give a few extracts from her Journal:

;

'I have finished my letter to my dear cousin, Priscilla, and that to Mrs. but I cannot feel quite easy to send it, without first speaking to my father, for I do believe it is my duty to make him my friend in all things, though I think it probable he will discourage me in writing to my friend, Sophy, yet never keep any thing from him; but let me be an open, true, kind, and dutiful daughter to him, whilst life is in my body.'

'John is just come in to ask me to dance, in such a kind way-oh, dear me ! I am now acting clearly differently from them all. Remember this, as I have this night refused to dance with my dearest brother. I must, out of kindness to him, not be tempted by any one else. Have mercy, oh God! have mercy upon me! and let me act right, I humbly pray thee; wilt Thou love my dearest, most dear brothers and sisters, wilt

thou protect us? Dear John! I feel much for him; such as these are home-strokes: but I had far rather have them, if indeed guided by supreme wisdom; for then I need not fear. I know that not dancing will not lead me to do wrong, and I fear dancing does; though the task is hard on their account, I hope I do not mind the pain to myself. I feel for them; but if they see in time, I am happier for it, I think they will no longer lament over me. I will go to them as soon as they have done, try to be cheerful, and to show them I love them; for I do most truly, particularly John. I think I might talk a little with John, and tell him how I stand; for, it is much my wisest plan, to keep truly intimate with them all; make them my first friends. I do not think I ever love them so well as at such times as these. I should fully express my love; and how nearly it touches my heart, acting differently to what they like. These are truly great steps to take in life, but I may expect support under them.'

All the Earlham scenes of this book are most fascinating; separation, new ties and connexions, seemed but to strengthen the love of this attached band of brothers and sisters; even after their father's death, Earlham was the family home, and sickness and trial always found them ready to come to each other's aid. How reckless are those brothers and sisters who throw away, by petty jealousies, or selfish indolence, that family love which the world cannot replace, whose links are only strengthened, when distance and separation have almost severed all other early friendships.

In reading this part of Elizabeth Gurney's Memoir, we are struck with the peculiar effects of the Quaker system. Her aim was, as far as possible, to listen to the inward voice, and judge by her own feelings, whether